#stumbling because his wings are too heavy

[arabellasleopardcoat]

Violent Delights (Daemon Targaryen x Reader)

Summary: As a dornish princess, you live by one saying. All is fair in love and war. When Prince Daemon stumbles into your life, you start to reconsider your stance.

Warnings: Fluff. Pining, yearning, childhood crush. Mentions of sex, sexual thoughts, noncon (Baby reader catching Daemon in the act, it doesn't last long, adults intervene) all the usual Daemon warnings.

A/N: Meet dornish reader! I wanted to explore how Daemon can be in character and be with an actual age appropriate woman. Enjoy.

The first time you see Daemon Targaryen, you are twelve years old. Twelve years old and fascinated by the rain. It’s not something you usually see in Dorne, so as you trail your older brother around the Red Keep, you slip away to get a closer look.

You have never been good at orientating yourself, specially in such large spaces. You climb a stair and go in circles, before you decide to start opening doors. Unsure of which wing you are in, you decide to enter the first empty room you see.

Much to your delight, it is a sitting room with large windows. You choose the biggest one, underneath which a tiny windowsill will do quite nicely for a resting place. The window is heavy to your child self, a monstrosity made of a darker wood unseen in Dorne. You manage to pry it open with great effort and sit by it, one hand extended to feel the raindrops.

It's freezing. It feels just like running water does, but much colder. You close your eyes, committing the feeling to memory. In Dorne, desert and sand extends for miles and miles. When it rains, it's never like this. There are small drizzles, but nothing like this absolute downpour.

If it were to rain like this back home, panic would spread among the population. Crops would get ruined, houses would end up sunk in mud. But as you look down, you do not see hurried servants spreading sand or sawwood in the entrances, much less dragging furniture inside. Everything here seems to be built to withstand the climate.

You close your eyes again, feeling utterly at peace. The soft patter of the rain, so frightening at first, now feels much more calming. This is nice. You could get used to this, you think. Perhaps, when you are older, Qoren might marry you off to a kingdom where there is rain. You would like it, you think. It's a very marvelous thing. Majestic, even. There is a certain beauty in the natural forces making themselves known.

The door opens. You startle. When you look up, you are greeted by the sight of a couple kissing passionately. It’s a blonde man, tall and handsome, and a serving girl. Frozen in place, you stay quiet. You aren’t sure what the protocol is for this, if you should clear your throat or walk out quietly.

The couple parts. The man, young, around her age, pushes the woman down to her knees and starts undoing his clothing. He is a noble of some sort, you know it by the gambeson he wears. It's too finely crafted to be otherwise.

And sure, you are dornish. Someone has given you the talk about the birds and the bees already, along with some necessary knowledge of the feminine mystique. It doesn't mean you want to witness an unknown couple going at it.

As you get down from the windowsill, your shoes thud a little too hard on the floor. The woman doesn’t take notice, her mouth already… Well. But the man, blonde, Targaryen blonde, you think, looks up.

At first, it is as if he doesn’t see you. His face is contorted with pleasure, eyes nearly closed. He is beautiful, you think. His features stand out to you, specially because you are not used to people being so…white. The way he is lost in his pleasure, too, speaks to you in ways you can't yet comprehend.

Then, his eyes meet yours and widen. He is surprised at your presence, but it barely lasts. Without any ounce of shame, he gives you a superior smirk and winks.

You shriek. The serving girl pulls off him as if he were on fire. The man groans.

“Shut up, little girl.” He says, to you, as he pulls the serving girl back on. “In a few years, you too will be on your knees for a man.”

“My Prince!” The girl sounds scandalized. You can tell she is on the verge of placing herself between him and you. It's all over on the way she stands, blocking your view of his nakedness. You wonder if she fears damaging your innocence or what the man might do to you in a fit of temper. You have heard these Targaryens are quite spirited. “She is a child!”

“A dornish one.” The man, the Prince, shrugs. “Now, she can either stay or get out, but I am…”

Whatever he is, he doesn’t get to say it. No, because the door opens yet again, slamming against the wall. You startle, and so does the Prince. The serving girl starts quietly weeping, something along the lines of how she is sure she is about to lose her job.

Helplessly, three pairs of eyes shift to the door. There are guards, spears at the ready, at the forefront of it. One of them even drops his weapon, before shielding his eyes.

“What in the…”

The King and your older brother step inside the room, pushing past the men. Your brother's eyes are frantic, his hands reaching desperately for you.

The Prince still has his pants down.

Your brother takes one look at you, and one look at the Prince and loudly declares:

“We are leaving.”

Safe to say, Dorne does not join the other kingdoms that day.

There are many thoughts in your head about Daemon Targaryen after that. That he is handsome, and bold, and you always smile when told of his exploits. It's not a trait you should admire, as a second daughter, but you like his rebelliousness. When he gets the moniker of the Rogue Prince, you think it fitting.

You grow, during those years. You turn into a beautiful woman, sharp and bold, flourishing in the way women do when free to pursue their interests. But in your suitors' eyes, you have one fatal flaw: You live as you please and bed exactly the number of people you desire to bed.

In Daemon's eyes, though, you are a ghost. A memory that haunts him, every once in a while. He has heard of you, of your beauty and independence. He wonders if he was the one to initiate you into the world of pleasure, if that's why you have turned into such a siren. It's not often that Daemon does, but when he wonders, he recalls the face you had made when shattering your innocence.

But you don't know that yet. The more you grow, the more you forget him, even starting to feel a mild annoyance towards his house.

“You can never trust a Martell.” Or so King Viserys said, when your brother's offer to fund his side during the war at the Stepstones reached him. But he certainly finds it convenient because he pockets the gold so fast, one might believe him a dornish lover.

While it was true that you had an unfortunate habit of deceptiveness, it was not as if you changed sides as fast as a viper shed her skin. You only do it twice a year. Every six months is the perfect time to conduct an assessment of your investments.

Because that was what it was. War was no more than profit, for you, and most of the nobles in Westeros. The only difference is that you were much more honest about it than most.

It wasn't necessarily profitable in terms of gold. No, sometimes it meant gaining lands, or getting other kingdoms to respect you, so you could retain your freedom. But regardless of what you were gaining, you tended to look at things in a rather practical way. Some things were worth the sacrifice, some weren't.

Qoren lacked a business instinct. You had told him time and time again that the Triarchy was not a good investment. You would be losing men and funds, only to stick it to the Targaryens. Grievances aside, it was not worth it. You had to think about the good of your people.

Yet no matter how much you insisted, Qoren refused to see reason. Too proud. He had argued that the Iron Throne was going to scam you, in some way or another. When he had finally conceded to jumping ships, you had found out that he might be right.

While much more profitable than your time with the Triarchy, considering that you were now about to win the war, you were pretty sure you were being robbed. The funds you gave them slipped though their fingers faster than sand. They were either very dumb and got duped every time they bought supplies, or they were inflating the costs on purpose.

The deal had been clear. You would foot one quarter of the expenses for the lasts months of the campaign. But it seemed like you were footing the whole war with how much they were asking for.

While Qoren ruled Sunspear, you had always done your best to be involved in his politics as much as you could. Having been raised with the freedom most dorsnishwomen were, you had not been eager to make a political marriage or leave your home for a land that would think you too unconventional. Instead, to guarantee not being sent away, you had endeavored to make yourself as useful as you could.

But as you grew, you had proven to be much more than so. While he had made a good marriage, with a kind woman, she had not been raised in the way that you had been. You had turned indispensable in the ruling of Sunspear, his Lady in all but the fact that you did not share his bed.

It helped that, unmarried as you were, you retained your title. And as the Princess as you were, you didn't stand for being made a fool. That fact, aided by the hot-blooded nature of the Martells, had been what had prompted you to travel by yourself to the war camp.

If the lords loyal to the Iron Throne did, why couldn't you?

Much to your surprise, when you finally arrive at the Stepstones, it seems like the war is over. You find men pillaging the caves where the Crab King kept his few riches. A few wounded lay on the floor, others already taken by the Stranger.

You step in the sand, kicking a few bodies away to make room for yourself. The whole place is a mess. There are some fires going. Some men are rounding up the enemy’s soldiers, either killing them or placing them in chains. You wrinkle your nose in disgust at the smell of blood and burned flesh.

Slowly, you start to make your way forward. You have made sure to be dressed in the bright yellows and oranges of House Martell, to avoid being confused with someone else. The heavy, male boots you are wearing contrast sharply with the daintiness of your attire.

As you make your way forward, some men try to approach you. You gesture to your guards, a second son of House Dayne and a young man by the last name of Sand, to block their paths.

“Who is that?” Some men ask, dumbly. You roll your eyes. What sort of allies were these, that they didn't recognize your standard?

“Hey, Lady, you can’t be here!” And oh, the sheer stupidity of them all. If you didn't know their lords to be much more cunning, this display might have actually led you to believe that they were, in fact, being duped time and time again instead of inflating the cost of supplies.

“… The Maiden…” Now, that one was a bit better. You looked good in your traveling dress, despite the chunky boots.

“What is she..?”

You bat them all away, set on reaching the center of the smoking ruins. You know the men you seek must be there. The faint screeches of dragons tell you that.

Your knights locate a rock for you to sit on. They stand guard, their backs turned to you. You eye the carnage around you and decide that yes, the rock is precisely where you wish to sit. It's high enough that you get a vantage point to watch the terrain, but not too tall you will need aid to get up on it.

When you sit down, carefully spreading your skirts to not let them touch the dirt, someone sits by your side. You don't need to look up to know it's who you seek. Your guards wouldn't have let him approach if he wasn't.

“Quite the entrance.” He says, casually leaving his sword on the sand. “You have grown.”

Pretending not to recognize him, you look at your nails, casually. His voice sounds exactly as you remember it.

“Do I know you?”

“More intimately than you probably wished at the time.” He laughs, and you finally risk your first glance at him. Daemon Targaryen is still in his armor, covered in so much blood he looks positively feral. His hair, in intricate little braids, is as beautiful as you remember, even if limp and tinted red. A shame he will probably have to cut it now because by the looks of it, the blood and sooth are not coming off.

You are no longer a girl of twelve years old, and he is no longer the young Prince you once caught in the act. Yet, he is still disarmingly handsome. Despite the years and the self assuredness you have managed to cultivate, he leaves you weak at the knees.

How could one say this in a polite manner? Daemon had featured in quite a few of your teenage fantasies, as you grew older. After catching him in the act, you had had an interesting conversation with Qoren. It had opened your eyes to a whole new world of pleasure.

Twelve years old was an impressionable age, especially for young maidens. You had flowered not long afterwards your first exposure to sex. Back then, you hadn't understood what you had witnessed properly, but as you grew, your imagination did too. And Dorne was not a place for the shy.

As you started to look at the world with the eyes of a woman, you had experienced your first infatuation, and it had been on him. Never before had you met a northern that was as open-minded about pleasure as Daemon was, and that fact had made you wonder what it would be like to share his bed. And then, the war at the Stepstones had reawakened your teenage urges.

“You!” You play it cool, as if you had not set up this whole thing on the odd chance of getting to see him. Dornishmen were no strangers to pleasure, after all. And you had never been good at denying yourself of anything you wanted. “The boy in the sitting room.”

“The girl at the window.” Daemon conceded, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “And here I thought I would have to lower my pants.”

You snickered. Daemon looked perplexed for a second, before snickering too. You could tell he was impressed by your lack of a reaction to his joke, probably because he had thought it would scandalize you.

The moment is cut short, though, by his own sobering up.

“You shouldn't be here, little dornish girl.”

“Oh?” You extend your legs in front of you, getting comfortable. Will he mention the elephant in the room, or will you have to?

“These men have not seen a woman in months.” Daemon answers, lightly curling his hand over the pommel of his sword. You look around you, noticing that some of the men are, in fact, staring hungrily at you. It's not something that bothers you, any longer. Despite the nickname Daemon has bestowed on you, you are no girl. Younger than him by a few years, you are more of an old maid. You were used to men's attention. As the Princess of Dorne, you had come to expect it.

“And that concerns me, how?” Because there are much more interesting matters you wish to discuss, rather than the ogling of some uncouth northerns. For one, where was your gold going. Second, what were you having for dinner. Third, if he was going to join you.

“Do I really have to explain?” Daemon arches an eyebrow. Deciding to play coy, you give him a sweet look.

“Please. Do not deprive me of the pleasure of your opinions.” And if it comes out a bit ironic, Daemon doesn't seem to notice, too entranced by the way you are twirling one of your dark curls between your fingers.

“Plenty of hungry cats.” He says, as if in a daze. Apparently, Daemon hasn't seen a woman in months either, if seducing him will be this easy. “And you are looking an awful lot like a little mouse.”

You fight the urge to snicker. You were no mouse, but a viper, and you were ready to strike. But if he fancied himself the protector, you didn't mind playing into it.

“Well, good thing you are here. Now they think this little mouse is spoken for.” You run a hand over his arm, softly. Your hands lift a trace of the blood in his armor, leaving behind a drawing made up of empty space.

“Are you?” He arches an eyebrow, unbothered at the contact. You retract your hand, staring at your now bloody fingernails.

A scattering of images comes to mind. Maidenheads, bloody sheets. The girl you were at twelve. The man he is now. Your nails scratching lines on his back, biting at his throat, nipping at his lips. Unable to connect the thoughts, you let them go until only a pleasant smile remains.

“Are you a hungry cat?”

“No, little mouse.” Daemon tucks a loose curl behind your ear. As his hand comes down, he caresses your neck, lightly. It's barely a brush of his fingertips, yet your breath falters. He leans in, as if sharing a secret. His next words come out in a whisper. “I am a hungry dragon.”

Predictable, if a bit witty. Targaryens and their dragons. Despite it, you enjoy how much of an effort he is putting in. As a Martell, people often expect you to do all the seducing, not noticing you like being seduced as well. It's good that someone finally acknowledges it takes two to dance.

“That explains the never-ending appetite.” You tease, leaning towards him as well. The sun is starting to settle around you, some of his men lighting fires. They do not seem about to stop their pillaging. You wonder if Corlys Velaryon is near, and if so, why he doesn't stop them.

“You have no idea.” His voice is low and smooth. His hand is still on your loose curl, lower, this time. Barely touching your collarbone. His eyes are dark, and you doubt it is from the change in lighting. "A taste would never satiate me.”

“Shame. Little mice make for small bites, I think.” Your lips quirk up at the corners, barely suppressing a laugh. Expert in denial as you are, you know now is the time to retreat. You want him hooked on you so badly, he never sees your next move.

“I would make sure to do so very slowly. Savor it.” Daemon's thumb rubs just between your collarbones, tracing a path towards the valley of your breasts. You move away before he can reach it.

“Maybe, hungry cat.” You stress the last word, already knowing how you will lead Daemon into your trap. It will only take a few well-placed prods at his ego.

“Hungry dragon.” He repeats, a bit annoyed. The idea that you do not recognize him by his proper title upsets him. You laugh.

“Oh, but you look like a starved cat. A stray.”

“I am no stray.” Daemon complains. You arch an eyebrow, coolly.

“What else is a Prince doing fighting a war so far from home?”

Daemon stares at you. You are willing to admit it was quite mean on your part. Perhaps a tad too vicious. But you have yet to accomplish what you wish to, hence why you take it even further.

“You have until tomorrow to deposit the gold you have stolen from us in coffers.”

His whole face shifts, flirty expression replaced by a mask of indifference that is not fooling anyone. Caught off guard by your words, Daemon resorts back to his only defense mechanism.

“And if I don't?” He thrusts his chin up, defiant.

“You will find yourself at war with Dorne.” Your tone is even. Your voice doesn't waver, as if you were discussing the weather and not defying a kingdom much larger than yours.

“And you will declare war with two knights?” Daemon laughs.

“Have you met Dalton Greyjoy, perhaps?” You lean back on the rock, tilting your face up to the sun. Soaking in it. “Awfully young ironborn. Eager to prove himself, much more so if it's to beautiful women. Or so I hear.”

“You have allied yourself with the Iron Islands?”

You say nothing. Instead, you give him an enchanting tilt of the head, as if he was no more than one of your suitors. Your lips stretch into a coy little smile, one that tells him you have a secret he is not privy to.

“I do not believe you.” Daemon shakes his head. He crosses his arms over his chest, before uncrossing them and shaking his head yet again. Stunned. “No. Prince Qoren would never allow it.”

“Qoren would not?” You repeat, mockingly. “And pray tell, since when do you know him so well?”

“Do you know why he dropped the Triarchy?” The question is unexpected. Before this, you had not bothered to wonder about your brother's motives. Used as you were at things going your way, you had assumed Qoren had seen the wisdom of your advice and decided to take it.

“Because I told him it was a bad investment.” You answer, refusing to back down. What could Daemon Targaryen know of the motivations of a prince of Dorne? Nothing. He had to be bluffing, searching for a weakness he could exploit to get out of this.

“Because the Crab King, over there…” Daemon gestures vaguely in the direction of the corpses. “Had eyes that lingered too much on you. And if this Greyjoy boy is the same…”

You blink a few times. It makes sense. The Crab King had never tried to seduce you, yet you know men like that are not used to asking. Instead, they order. You can only guess the face Qoren made when faced with such a demand. He is as proud as you are.

Daemon could be lying, of course. Trying to make you doubt Qoren. Divide and conquer, and all that. You can't let that happen. Everyone knows the two of you are a team. Whatever grievances you have to air with him, they will be on private. You tuck away the piece of information for later, and focus on what's in front of you.

“If Qoren is willing to turn into a turncloak for my sake…” You narrow your eyes at Daemon, menacingly. You know as well as him that the easiest way to stop you is to hurt you. Kill you, perhaps. But it would mean war. “Think of what he will do to you, if you hurt me.”

“You will have your coffers tomorrow, Princess.” Daemon says, bitterly. He knows he has lost. You outmaneuvered him. House Martell has never bowed to dragons. If Daemon declares war on Dorne, his brother will pull the support from the Iron Throne. Corlys Velaryon will not want to get involved, no matter how much he has benefitted from their plot. He cannot wage war alone.

You get up. You dust off your skirts.

“Good. And make sure you bathe before touching the gold. Wouldn't want you staining it.”

You do go back to Dorne with a chest full of gold, and then some. As it seems to be a tendency with Daemon, you almost forget all about him before he is barging into your life again.

It happens on an odd afternoon, while you are trying to broker a deal with a foreign King. The tart taste of the berries makes you scrunch up your face. It's more acidic than what you are used to, but good nonetheless. You smile at the King in front of you. He looks on the verge of drooling.

“I am glad you like it, my Princess.” He simpers. “I must say the shade compliments your caramel skin quite well.”

Caramel. Ugh. How you hate when men compare you to food. It's always your caramel skin, your cherry lips, your golden eyes. Can they get more unoriginal?

You beg to the skies for fortitude. This alliance is important, you remind yourself. Qoren needs them, Dorne needs them. They grow more fruit than you could ever hope for.

As it often happens, your prayers are heeded in a way you could not have expected.

“Princess.” A guard suddenly sprints into the room. “There is a situation at the gates. Prince Qoren needs you.”

You spring up from your seat so fast, one might think there were needles on your cushion.

“I apologize, my King. The berries were lovely. Perhaps you could send some more? For the people?”

“Oh, I understand.” The King gives a jovial laugh. “Duty calls and all. You are right, I shall send you…”

“Good.” You cut him off, and walk out of the parlor. As you start to reach the gates, you slow down your walk. You can't have Qoren thinking you rushed to his side, after all.

“Have you developed some sort of mind reading ability?” Qoren turns at your words. He is facing the gates, right in the middle of the watchtower. It's not an actual watchtower, but rather a ledge on one of your lower walls, right aside to the actual tower. Its slightly off center position allows for a better view of the gates, despite not being very high.

“What's that supposed to mean?” He asks, reclining precariously. Your stomach turns. This is a recurring occurrence, Qoren watching from places he is not supposed to. You often fear he will fall to his death, yet he has yet to even slip. He is noisy enough to not care about the dangers of the world.

“You knew I needed an out, I gather.” You keep your tone flat. While you enjoyed being his right hand, you disliked that so many of your allies thought flirting was the way to do business.

“I didn't. Come here and take a look.” Qoren sounds uninterested in your grievances, which is highly unusual for him. Whatever he is looking at must be fascinating. You start climbing the steps, aided by the guard that led you here. You try to do so gracefully, but it's daunting in a dress as the one you wear.

“How did you even get up here?” You huff, crouching on the ledge before slowly starting to stand.

“Invaders.” Qoren says, unbothered. You nearly fall off, shrieking. The guard pushes you upright again.

“At ease, Princess. We got you.” He says. “Look closer.”

So you do. You narrow your eyes at the horizon, and what you can see of the gate. You can barely make out a giant red blur. A dragon, perhaps? One you already know, by the eerie calm he is sporting.

You only know one dragon. It happens to be red.

“What did you do to that man?” Qoren laughs. Your mouth opens and closes. It has been almost two moons since you departed from the Stepstones, half of the gold you had originally given to the Iron Throne back with you.

You had gone on with your life. Taken a few lovers, here and there. Ate good food. Pawned off resources for alliances. You know, the typical. Daemon Targaryen, though, clearly has not. Because he now stands at the gates of Sunspear, dragon in tow.

“Nothing. Nothing, I swear.” You reply to Qoren, still open-mouthed. “Is he trying to declare war?”

Qoren laughs at you, poking you in the ribs. You squirm away, before remembering you are standing on a ledge. You slap his arm.

“Don't do that! We could fall!”

“The only falling being done here is that dragon prince for you, dear sister.”

“Huh?” You frown, confused. What is he on about? Despite your desire to bed Daemon, you had walked away from the meeting with the certainty that he was not interested in you. You were not a maiden like the ones he chased, nor were you young, and you had done a good job of alienating him after threatening him with war. This could not be a mere visit, for you had parted on bad terms.

But Qoren doesn't answer. He only raises his voice slightly.

“Truss him up in chains!” The order is clearly not meant for you. “And place him on the Princess' solar.”

“What are you doing?” You ask, bewildered, as the guards hurry to carry out his order.

“I'll give you a chance to deal with him.” Qoren says, mysteriously. “I think he is about to ask for your hand.” And with an agile jump, he is off the ledge and getting down the wall. You scramble to follow.

“Qoren!” You scream, nearly falling off in your haste. He is too fast for you, already entering the palace. The guard steadies you again, and you gather your skirts and run after him, but it's too late. You do not know which direction he has turned. “Qoren, what do you mean by that? Have you spoken to him? He asked you for… Qoren, dammit!”

His cheery voice reaches your ears.

“Do try to get rid of him, alright? We can't have our people thinking we have been invaded.”

You chase after the sound, but he is gone. You could follow him to the throne room, but you decide for the more amusing option. No matter if Qoren is teasing about the marriage proposal, you decide to go and freshen up a bit. It will take a long time for the guards to subdue Daemon, and to drag him inside. Plenty of advice for you to change clothes.

Be it for declaring war, or rejecting a marriage proposal, you like to be well-dressed for the occasion. You take your time choosing your outfit, strapping a tiny dagger to your thigh.

Only when an hour has passed, you walk towards your solar. There are a few knights stationed outside, one of them being your Dayne companion. He approaches you cautiously.

“The Prince left instructions for us to enter at your call. One scream, Princess, and we will be in there before he can draw his sword.”

He sounds worried. It's actually kind of sweet.

“Don't worry. He won't hurt me.”

But despite your words, as soon as you enter your solar, you are grabbed harshly by the arm. You look up to find Daemon not only free from chains, but furious.

Perhaps the guards thought it would not be very diplomatic to chain him up. A shame. You jerk off his grip, and go serve yourself some wine. It's a very neat trick, one you have learned from the men in your life. One must let the other do all the nagging while pretending to be entirely innocent, so they sound insane. Often, it leads to the person reproaching you actually thinking they are going mad. You only use it when you feel particularly cruel.

"You took your time.” Daemon follows you, stomping and huffing. “I have been waiting for nearly an hour.”

“I was not decent. I had to change into my afternoon clothes.” You give a little twirl, enjoying the luxurious feel of the skirt against your body. You know it will only anger him further. “Do you like them?”

“You have some nerve.” Daemon scoffs. You offer him a goblet of wine, which he takes. “Do you know what men say of you?”

“Does a viper pay attention to the mumbling of worms?” Your voice is calm and sweet. In truth, you do pay a attention to what they say. Who doesn't? But Daemon doesn't need to know that for the game you are playing.

“You are hardly a viper.” His eyes narrow at you, in a flutter of pretty lashes and lilac. Good Gods, what right does he have to be so handsome. You hate him.

“I like to think I am one.” You drink from your wine, giving him a coy little look over the rim of your goblet.

“They say you are a witch. That you place your spell on them and have them dancing at your tune.” He complains, gruffly. So far, he seems very angered by you, which is fair considering the way you parted. What makes no sense is the fact that he has come this far to make his displeasure known.

“It's not my fault men are often led by their cocks.” You shrug. It's rather crass, but you are unbothered by it. If men are allowed to speak how they please, why shouldn't you?

“Perhaps not.” Daemon cocks his head. “But I do wish to ask something of you.”

“Oh?”

Daemon places his goblet down. He plucks yours from your fingers, all soft movements. He raises your hand to his lips, and kisses your palm. His eyes never leave yours.

“Remove your spell from me.”

You laugh. You stare at him as if he has two heads. You laugh some more.

"I'm serious. You have bewitched me. Ensnared me with your charms and feminine…” He lets go of your hand, angrily gesturing. The laughter dies in your throat. Daemon is not joking.

“I have what?” You repeat, confused. Now you are actually thinking him a madman.

“You have made it so I can't lie with another woman. I only get relief when I think of you. Remove your spell, or I shall…” And it's too good, too much of a joke not to laugh. You restrain yourself, knowing angering him more could be bad for your health.

“You shall what?” Despite your attempts, your amusement must show because Daemon grabs you by the shoulders and gives you a tiny shake. It's not enough to hurt you, but it startles you into seriousness.

“I have never wanted a woman as much as I want you.” His eyes do not show the emotion his words imply. While his face reflects need, Daemon has not drank nearly enough to have such a loose tongue. Something is amiss. “Let me have you. If you don't remove your spell, I need to have you.”

His eyes don't show need, but eagerness. He is trying to manipulate you. The thought of him implying that you must let him have you makes your blood boil. You are angered beyond belief. Has he really come all this way to make some half-assed marriage proposal, in the hopes of trapping you with him? Who does he think he is dealing with?

If you were another woman, more inexperienced, you would let this man manipulate you right into his bed. But you are not. You are old enough to know that lust can be cured with a few well-placed hot baths and enough time and distance. His excuses are a poor attempt. You almost prefer the other men's simpering.

“I am no witch, you fool. Now, out!” You point at the door.

Daemon straightens. He eyes you carefully.

“I need you.” He repeats. It's clearly a lie. You wonder what else is, too. Is it odd to feel flattered by him being so set on you, he is willing to manipulate you into marriage?

“You do not. There is nothing interesting here, go find a whore.” You cross your arms over your chest. Your traitorous heart seems to disagree. You don't want him to leave, says the heat in your cheeks. Not yet, answers the harsh ring of your pulse in your ears.

“I do.” Daemon steps closer. He seems slightly unsure and that is what gives him away. If you are trying to manipulate someone, you have to go all in. You can't hesitate because they call your bluff. His seduction techniques need serious work. “You have to let me have you.”

“I don't have to do anything.” You scowl at him, getting right up on his face. To you, it doesn't matter if you are shorter, you will put the fear of the gods in him or so the Seven help you. “And I do not believe a word you say. If you wanted me to fuck you, you could have merely asked. I do not appreciate you trying to manipulate me. I do not need to be coerced into it, I am no maiden.”

“And if I were to ask?” His nose brushes against yours, tenderly. Daemon's eyes have turned dark, his body nearly vibrating in excitement at your anger. You had heard Targaryens had queer customs, but had not expected him to be so aroused after getting yelled at.

“Too late, out!” You push your index finger into his chest, hard. Daemon smirks. He takes a step forward, forcing you to back off or get your finger crushed.

“You said I had to only ask for what I want.” He gets closer still, backing you against a wall. “No more games.”

“No more games.” You agree, a bit shakily. He noses along your temple, softly. You look up at him, all big, surprised eyes. How has he turned the whole situation into his favor so fast? And when, exactly, did you lose control?

“I want to know what is behind your eyes.” Daemon presses a soft kiss to your brow, then to your eye. You let go of the breath you are holding, eyes fluttering closed. Your lips tingle with the urge to be kissed, alight with the rush that comes from being seduced. But you do not intend to make it easy for him, no. He can't just expect you to submit just because he asks.

“No, thank you.” You duck beneath his arm, leaving behind your moment of weakness. He still tried to manipulate you, after all. He deserves a bit of suffering.

“What do you fear?” Daemon grabs your arm, pulling you towards him. He nuzzles your neck. “It certainly isn't modesty, you said so yourself. You are no blushing virgin.”

“I do not want to marry you.” You jerk free of his grip.

“Perhaps, you think I would enjoy you less. Or you fear I might not like what hides behind your eyes.” He kisses right behind your ear, softly hugging you to him. “The thoughts you have… The things you crave…” His hand traces an upward path, from your belly button to your collarbones. “To me, it only means you are already mine.”

“I'm not interested.” You say, but your whole body is saying yes. You just can't help it. His attention is overwhelming. His hands are gripping at your waist, your hips, everywhere. You shake against him as if you were an innocent still, and not a woman seasoned in the arts of love.

“I made you like this.” Daemon presses scorching hot kisses against your neck. You wonder if all Targaryens run as hot as this one. “Do you remember, little dornish girl?”

“You did not.” You pull away once more, and grab your wine again. You take a hearty sip. The memory you have obsessed over is one he has thought of too. Daemon had awoken something in you that rainy afternoon, and it's clear you had done the same to him.

“I taught you something, even if unwillingly. I always wondered, when I heard of your exploits, if you thought of me too.” And you have. Oh, how badly have you thought of running into him and bedding him, but you are not willing to admit it. You know if you look at him, you will give yourself away, so you keep stubbornly looking somewhere else.

Daemon chuckles.

“Let me see those eyes.” He gently grabs your jaw and lifts your head up. “Ah. So I was right.”

Furious at being caught, you place one of your hands on his hair and tug. Hard. Hard enough to force him to expose his neck.

“How do you feel about my eyes now?” You snarl.

“They are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.” Daemon's brows are pinched together, his back slightly arched. Your punishing grip on his hair is hurting him, and you are glad for it. Yet, his lips are parted as if experiencing the sweetest delights. “They are those of a woman in the throes of passion.”

“Do not test me.” You warn, forcing him to his knees. He goes willingly.

Daemon reaches up slowly, his much bigger hand curling around your wrist. He coaxes you to let go, softly massaging.

“I can taste the arousal cursing through your blood, Princess.” He pulls you into him, until both of you are sprawled out on the floor. “I see how your chest heaves, how your breath is getting heavier, how your lips plump… You are excited.”

“So what if I am?” You huff. It's all cornered animal. You cannot deny it any longer, you want him too badly for it.

“It means you and me… We are the same.” And he finally kisses you. His mouth meets yours in a hungry kiss, into which you pour all your frustration. But Daemon coaxes you to go slower, to kiss more passionately instead of hurriedly.

“I want you.” He says, when you part. His forehead rests against yours. “Let me keep you. Be mine. A woman as bloodthirsty as you cannot stay alone forever.” As he lays you down on the floor, as he gets on top of you and his hands pin yours down. “Let me keep you.”

And this time, you say yes.

#daemon targaryen x reader #daemon targaryen x female reader #daemon targaryen x y/n #daemon targaryen x poc reader #daemon x reader #daemon x you #daemon x y/n #prince daemon x reader #prince daemon targaryen #daemon targaryen x oc #daemon targaryen fanfic #daemon fanfic #daemon fluff #daemon fic #daemon targaryen #prince daemon #daemon targeryen x reader #daemon targeryan #daemon smut #daemon targaryen smut #hotd daemon #hotd x reader #hotd fanfic #asoiaf fanfic #asoif fanfic #asoiaf #dornish reader

[scekrex]

Hey absolutely love your stuff (obviously since I keep requesting lol) anyways could I request Adam who somehow survived after getting beaten up by Lucifer and stabbed who even knows how many times by Niffty gets found by the reader who while an overlord isn't that powerful is super rich (I also picture them being like a mix of Alastor and Vox where like Alastor still holds a lot of more old timey views but also tries to adapt with the changing views like Vox) and decides to take him back to his mansion to try and help him survive (wants to make a few bucks later using him) after a bit the two share an oh fuck moment when they realized they have caught feelings. I hope you have a wonderful day/night!

Overlord reader?? Uh fuck yeah!! I fucking love this ask so much xoxo/p

Part 2 ; Part 3

Chains on my lips just add flames to the fire

pairing: Adam x male!reader

warnings: language & sexual tension

note: not beta read bc fuck you I don't have beta readers

The battlefield was a mess through and through and while the devil and his daughter had built up the hotel again, a new, more inviting looking building was now located on the lonely hill in the pride ring, you still felt Adam's presence. The residents of the hazbin hotel must've already forgotten about him and therefore didn't notice you at all, too caught up in their doing.

The first man was badly injured and while you normally wouldn't care for such things, especially because it was an exorcist angel, this case was special. Because not only was the brunette laying in front of your feet the first man god had ever created, no, he was also the leader of said exorcists. You could only imagine how many sinners and Hellborn people would pay a good amount of money to harm him, even if it was just the slightest injury possible. So you bowed down and scooped the passed out man in your arms. If these sinners and even Lucifer didn't care for him, you would put him to good use. For your own benefit that was, but no one had to know about that yet. So you carried the first man across the entire pride ring of hell until you reached your home. The brunette man in your arms was still unconscious and given the blood he had lost and the hits he had taken that was pretty normal.

Once inside your mansion, you headed to the hospital wing, walking through the building with slow, heavy steps that echoed through the empty hallways. The hospital wing was close to the entrance, a decision you had made after stumbling through the doors with a fatal wound that had been exposing your guts. It was quicker to reach in an emergency and while those rarely occurred, you didn't like the risk. You put the first man down onto one of the beds, your claw sliced smoothly through the fabric of his once holy robe to get it out of the way. You needed to take care of the stab wounds the nifty little demon girl had caused. The stabs were deep but nothing you couldn't fix. You gave Adam one last glance before you stepped over to the medicine cabinet and for a quick moment you asked yourself why Lilith and Eve had left Adam, he wasn't bad looking at all, quite the opposite. And Lucifer had mentioned that Adam had ‘kinda let himself go’ which meant back when the two women were married to him, he must have looked even better. You quickly shook your head, what in the devil's name were you even thinking?

With wound cleaning supplies and a healing potion you stepped back to Adam's bed, the first human ever seemed to be slowly waking up. He braced his palms against the mattress, tried to lift himself up but you were quick to push him back down, the more he moved while his wounds were still ripped open the more blood he lost. And while Adam would be able to recover either way, the more blood stayed inside of his body, the better. At least that's what you thought. “Stay,” you hummed as you cleaned the blood from his skin. It was unusual to clean off golden blood instead of the red mess you were so used to. But you didn't mind, didn't care even.

Adam flinched away from your touch, tried to lift himself up yet again. Your hand took a hold of his throat and held him down by it, “I said stay, stupid angel.” Adam's eyes seemed to clear up a little, the fog that had covered his golden eyes, had made them seem yellow, lifted and the brunette stared at you, clearly not knowing what to feel. You saw anger in his eyes, rage and hatred but at the same time there was fear. Fear and pain.

Once the blood was no longer staining his perfect skin, you took the potion you had grabbed, popped the cork and held the smooth, cold glass against his bottom lip, “Open up,” you demanded, yet your voice stayed gentle. Adam hesitated and you really couldn't blame him. “It will cause your wounds to heal,” you explained to the former leader of the exorcists and he seemed to consider his opinions for a moment. Then he actually parted his lips and let you spill the disgusting liquid onto his tongue. His face scrunched up at the bitter taste and he kept the liquid in his mouth. “Swallow it, Adam.” Adam looked up at you, once again seemingly considering alternatives he had. Given the fact that he did as you told him, there hadn't been many.

Adam checked his chest as the wounds that had caused enough pain to make him pass out healed quickly. The only hint left that they ever even existed were golden scars that seemed to be permanent from now on, but the first man couldn't complain, could he? He was still alive and on top of that there was no more pain. The first man frowned at you, mistrust was lingering heavy in his eyes as golden orbs followed your every move. Yet he remained silent, not a single word was falling from his lips.

Your hand that had been holding him down by his throat let go of him and Adam was sitting up right in his bed in an instant. His hands traced over the new found scars, you watched him in silence. There was something about him, about his vibe that was different. It wasn't the fact that he was an angel, no, even though that made his vibe different too, but it was something soft, something afraid to break. You cleared your throat loudly and Adam's eyes were on you within a heartbeat, while mistrust still lingered heavy in them, curiosity was close behind and you couldn't help but catch yourself that you were curious about him too.

-

Adam always bragged about being the first man, like that was his biggest accomplishment and if you looked at it from a different viewpoint it wasn't even his accomplishment but God’s, Adam didn't create himself after all. Yet it was the only thing worth mentioning whenever he didn't want to do something, “I’m the fucking man, not your fucking housewife, I'm not gonna fucking clean that.” You sighed as you took a step towards Adam and he flinched, trying to back up but his back hit the kitchen counter sooner than expected. Your hands grabbed a hold of his waist and you effortlessly lifted him up to sit on said counter, Adam was taken aback by that.

It had been a couple of weeks since you had found and saved him and the mistrust that had been filling his eyes from the first second on had never truly left them. He would always leash out on you only to back down as soon as you reacted in some way that seemed too unpredictable for him. “When will you learn to think before you speak?” Your voice held a certain amount of softness, it always did when you were speaking to Adam. The guy wasn't a threat to you, not in his current situation. And you were trying to use that to your advantage. Because he was scared, basically a deer in the headlights, why not put that fear to use? You nudged his knees apart to stand between his legs, still taller than him you hovered over the first man with a mix between a sly grin and a soft smile. “When you start to suck my fucking dick,” you chuckled as his choice of words, very aware that he simply wanted you to fuck off and leave him be, you acted oblivious to that. One hand was placed on the counter to steady yourself, right next to his thigh, the other grabbed his chin to tilt his head upwards, forcing the brunette to look you in the eyes.

“Right now? Right here?” your voice sounded so delicious, Adam wanted to eat it up, in fact, he wanted to devour you entirely, feast on every piece you had to offer and only stop once he swallowed it all. In Christ's holy name, what was he thinking? Your lips were so close to his, so so close, all he would need to do was - he leaned into your touch, why he wasn't sure, it was as if his body was following a call sent to him by nature itself. And then his lips met yours and a low groan spilled from his throat as his hands grabbed your shoulder firmly, he was afraid you'd pull back, that you'd leave him like Lilith and Eve had and he didn't even know why. Why was he afraid of losing you, a sinner, a man he barely knew? He couldn't wrap his mind around it. And yet he kissed you like his life was depending on it.

The hand that had been braced against the counter was now on his thigh, squeezing the soft flesh playfully and drawing a delicious sound from Adam's lips. Oh you could drown in the noises the first man made, the little huffs and puffs, his groans that he tried to keep as quiet as possible, the whimpers he would later deny. Adam was the most beautiful creature that had ever set a foot into hell and you mentally punched yourself in the face for wanting to use him to make money. There was no way you'd use such a divine, holy and glorious man for that, no. Adam was yours, your little secret and you'd keep it, keep him.

When you two partened a sting of saliva connected your lips and both of your eyes were hazy, he looked blissed out and it was then that you decided you wanted to see him like that more often - as often as possible. You were to lean in yet again, wanting more, needing more. But your phone rang. “Pick it up, bet it's something fucking important, they don't fucking call overlords for shits and giggles, do they?” You knew Adam was right and you hated it. You pushed your body away from the first man's and you saw how he wanted to reach out, wanted to keep you close but didn't say a thing about it. You grabbed your phone off the dining table and answered the call, “The fuck do you want, Vox?” It was the first time Adam had heard you speaking so vulgarly, you usually seemed to be collected, considering your words wisely, but that? In the name of God, that was truly something else. And it was ridiculously hot. “No I fucking can't, ask someone else,” and with that you hung up, tossed your phone carelessly back onto the table and found your place between his legs yet again. “Where were we?” you hummed through hooded eyes. And it was only then that the two of you seemed to realize what exactly you had just done, what you were about to do again.

Both of your eyes widened and the next thing you felt were Adam's hands on your body, not just your shoulder this time but also your waist, your chest, your thighs, your back. It seemed as if he was claiming you with his hands and the worst part of it? You truly didn't mind, you even enjoyed his touch on you, leaned into it and closed your eyes to fully focus on his hands roaming over your body.

Fuck, you had fallen deep for this man, way deeper than you ever thought you'd fall. But Adam had followed you, had fallen with you.

“You were about to suck me off,” Adam mumbled, his voice already sounded fucked out and you hadn't even started yet.

#hazbin hotel #hazbin hotel adam #adam x male reader #male reader #adam x y/n #adam x reader #adam x you

[imtryingbuck]

Forty

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader

Summary: Bucky comes from a well respected family, he falls in love with a girl who prefers the simple things in life. Follow their journey through the years.

Word count: 3,748

Warnings: angst, heavy use of pet names. fluff. swearing. death. mentions of domestic abuse and child abuse.

A/N: No description of reader other than she has curly hair.

Masterlist   Series Masterlist

When she was released from the hospital, Jamie was a month old. She was released two days before Georgias fifth birthday which made the little girl happy, she finally had her mommy back at home with her.

Her birthday party was magical, Y/n was a tiny little bit jealous if she was honest. The bouncy castle, the face painting station that Wanda was manning, the fairy lights set up all around the backyard that Bucky and Sam put up. There was even a costume station for all the kids to play dress up that Nat had brought with her. It was something that she would have loved when she was younger.

Georgia made Y/n put on fairy wings so they could be fairies together, she tried to put on a pirate hat on her baby brother but because it was too big for his tiny head it kept falling off making the five year old giggle.

All the children that came enjoyed it, so did some of the parents.

Georgia had truly been spoiled.

Three months after Jamie turned two years old they were at George’s and Winnie’s house having Sunday dinner, Jamie was in his granddads arms giggling to the funny voices George was talking to him in when all of a sudden George handed Winnie their grandson and started to clutch his chest.

By the time the ambulance arrived it was too late.

George had died of a heart attack.

The turn out to his funeral was huge, family friends and strangers had gathered to celebrate the life of the greatest man anyone had the pleasure of meeting.

Y/n held Bucky late at night when he cried. Her tears dropping on his fluffy hair as she did.

George Barnes was an incredible husband, father, grandfather and friend to all. He was deeply missed.

Then tragedy struck again, a year later on the very date of George’s passing. Winnie took her last breath.

It was Y/n who had found her, the family arrived at the house to have dinner and to release balloons for George. Bucky had let them all in with his key finding it odd that his ma wasn’t already waiting for them. Y/n said she would check upstairs, she knocked on the door to the spare bedroom that Winnie had moved into, not wanting to sleep in the same bed she shared with her husband. Getting no response she opened the door but found the bed empty, still till this day she doesn’t know why but she went to the master bedroom and that’s where she found her surrogate mom, her mother in law.

Winnie had passed away in her sleep.

Bucky struggled with the death of his ma, he snapped at everyone, pushed his wife, children and friends away. And at first Y/n allowed it as he was grieving but when he shouted at Jamie when he tried to show his dad the drawing he had made, making the three year old cry and stumble backwards. That was it. She snapped at Bucky, she told him she knew what he was going through but there was no need to make their son cry which had Bucky shouting that Maria wasn’t even her real mom, as soon as those words left his mouth he slammed his lips shut. Regret already evident in his eyes, an apology on the tip of his tongue but it was too late. She told him to get out of the house.

Both of them thought that because this was their first serious argument that they were going to have to get divorce. A thought that terrified the both.

Y/n never knew how to ride a horse before until she was twenty eight, Bucky paid for horse riding lessons which were… amusing to everyone other than Y/n. She lost count of how many times she fell off the god damn animal, or how many times Lolly the mare just wouldn’t listen to her commands finding eating the grass more better than listening to the woman sat on her back.

Bucky kept his promise that he made when he was just eleven years old. He proudly brought her a horse that she named Squid. Squid was gorgeous in every sense of the word truly he was.

*eight years ago*

“Bun can you remember what you asked Santa to get you for Christmas when you was eleven?”

“Of course. I asked for a pony, told him I didn’t care what colour or gender it was and I promised I’d look after it forever but I told you after that I wanted a horsey instead, why?”

Chuckling as she remembered exactly what she wrote down on her Christmas list he took her hand and walked down the street, ignoring her questions about what was happening. “I promised you that I would get you a pony, didn’t I? Well go over to that stable and meet your new friend” Bucky gestured to where a woman was standing smiling.

Giving her a slight push when she wouldn’t move, her eyes wide and head turning to face the woman and back to Bucky. With his gentle push she walked over to where the woman stood. Inside the stable laid a gorgeous brown and white spotted body of a pony.

“You didn’t? Ducky! Yo-you got me a pony?” She cried not taking her eyes off her fury new friend.

“Well it’s not a pony but a horse because I knew you wanted one instead, but I can always get you a po-“ Bucky get cut off when Y/n jumps into his arms and starts kissing him all over his face.

“I love it! I love you! Thank you Ducky”

*present time*

Eight years later Squid and his wife Penelope - another horse Bucky brought her and yes Y/n married them - were in their stable together as Penelope was giving birth. “Ducky! Ducky quick it’s happening!”

“Bunny baby I don’t want to see it!”

“Don’t be rude come on, oh-it’s-oh that’s a bit gross-I mean it’s beautiful Duck” Bucky stood on the other side of the stable wall rolling his eyes as Y/n gags yet trying to tell him what was happening was beautiful.

A few minutes later Y/n came out of the stable with tears in her eyes. Bucky’s heart dropped thinking something was wrong. “It’s a girl Duck, a beautiful baby girl”

“What are you naming her?” Bucky asked wrapping his arms around his wife looking at mom and dad cleaning their baby up.

“Would you be mad if I named her Duck?”

“After me?”

“Well yeah, you were the one that said Loopy was pregnant in the first place so…would you?”

“Not at all crazy woman”

Watching the love of his life excited to meet the foal Bucky knew that he had done amazing when he surprised her all those years ago with Squid.

Y/n didn’t think that she would be nearing forty years old with two one year olds, a five year old and a ten year old but that’s what she was doing.

She found out she was pregnant once again and because she was older she was more nervous about the pregnancy than she was when she was pregnant with Georgia.

When the nurse told them that there was two heart beats Bucky was ecstatic, of course he was he wasn’t the one that was going to be giving birth to them.

Two healthy baby boys were born three days before Y/n’s birthday.

Stevie Thomas Barnes and Sammy William Barnes.

Steve and Sam burst out crying when they heard the names of their nephews.

“Bunny?”

“In the twins room”

Hearing the heavy footsteps bounding up the stairs she watched the boys as they slept. Smiling when she felt Bucky’s arms wrap themselves around her waist.

“You being a perv again?” Bucky asked her as he placed a kiss to her temple.

“Obviously. Are the kids with Tony?”

“Yeah, you should have seen Jamie when he saw Peter. He ran straight over to him and his girlfriend and jumped straight on Peters head”

Laughing at the image of her five year old jumping on his cousins head “He is his favourite cousin, you know this”

Peter was a teenager that Tony had saved from the streets, he and Pepper found out that the boy didn’t have any family left after his aunt had passed away. They adopted him which Peter was happy and shocked about. He was such a lovely kid, perfect with the kids especially Jamie.

“Little man’s never subtle with letting everyone know who’s his favourite is, is he?”

“Nope never”

“So…are you ready to be turning forty?”

He knew for a fact she wasn’t.

“Forty? Don’t you mean thirty?”

“Nope Bunny you’re getting so old no-ow-your old now-ow Bun, baby stop elbowing me”

“Stop calling me old then”

“But it’s the tru-“

“Your forty one so shut up”

“I know” he sighs dramatically “I’m so old, I think you need to change my dipper”

“Your an idiot”

“Ah yes but I’m your idiot.”

Nodding at his statement they left the sleeping babies alone.

Y/n knew that Bucky had been up to something for months but couldn’t quite figure out what it was. His office doors were locked which was something that he had never done before.

He would get phone calls and always took them outside, at first she thought he was having an affair but shook that idea away out of her mind. She trusted him with her life.

On the day of her birthday she woke up to Georgia and Jamie bouncing on her bed screaming ‘happy birthday’. Bucky handed her the twins as she sat up and left the room with Georgia, coming back five minutes later Bucky holding a tray containing her breakfast and a fresh hot cup of tea, and Georgia dragging in a big bag behind her before she let go of the handles and ran back out, when she returned she had five huge bouquet of flowers in her arms.

“Happy birthday mommy these are for you” Georgia shoved all the flowers into Y/n’s face.

“One from each of our little rugrats and one from your very handsome Ducky” Bucky told her as he set the vases out, already filled with water. She didn’t even notice that they were there.

“Thank you my precious babies and thank you my very handsome Ducky” giving him a kiss both Georgia and Jamie saying ‘ew’ in the background.

The second she finished her last bite of food Georgia was putting presents in her hands. Each present she loved, they were all from her children.

Only one present from Bucky. A gorgeous diamond necklace.

After the presents were opened and the wrapping paper was binned she was told that she needed to have a shower and get dressed, Bucky told her that they had a day planned for her.

Three hours later cleaned and dressed Y/n went down the stairs finding it suspicious that it was noticeably quiet.

“Duck?”

“Living room my love”

“Where are the kids?”

“Nat and Bruce came to kidnap them. Have I ever told you how much I love you?”

“Daily” she smiled. Bucky took her hands in his and started dancing with her. “There’s no music Buck”

“Never needed music to dance with you my love, god I truly am the luckiest man in the world to have you in my arms. And I swear you get more and more beautiful as time goes on”

“Until you see the scars and stretch marks and I’m hid-“

“Don’t even think about finishing that word Bun I swear to god!” His voice dropped low, hating how she thinks that about herself when he’s always found her beautiful inside and out, scars and stretch marks, his wife, his Bunny was the most prettiest woman in the world. “Baby you are stunning”

“I love you James Buchanan Barnes more and more everyday”

“And I love you Y/n M/n Barnes more and more everyday”

Kissing each other passionately and deeply as they continued to dance together it was Bucky who pulled away first. “Come on my Bunny we’ve got places to be”

“Where are we going?”

“That my secret that you have to try and find out”

Bucky helped Y/n in to the car once she was settled in he got himself situated behind the wheel, he pulled out of the driveway once the gate opened the moment he was on the road he took her hand in his. Just like always.

The familiar street of where George and Winnie’s former home sits came into view, Y/n looked over at Bucky noticing that he had a small smile on his face. Her heart ached when she saw a moving van parked in the driveway of her parents in laws home, Bucky and Rebecca had decided to sell their childhood home, their way of moving on and they knew that their parents would have wanted a new family to make happy memories just as they did.

The new owners were husband and wife with two children, a boy and a girl.

“Buck?”

“Hold on pretty girl”

He drove up the same side road that he took her up on their first date. However it was a lot different now that the very large piece of land had the trees cut down by the state, they had plans to build on the land but with the lack of funding it never happened.

If she squinted in the distance she could see the ruined remains of her childhood home.

“Ducky this is private property…”

“I know, but I won’t tell if you don’t” she rolls her eyes as he winks, he notices and laughs.

“But we’re going to get into trou-“ the words die on her tongue when she sees balloons, tables and her family standing there with huge smiles on their faces.

“Happy birthday my love”

“Du-Ducky this is…”

Getting out of the car shakily with the help from Bucky she laughs when Georgia and Jamie along with her nieces and nephews come running over screaming ‘surprise’.

“Happy birthday angel” Howard says giving her a hug and a kiss on her cheek.

Everyone wishes her a happy birthday, presents were opened and she thanked every single one of them, protesting when she opened checks containing quite a substantial amount of money, they just smiled at her.

Nat handed Sammy over to his uncle Sam and ran over to her car with Bruce returning with a huge cake. Y/n laughed when she saw the candles. Thirty.

They sang happy birthday with the children running around clapping and cheering when she blew the candles out. Music started playing and everyone started dancing, laughing at each other’s dance moves. Y/n was dancing along with Nat, Wanda and Peggy gasping loudly and grabbing Wanda’s arm when she saw Billy dancing with Georgia, her shy little Billiam leant in and kissed Georgia on her cheek. Both of them blushing violently.

“Oh. My. God. Y/n it’s happening!” Wanda squealed as quiet as she could.

“I can’t believe he ran off afterwards” Y/n laughed.

“That’s what Vis did after he kissed me for the first time” Wanda shrugged.

A few minutes later Y/n went off to find Billy, finding him kicking a stone near the pond. Sneaking up on him she made him scream.

“Auntie Y/n!”

“Gotcha monkey”

“You scared me”

“I would say sorry if I was but I’m not so” sticking her tongue out at him after he does it first.

Billy sat down and looked up at his favourite aunt, patting the ground next to him Y/n made him laugh as she bowed to him. He always thought she was weird but that was just his auntie and he loved her.

“What brings you over here Billy Bob?”

“It’s nice over here. I like it”

“Can I let you in on a little secret?” Nodding excitedly at the prospect of being in on a secret he watched her pick up a twig off the ground and start to drag it through the dried mud.

“I use to come here all the time when I was a kid, it was my safe haven”

“Really?”

“Yeah” smiling at the memories of spending the majority of her childhood at that very same spot. “I met uncle Bucky in the woods when I was six and I brought him here to this very pond”

“Did you live in the woods?”

Laughing she shook her head “no, I-I use to live over there” she points in the direction of her former home.

“Why did you come here? Wasn’t your parents worried? Mom and dad always gets worried when I go down to the lake near home”

“That’s just because they care about you Bill, they worry incase you get hurt and they aren’t there to help you”

Billy wasn’t stupid, he knew she had avoided his questions so he asked again.

“Well…my real father was very mean and my mama was always working, she never knew that I came here”

“Why was he mean?”

“I don’t know, I always wondered that too”

“D-did he hurt you?”

“He did, badly” his eyes went down to his hands and started to twist his fingers, she noticed straight away. “Billy look at me, come on let me see that handsome face of yours-there it is-I’m okay now, grandad George and Howard and grandma Winnie and Maria saved me. And I’ve never been hurt since”

“B-but why would he hurt you? You was a child like me and my mom and dad don’t hurt me, you and uncle Bucky don’t hurt Georgia or Jamie or the twins so why did he do it to you? It’s not fair”

Her heart squeezed at the fact that an eleven year old could tell that it wasn’t fair for a child to be subjected to abuse by a parent. Like he said she was a child just like he was and he couldn’t understand why it happened. Neither did she.

“Because some people can be very mean and can’t tell the difference between right and wrong, your mom and dad are good people Billy and they would never hurt you because they love you so so so much. And for Bucky and I, we couldn’t never hurt our children no matter what because we love them.“

“I’m not mean am I?”

“You? Oh god no Billiam, you are the sweetest person I have ever had the pleasure of knowing”

“I’m scary though”

“Oh the scariest!” Laughing with him when they both knew what they had just said was a lie.

“Auntie Y/n c-can I tell you something?”

“Of course you can monkey”

“I-I-I kissed Georgia”

“You did?”

“Yes on her cheek” he confessed, smiling shyly.

“Do you like Georgia?”

“I do, she’s so pretty”

“She is isn’t she?”

“Yeah. D-do you think she l-likes me back?”

“I’m not sure monkey, she’d be stupid if she didn’t”

“Bunny? Ah I found you. You kidnap my wife Billy?”

“I guess”

Laughing at his reply Billy stood up and held his hand out for Y/n to help her stand. Ever the little gentleman.

“Come on Bun, we’ve got one more present for you. Come on Bill” Hand in hand with his wife and godson he leads them to where everyone was waiting. “So Bun, your last present comes from both me and your dad”

Howard steps forward leaning heavily on his walking cane in one hand and in the other hand was an envelope. Handing it to his daughter he smiled. “Open it angel”

Doing as her dad told her to do she opened the envelope and pulled out the papers now in her hand. Furrowing her eyebrows in confusion she looks up at Bucky and Howard.

“I-wha-I don’t get it…”

“Me and your dad brought the land-“

“No I get that but why?”

“You remember a few years back when we was talking and you said that you’ve been wanting to open up a safe haven for women who suffer from domestic abuse and children who are abused?”

“Yeah…it was-wait do you remember that?”

“Of course I do Bun. When we heard that this area was being destroyed to build houses which obviously never happened, I told your dad about your dream. So we brought the land. We already have builders and contractors at the ready, they’re just waiting on you to give the go ahead”

“I-I-really?”

“Yes angel, everyone’s been working secretly for three years-“

“Three frigging years!”

“Yes” Howard laughs “been getting things that you’re going to need, furniture, clothes, things that will be needed”

“Three years?” Everyone laughs as she asks how long again, they’d been keeping a huge secret from her for so long and she didn’t even know.

“So…Bunny what do you say? Are you going to give the go ahead on creating a safe haven for women and children?”

“Yes! Frigging sugarplum yes!”

Even at forty years old she still refuses to swear.

“Buck they don’t have any floor plans and they don’t know what I want and they-oh my god it’s not going to work Ducky! Money…do we have enough money to do this whilst having four children and a house and what about materials? We don’t have-“

“Bunny calm down! Baby look at me, everything is fine. I found your drawings on how you wanted it to look, if you want to change it that’s okay as they’ve got to do the ground first. And knock down the hous-“

“I want to do that. Please Ducky”

“Then it’s done”

“Really? And money and materials Bucky it’s not going to work”

“Really. Y/n it is. We have enough money, more than enough and all the materials are already ready to be used. It’s going to work baby I promise”

For the past five years Bucky watched as his wife’s spark lessened as the months went by, it crushed him. If having to lie in bed next to the greatest love of his life listening to her ramble about the plans she has and showing him her designs at five past one in the morning than that’s what he’s going to do and do it with a smile on his face. For the first time in five years his Bunny has that spark back in her eyes, the very same he fell in love with all those years ago.

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Tags: @cjand10 @unaxv @mcira @bisexualnikkisixx @kneelforloki @kandis-mom @sagebarness @sandyruston @scott-loki-barnes @nikkivillar @saltedcoffeescotch @scentedharmonymiracle @examinarei @sarcastickiddo @sadboiabby @unholyhuntress @8crazy-freak8 @ijustneedpopcorn @moonbeampillgoth @imcinnamoons @elmo-1066 @violetwinterwidow01 @suz7days @adoredire @ozwriterchick @randomrosie01 @mrs-bucky-barnes-73 @emerald-writes @justafangir1 @sibsteria @spencerreidisagorgman @sapphirebarnes @bruher @hawkinsavclub1983 @onlyonetifosi @parisadams @unabashedstarlightcrown @nash-dara @allofffmypeaches @loki-laufeyson68 @behindmygreyeyes @missvelvetsstuff @pigeonmama @lizslibrary @gloriouspurpose01 @gaya-is-weird-af

#marvel #marvel fanfiction #bucky barnes #bucky barns x y/n #Through The Years #bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes x you #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes series #James Barnes #Bucky Barnes angst #Bucky series #bucky barnes x y/n #Bucky Barnes fluff #James Barnes fluff #james barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes friends to lovers

[pooksgetspooked]

Hierophilia pt2.

Summary: A devout priest of unshakable faith stumbles upon what could only be called his own slice of heaven. With no creature holier than you roaming the mortal realm, it serves to be beyond troubling when Leon finds himself quickly falling into the clutches of corruption by the mere presence of you. Pairing: Leon s. Kennedy x Angel!Fem!Reader Word Count: 3k

Content warnings: MDNI! Religion, Corruption, dub-con/non-con, possessive & obsessive undertones, definitely blasphemy

“Leon? You look awfully tired,” you hummed, peering down at him with worried eyes while you placed a gentle hand atop his head, caressing the mop of blonde, “is all well?”

Was all well? By all means, he should be, but he was anything but. You were ruining him. He was losing more of himself with each day around you.

Somehow, someway, you evoked all sorts of vile thoughts he would have once cringed at, but now made his dick twitch in his pants. He had never prayed more in his life than he has in the past week or so; and despite his lust driven devotion, the notion of God abandoning him was suddenly feeling all too real.

“I’m well, please don’t worry about me,” he sighed, voice gravelly and head hung low as he sat on the bed in his quarters with you standing above him. With what had transgressed, you quickly noticed Leon’s shifty behaviour, but not the cause of it.

For the better he thought, because he was certain if you could peek into his mind, you would take off like a skittish dove at first chance.

He didn’t deserve you, or the tender care you put into him. You had thought he was falling ill despite not sensing any ailment, but you made an effort to heal him.

You made soul food for him and brought it to his quarters for him to rest, tried to haggle with the ever growing mob of believers without him, you even tried to take over some of his duties so he would get more time to himself to rest.

He wanted to cry for all too many reasons. The internal conflict wagering between his relgion and beliefs; all thing he knew prior to you was at war against the very notion of having you.

But you were so kind, gentle and soft, like nothing he had ever known in his life. You showered him with a warmth he had never known in his life, and it felt like he would cripple if you were to ever leave him. He knew he shouldn’t feel any way like he did towards you, but he couldn’t help it.

“Are you sure? I’m growing worried about you, Leon. You’re more withdrawn, less enthusiastic to go talk with the other chapel people, you’re eating far less than you should. Please, is there nothing I can do for you?” You were almost begging him now, your voice making his chest ache.

He finally dared look up at you, his eyes dragging up your legs through the sheen nightgown, breath hitching when he found himself at eye level with your chest, before forcing himself to meet your gaze.

“I- no, we- there’s nothing, dove,” he tried to stop the saliva from pooling in his mouth, and from his crotch from bulging, but the damage you dealt on him was nothing he could stop. He couldn’t dampen his heavy breaths, or stop his gaze from trailing back down to stare at your nipples and how they peeked through the fabric, thin enough to see the pretty flushed shade.

Your eyes widened as you caught his words, back straightening in attention. That only had his boner at attention, because your chest nudged an inch closer to Leon’s face, his lips now close enough to hover over where your nipples were.

“You said we. There’s something we can do together to help you then!” You were so excited, the feathers of your wings ruffled and your halo seemed to glow just a little brighter. So naive and innocent, but he couldn’t. Not with you. Maybe he should just hook up with one of the chapel ladies he knew always eyed him during sunday masses and call it a day. Far less damaging to his guilty conscious, and he might still have a shot of maintianing his ticket to heaven.

He shook his head, lips parting as he leaned back just slightly. He needed to breathe. Had to pull himself out of proximity of your breast before he caved and did something he knew would be a point of no return. “No, no we can’t,” he breathed out, blinking hard as he scrambled to piece together the jumble of thoughts bouncing around in his head. “I mean there’s nothing. There’s nothing for us to do,” he corrected himself, cursing himself for the slip up as soon as he noticed the look of curiosity on your face.

When you were curious, you were relentless.

You whined softly as you leaned forward with him, staring down at him with sad, wide eyes and limp wings, “no, there is something and you’re keeping it from me. Please? I’ll do whatever it is, i’m okay with it!” So eager to please, Leon had to stop himself from groaning as his dick jumped beneath the cloth of his boxers. How could he resist when you made him feel like you looked up to him as your new God?

You were quickly closing the proximity between the two of you, your chest steadily approaching him as your leaned closer to him each time he leaned back, and Leon was growing dizzy as his eyes were steadfast on your chest.

He didn’t know how much more he could take before he relented. You were making it so needlessly difficult, how was he supposed to turn away from you.

It was when your hand slipped, no longer able to prop up your weight. Leon had always commented that you should eat a little more and exercise to put on some muscles on your twiggy arms. Now, Leon was a little more grateful for the bone of defiance in you.

Your chest planted into his face, your eyes growing wide as you hastily apologized and tried to pull away, “Leon! I’m so sorry, are you hurt-” any attempt to pull away was stumped by the slithering arms, toned and firm, coiling around your waist with hands creeping up your back to keep you in place.

Before you could say another word, the sensation of his tongue, warm and wet pressed flat against your nipple flooded out any previous thought. The sensation had your back arching, crotch nudging into his pelvis with hitched breath as your mind went hazy.

“Leon, wha?” You couldn’t help the pitched whine coaxed out of you when his lips wrapped around the pebbling nipple, tongue flicking and swirling around the hardened bud. Your legs were kicking, arms scrambling for purchase to try and pull away, but what use were limbs that had never worked a day in their life against someone who was well adept at labour? You were a snagged dove in the maws of a wolf. Helpless and very much fucked.

“Shh, calm down angel. You said you would help me, right?” Leon finally pulled away from your nipple with a pop, half lidded, dilated eyes staring up at your trembling form. He could feel you shaking above him, your wings fluttering with you as you panted from your struggle. Cute.

Leon didn’t give a shit anymore. He had to do something about this lust addled haze or he might actually combust and die. He can worry about any of the irreversable ramifications later, heaven be damned, because there’s no way heaven would grant him a pass to sleep with an angel as divine as you anyways.

“I- I did but this feels funny,” oh my god. You didn’t know the first thing about sex, or what it was did you. Leon almost laughed, because he knew he was actually going to hell now.

“Feels funny? Can you tell me how it feels funny?” He breathed against your nipple, admiring how it poked through the now see-through fabric as he gently tightened his hold around your waist, arms clenching like a vice.

“It- it feels like-” another whine, halfway a garbled moan as he gently bit down on your nipple, warm and wet appendage still toying at the teat, lavished with all his love and attention. “Go on,” he mumbled through suckles and kisses, “tell me how it feels. It feels nice, right?”

“No it- it feels weird, like hot and tight, Leon please,” tears gathered at the corner of your eyes as you fought to breathe through weak struggles and the growing sensation that made your head fuzzy.

Meanwhile Leon was watching you intently, blue eyes never straying, soaking in every fidget of your expression. He couldn’t help but coo at you, his dick throbbing at your confusion. Despite your words, he could feel the dampness on his pants, stained from your leaky core.

It was like your mind was only in control of your words and that was it. Every other bodily reaction was detached from your brain, and wholeheartedly honest in a manner entirely different from your words. Your body and your mind was at odds with each other, and it was stirring an odd sense of satisfaction within his chest.

Maybe it was getting to see you experience just a modicum of what he had been facing for the entirety of the last week and more. You were responsible for what could only be deemed as his downfall, it was only fair that you repent for it in some way. It was only fair for you to help Leon out in this little way that you could, just like you were so eager to before.

“Do you trust me angel?” He allowed you just a small reprieve. The last one you would ever get before he really allowed himself free of his inhibitions and commit a sin so devastating that God might have to come down and smite him himself.

He watched you eye him through teary eyes as one of his hands crept lower, skirting beneath the fabric and rubbing soothing circles into the plush flesh of your thigh. Plump lips curled into a soft pout as your thighs twitched against his hand, damp panties rubbing against him without even realizing.

“I do, but everything feels weird,” your eyes screwed shut, blinking back stray beads of tears that threatened to fall. Leon shushed you softly, his other hand crawling up your back to cradle the back of your head, before trailing across your cheek to wipe the tear away.

“It feels weird now, but I promise you it’ll feel really good later for the both of us. You wanted to help me right? My precious angel, always wanting to help everyone,” he gently tutted, discreetly brushing the tear collecting on his thumb against his lips to lick away while his gaze sharpened in on you, clinging onto every word you say and every expression you make.

You snivelled, shoulders hitching each time you did as your brows knitted in that adorable confusion Leon wasn’t used to seeing, but was quickly warming up to. You seemed so conflicted, as though you inherently knew something about this was amiss without even being taught, but Leon knew you by now. He had never seen you turn anyone away before, and he knew he would be no different.

“You promise it’ll feel good?” you hesitantly peered into his eyes, all shy and meek, Leon had to restrain himself from diving back into your tits once more.

“Oh angel, I promise.” He was going to have you seeing God again by the end of the night. Or maybe, he would have you chanting his name in place of God. That sounds far more fitting for the man who would break you down, and rebuild you into something grander.

He started off slow, wanting to ease you into deep waters. His lips found their place back onto your tit as his hands rubbed soothing circles into the soft flesh of your skin before his hand on your thigh drifted. Agonizingly slow, he kept his arm around you tight when you flinched at the initial contact with your drooly cunt through the damp fabric of your panties.

Finger rubbing along the slit, outlining your puffy pussy, paying special attention to your little clit, it wasn’t long before he had you babbling and coming undone for him. You were so easy to make a mess off with how your slick would drip down the expanse of your inner thigh. By the time he had shifted your panties out of the way, your cunt was a creamy, sticky mess.

Of course, Leon had to get a taste. He lowered himself till he was eye level to your crying slit, and said his grace for the feast splayed out before him.

“Lord God and giver of all good gifts, we are grateful as we pause before this meal, for all the blessings of life that you give to us. We ask this through Christ Jesus, Amen. Lord, as we gather here before this table, we pause to give thanks for the bounty of the earth from which this meal came forth.”

Leon had you seeing stars by the time you unraveled the second and third time on his tongue. He ate like it was his last meal on death row; a starving man who didn’t know when his next meal would be. The way your cunt squealched and cried made Leon’s dick cry all the same.

Wet llps trailed gentle kisses up your thighs, occasionally nipping at the flesh and sucking bruising hickies while his rough thumbpad rubbed at your clit. He planted his first kiss on the bud between your legs, before licking a fat stripe up your slit, collecting the slippery liquid on his tongue. He switched between suckling on your pulsating button and making out with it, pussy kissing his lips with nearly as much enthusiasm as he was putting out. His lips sealed around your cunt, slobbering into the honeyed cavern, nose bumping into your clit in a dual pleasure that was driving you dumb.

The rapidly approaching tipping point was nearly pushed over the edge. Leon moaned and hummed into your cunt, and the effects were devastating. You could feel his moan in your womb, tickling the empty organ in a way that had your cunt spasming, coiling heat growing to be searing while your thighs ached from the tension of another cresting orgasm.

He rutted against the sheets in a bid to chase his own release while eating you out, but his rapt attention remained fixated on you. He eventually dared to slip a finger in, curling in a way that had you gasping for air. With each moan and cry that got louder, Leon’s strokes grew wilder until you were spasming and clenching down on his finger and tongue, granting him a taste of the sweet cream he had prayed for.

He was serious about your prior reprieve being your last, because you didn’t catch a break for the next hour or so. After his feast that had you crying and squirming, he had you splayed on your back atop of him, your bare back flushed against the skin of his chest so that he could squeeze two fingers into your cunt, his other free hand caressing your jaw while two more fingers played with the soft little tongue past your lips.

“Leon, please, I can’t take anymore,” your words were barely coherent, but there was no need for words when you were weeping now, nearly as much as your core was. So overstimulated and sore, you didn’t know how much more you could take.

Your thighs trembled and spasmed, wings twitching while your core clenched on his fingers, pruned thumbpads driving you wild with the rough texture rubbing against your abused clit.

Leon did what he did best. Shushed you gently, drowning your words with his own lips as his fingers curled up, far enough to make your brain flicker and scramble any plea on the tip of your tongue.

“But you’re doing so, so well for me dove, and I know it feels good for you. You can feel how much your pussy is crying in joy, can't you? Just like how you are.” To drive his point home, he pushed his fingers deeper, adam's apple bobbing at how your cunt squelched in response, the ring of cream rising closer to his knuckle.

“Just give me another one, okay? Last one, and we can cuddle and rest together.”

Leon was either a dirty liar, or he flunked his math, because the next wasn’t the last. Neither was the one after that, or the one after that. It was only when you were babbling stupidly and cross eyed did he find it in his heart to give you your second hard-earned break.

“Oh angel,” he sighed down at you with dreamy eyes, his fingers slipping out of you.

For the first time in awhile, he pulls his gaze away from your face to watch the glisten of your slick coating his fingers, before curling his tongue around his digits and cleaning them until he could no longer taste you on him. “You need a break?”

You were a limp mess, your mind lagging behind on his words before it finally caught up. You could only muster a drunken whimper, brain still fried from the mind melting pleasure Leon had forced upon you ceaselessly for the past who knows how long. Spread out on the bed, sweaty and weak, a sight for sore eyes. For leon’s eyes.

He hummed softly, familiar tune of a hymn that you could barely connect as he leaned down to press his lips against yours, tongue darting past your lips while his arms caged you in. Only when you started flailing and whimpering from the lack of air did he pull away with flushed face.

“Rest up darling, I just need a little bit more of your help, and I’ll be happy again.”

He made a silent vow to himself, hushed mumble beneath his breath too soft to catch. Leon s Kennedy was going to make sure he was all you would ever know and worship once he was done with you.

#leon kennedy smut #leon kennedy x reader #leon s kennedy smut #resident evil smut #resident evil x reader #got lazy

[cybrsan]

Treasure — J.WY [Pt. 1]

STORY SUMMARY: Wooyoung is moon-blessed, a waterbender born under the Siren Moon that rises once every 88 years. His blessing is believed to be his unique and powerful healing abilities that he has coined “Wavesong.” However, his true gift is that of his prophetic dreams, glimpses of futures yet to unfold—and you just happen to be the subject of his recent visions.

PAIRING: Waterbender Jung Wooyoung x Non-Bender F!Reader

RATING/GENRE: M ; angst, fluff, eventual smut ; ATLA au, enemies to lovers

WORD COUNT: 2.6k

WARNINGS: Minor POV switches

A/N: This story has been a long time coming. It is the second addition to my "Ode To ATEEZ" series and the first to my "Together in Harmony" series. I decided to split it into chapters because I believe it will flow better that way. I hope you enjoy!

LINKS: Ode To ATEEZ Masterlist | Together in Harmony Masterlist | Cross-posted on AO3

Masterlist | Next ↠

Crossing the Desert of Eden is not for the faint of heart. It is one of the world’s greatest paradoxes, a place where nature's most wonderful and most dangerous creatures coexist in a delicate balance. Even the sand itself is an example of this—crystalline and beautiful, ever sparkling under the light of the sun, yet each granule is as jagged as splinters of glass. Without proper foot bindings, your journey cannot even begin.

Amidst the harsh landscape, pockets of life burst forth in brilliant defiance. Rare desert blooms dot the barren terrain with bursts of color. Some hold the power to heal, their petals emitting a fragrance that soothes both body and soul. Others are laced with deadly venom, capable of stopping a heart with but a single touch.

Sand serpents slither through the dunes, their scales nearly translucent, giving them the ability to blend in seamlessly with the landscape. One bite is all it takes for total paralysis to overtake you, rendering you incapacitated for mere minutes to hours at a time. Celestial birds soar overhead, searching for prey, their wings casting shadows on the ground below.

And even if you’re able to avoid those threats, blinding winds carry grains of sand like lashes, stinging skin, obliterating landmarks, and disorienting even the most skilled navigators. The desert swallows the unwary, erasing their footprints from existence.

It is in this very place that Wooyoung finds himself, accompanied by seven of his fellow benders. In normal circumstances, he would avoid a place like this at all costs, his sense of self-preservation persevering over the curiosity of what secrets the desert holds. But things haven’t been normal for a long, long time. 

He feels like he’s been walking for days, his legs heavy and leaden. Despite his protective robes, the wind and sand have whipped at his skin, leaving it battered and raw. Just one look at the faces of his companions is enough to prove he isn’t the only one feeling this way. The only one who seems miraculously energized is their de-facto leader, Hongjoong. He moves forward with ferocity, a tinge of madness in his eyes.

To his left, Yeosang stumbles, nearly falling onto the sand below. Wooyoung reaches out for him, a second too slow, but luckily San reacts quicker, catching him by the arm. The exhaustion has begun to take its toll. Everyone comes to a stop, nervous energy flowing between them. Everyone except Hongjoong, that is. Seonghwa, the eldest of the group and the one with the most power after their leader, places a hand on his shoulder.

“We need to rest, Joong. Look at the kids—they’re exhausted. Yeosang almost collapsed.”

‘The kids.’ Wooyoung frowns, the endearment not sparking the same joy that it used to. Seonghwa and Hongjoong may only be a year older than the rest of them—two in Jongho’s case—but they’ve always referred to them that way. Wooyoung used to find it cute, often teasing them about how they acted like an old married couple. He supposes that the recent distaste for the nickname comes from the fact that Hongjoong hasn’t been the same ever since he told him about his dream.

It takes a moment for Hongjoong to comprehend what Seonghwa said, thoughts still elsewhere. Yet once his eyes find Yeosang, he immediately acquiesces, apologizing for not stopping sooner. His entire demeanor seems to soften, making him seem more like himself. Wooyoung already feels like he can breathe better because of it. 

“Hopefully we aren’t too far from a Dweller community,” Hongjoong says, taking out his compass. “Let’s go.”

The Dune Dwellers are natives of Eden, having found ways to thrive in even the most unfavorable conditions. They aren’t particularly fond of outsiders, regarding any so-called adventurers as naive and stupid more than anything else. They often find the remains of the less fortunate, bodies lost to the sand. Dwellers are some of the only people who know how to navigate the desert and survive, but even they won’t wander into it aimlessly, searching for a treasure that may or may not exist.

Luckily, it isn’t long until they find one of their communities with Hongjoong’s guidance. Tracking their location becomes easier when you familiarize yourself with the signs the locals leave for one another, like a carving in a rock or some shimmering paint on a cactus. Things that are easy to miss when you don’t know what you’re looking for. 

The town is small, cut through the middle by a bustling market area teeming with vendors trying to pawn off their goods. Wooyoung immediately feels some of his tension fade away, the lively environment making him feel more at home. You wouldn’t expect any place in such a barren landscape to be so full of life, but the Dwellers have a thriving community of their own despite their living conditions.

The sounds of haggling and bartering are music to his ears, and he quickly finds himself imbued with newfound energy, eager to start talking to people and fishing for information. Maybe he’ll be able to find some clues as to Pandora’s location, and Hongjoong can finally be appeased. He makes a quick plan with the others to meet at the town’s small inn at sunset before wandering off on his own. 

The scent of spices, freshly baked bread, and cooking meat mingle in the air as he walks, making his mouth water. He stops at a stall selling juice made from prickly pears, kept cool by the waterbender who continuously refreezes the ice it sits upon. In exchange for a few copper coins, he buys a glass and greedily gulps it down.

He shivers, the cold drink a shock to his system in the hot, dry climate. It is both tangy and sweet and he hums, pleased, as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and returns the glass to the merchant. Just as he goes to pull his hand back, the man grabs his wrist. Wooyoung's heart jumps in his chest and, though he tries to keep his composure, he is sure the shock shows on his face. Dwellers may not greet outsiders with open arms, but they’ve never shown any outward acts of aggression toward them before.  

“What are you doing here, nakuto? You’re a long way from the Water Tribe.”

Wooyoung gently removes his arm from the man’s grasp, though he is no longer fearful. The term nakuto, a respectable term for ‘young one,’ brings back memories of his home and instantly puts him at ease. “How did you know I was a waterbender?” 

“I don’t see many of my own kind out here; most are exiles from the Fire Nation or native sandbenders. Your necklace gives you away.”

Instinctively, Wooyoung reaches up, fingers caressing the delicate shells around his neck. He supposes it is reminiscent of the Water Tribe, but he’s worn it for years and barely remembers that it’s there. It was a gift from his brother, a good luck charm given to him when he left for the Fire Nation seven years ago. 

The man continues, “Did something happen to your Tribe, boy? It’s not safe out here.”

“No, it’s not like that. I’m here with a group of other benders—we’re looking for the eternal library, Pandora.”

“Pandora,” the man scoffs. “A myth. You should turn back while you still can.”

“I’m afraid turning back isn’t an option. Come on, pakana. Surely you must know something.” 

The man harrumphs, though Wooyoung can tell the use of the honorific pleases him by the slight smile that tugs at his lips. “You can call me Marok.”

“I’m Wooyoung.”

“Well, Wooyoung, there really isn’t that much information out there about Pandora; I probably don’t know much more than you do.” Marok creates a small stream of water from the melting ice, absent-mindedly spinning it around his fingers as he talks. “I’ll tell you what—go talk to ol’ Nadira. She’s a sandbender, and been here almost all her life. If anyone were to know something, it’d be her. Go west of town and look for a purple tent with yellow flags.”

“Thank you, Marok—I appreciate your help. Yui remoi.”

“Bayui jilok.”

Wooyoung nods, acknowledging Marok’s blessing, and starts to head west. The sun has begun to set, and he suspects he has less than an hour before he has to meet the others at the inn. Hopefully, whoever Nadira is, she’ll be cooperative. With the town being as small as it is, it doesn’t take him long to reach the outskirts, and the bright purple tent is easy to spot, a beacon of color amongst the sand. Just as he reaches the entrance, a girl pushes the flap aside, nearly bumping into him as she exits in a hurry. 

“Sorry,” she mutters, barely acknowledging him as she rushes back to town. 

The hair on the back of Wooyoung’s neck stands up. He doesn’t get a good look at her face, but her voice and white robes… He stops himself, shaking away the uncomfortable feeling of familiarity. Her eerie similarity to the girl he’s been seeing in his dreams for the past few nights is of little importance. He’s not trusting his visions ever again and will do whatever he can to avoid those uncertain futures. He quickly enters the tent, ready to get some answers so that he and the others can leave this town and the girl behind come morning.

You rush past the boy entering the tent, barely sparing him a glance as you hurry back toward town. Your conversation with Nadira was unsatisfactory, to say the least. She couldn’t tell you much more than you already knew, which is that Pandora is near impossible to find and even harder to get into, especially as a non-bender. It’s rumored to be buried far under the sand, sealed shut by an elemental lock. However, she was surprised by the map you carried with you, saying she hadn’t ever known there to be someone who successfully cataloged all of Eden. She couldn’t confirm whether or not the entirety of it was correct, though she did verify that certain locations lined up with her own knowledge of the desert.

You relax your steps, an exasperated laugh slipping from your lips as you realize you were practically stomping out of frustration. You take a moment to center yourself; as tempting as it may be to sell the map to the nearest street vendor, you’ve traveled too long and too far to give up now. Freedom is nearly in your grasp—you can feel it. You will claw your way to it if you must.      

Double-checking that the map is secure inside your sling bag, you tighten the strap around your torso and head through the doors of the inn. The atmosphere is much livelier now that it’s late afternoon, with talking and laughter nearly drowning out the small band playing in the corner. The bar area seems to be where most people are congregating, chugging down mead and ale. The one serving maid is busy juggling orders from all directions, delivering filled mugs to rowdy drinkers who seem to enjoy cheering each other on for every sip taken. 

As you weave through the crowded tables in search of a seat, you can’t help but notice a group of travelers that stand out from the crowd. You could sense their disharmony from a mile away—two members seem to be locked in a heated argument, heads close together as they speak in hushed voices. A few of the others seem to be playing a drinking game that involves making silly gestures and mimicking one another while one boy gazes off into the distance, lost in thought. Your interest peaked, you take a seat at the bar, right next to a man who has several empty tankards in front of him. He doesn’t seem too inebriated, but surely he’s drunk enough that his lips will be loose. 

You place a few coins on the counter, ordering two drinks. You slide one to the man to capture his attention and nod in the group's direction, asking, “So, what do you know about the new guys in town?” 

The man eyes you, scrutinizing your appearance. He must see something that he likes because he decides to indulge you, taking the ale in hand and relaxing further into his seat. “Heard from the barkeep that they’re some adventurers tryna find the library of Pandora.” He huffs and takes a long drink before adding, “A buncha fools.” 

You bristle, wanting to defend them as their goal seems to be the same as yours, but you stop yourself, not wanting to discourage the man from sharing more information. “I see. Are they benders?” 

He nods. “Yeah, far as I know. One of ‘em is apparently tryna get some information outta Nadira.” 

You think back to the boy you saw entering the tent and curse yourself for not paying more attention. You could have talked to him, asked him why he was seeing Nadira, and proposed some sort of alliance. Winning one man over would be easier than winning over seven all at once. But alas, that seems to be your only option. Taking one last swig of your ale, you hop off the bar stool and give the man a two-finger salute.

“Thanks for your time—enjoy the rest of your night.” 

He raises his mug and bids you farewell as you turn around, steeling your nerves as you march right up to the group of benders. One of the quarreling men who dons a head of striking red hair notices you first, his eyes instantly narrowing upon your approach. He slides closer to the others, almost protective in his movements, seemingly forgetting his previous argument. 

“Can I help you?” 

His voice is steady, laced with none of the heat you had expected. Instead, his words are cold, punctuated in a way that cuts you like a knife. However, you refuse to let him intimidate you.

“Yes, actually. I heard you were looking for Pandora.”

He quirks an eyebrow. “Why is that of any interest to you?”

“I’m looking for it too.”

“And?”

You grit your teeth, his standoffish attitude grating on your nerves. The man he was fighting with places a hand on his arm and steps slightly in front of him, greeting you with a smile. You can immediately feel the difference in his aura, the gentleness radiating off of him. He is the water to the red-headed man’s fire. Perhaps literally.

“Sorry, Hongjoong is just a bit… on edge lately. I’m Seonghwa.” 

He takes a moment to introduce each of the others before asking for your name in return. You’re surprised to find that they’re a pretty well-balanced group, with at least one bender for each element. That will definitely come in handy when it comes to the elemental lock. You almost can’t believe your luck; after all this time, maybe things are finally turning around in your favor.

Yunho, an airbender who was a part of the group playing the drinking game earlier, chimes in. “So, you’re looking for Pandora too?” 

You nod. “That’s right. I think we can help each other.” You reach into your bag and wrap your fingers around the map. “You see, I—”

“Wooyoung!” 

You’re interrupted by San, a dimpled firebender, who gets up to excitedly greet the missing member of their party; Wooyoung must be the boy you bumped into earlier. Now that you have a moment to actually look at him, you suppose that he’s quite beautiful, with a sharp nose and full lips. His hair is like nothing you have ever seen before—silver on top with blue ends, comparable only to how it looks when the light of the moon meets the sea. 

Your lips barely part to greet him when he turns to you, eyes ablaze with hatred. “What is she doing here?”

NETWORKS: @cromernet @kflixnet @pirateeznet

TAGLIST: @nebulousbookshelf @ad0rechuu @seonghwaddict @sanniesbunnie @wooya1224 @tournesol155 @ja3hwa @pocketjoong-reads @lovandr

#wooyoung x reader #jung wooyoung x reader #ateez x reader #ateez imagines #wooyoung imagines #wooyoung smut #ateez smut #wooyoung fic #ateez fic #jung wooyoung fic #kpop writers #kpop writing #my fic

[desiderio-dixon]

Darkest Before the Dawn

Chapter 6 : But I'm Dreaming of You

Pairing : Daryl Dixon x f!reader (endgame), (unrequited) Glenn Rhee x f!reader

Series summary : When Glenn Rhee comes into your life, you become convinced he's a guardian angel sent by your late best friend. You think he's your soulmate. But then he falls for the farmer's daughter, and you find that your own angel may be a little more blatant than expected; wings and all.

Chapter summary : The CDC proves to be a place of refuge...and wine. You get drunk, talk to Daryl, and have a dream that will linger in your mind for a long while.

Chapter warnings : OKAY!!! LET'S HOPE I GET EVERYTHING HAHA!!! Smut!!!! Reader has a sex dream that includes piv, male masturbation, fantasies including oral (f receiving), daryl is thirsting, language, drinking, pleaseeee let me know if I missed anything!!

Word count : 2k

A/N : so things are heating up now

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

The CDC had proven to be some form of miracle. After being on the road, tired and hungry and hopeless, sitting at a large table filled with food and wine was a dream. You sat next to Glenn, head airy and light as you entwined your arms and sipped your wine glasses. After all the loss, this felt like a win.

Your friends gathered around, joking and laughing, sharing stories, it gave your mind and body a peace you hadn't had in months. Even Daryl, who you'd thus far known to be cold and guarded, is nursing his own glass and tossing jokes. "Keep drinking, little man. I wanna see how red your face can get!" He says to Glenn, who giggles over his glass. You laugh, giving Glenn a gentle shove. Daryl points to you next. "You too, girl." You salute with your glass, tipping it back. Daryl refills it. It's fun and lighthearted and hell, it's exactly what you need.

And then Shane ruins it. While Shane goes through his interrogation, you do your best to block out the sad tale he forces out of Jenner. Instead, you stay silent, tossing back refill after refill of your wine and spoonful after spoonful of pasta.

By the end of the dinner, you're nothing short of wasted. Prior to the apocalypse, you hadn't much experience with alcohol. That, in combination with the lack of drinking for months, had thoroughly set you on the path to slurred words and stumbled steps.

You shamble through Jenner's tour, tripping over your own two feet. He finally says something your drunken mind deems important: hot water. There are limited showers, so everyone argues over who goes first. You're too out of it to argue, but someone must state your case, because you're being ushered off in the first group. "Because you'll pass out if you don't go first." Someone says. You take their word for it. Maybe it'll sober you up some.

When the hot water cascades over your back, it feels like it takes the weight of the world away with it as it flows into the drain. You smile into the open air, careless and drunk and happy for the first time in weeks. Getting to wash the grease out of your hair with running water is a privilege you'd thought long gone. The shower is even stocked with razors, but in your drunken state you know that's not a good idea. Instead, you lather in the scented bodywash laid out, scrubbing your skin with a heavy hand. The steam surrounding you begins to smell like roses and lavender. You breathe it in greedily. There are few good smells these days. This place, the CDC, it feels like life before all the death. When you slip, landing thankfully uninjured on your backside, you acknowledge it to be time to pry yourself out from under the stream.

Leaving the bathroom, you stumble through the halls. You can't remember what room was designated to you, and your eyes grow heavier each second. You decide to peek inside one of them, finding the vast space seemingly empty.

You make your way sloppily into the room, flopping face first onto the bed, wrapped in nothing but a bath towel. "Tha' hell?" Typically, the sudden voice would scare you, but you simply can't be bothered.

Instead, you don't even lift your head, mumbling out a muffled, "What?" Into the sheets.

Daryl stares at the back of your head dumbfoundedly. He sits on the couch at the opposite end of the room, nursing a bottle of liquor. He was enjoying his peace and quiet, but of course, you of all people can't allow that. Still, seeing a woman naked and sprawled out on the bed he claimed as his own was certainly an unexpected end to his night.

He thinks you must've fallen asleep in his lack of response, so he stands, approaching the bed quietly. He reaches his arm out to your shoulder, intending to shake you awake to get the hell off his bed, but before he can make contact, you turn and grab his wrist. "What are you doing?" You slur, eyeing him suspiciously. He scoffs, wrestling his arm out of your weak grip and shuffling back a few steps. Your eyes follow him intensely.

"Tryin' to get you out. Ain't in the mood to babysit!" He defends, wiping his arm of where you'd touched him. Your hand was warm, and wet with lingering moisture from the shower. Droplets still glide across your shoulders over your arms. All of your skin radiates with a dewy, clean glow. He feels a familiar burn in his ears, averting his eyes. He pretends the painting hanging on the wall to his left is beyond interesting--but he honestly couldn't give a damn about it. Despite not looking at you, he can still smell you. In fact, he's sure you've infected the whole room with your post-shower scent. It's floral and sweet and very you. He hates that he feels that way.

"...Well! Sorry, Mr. Dickhead! Couldn't find mine and you're a stupid hunter so I didn't even know you were there!" You dramatically flail, tired and drunk.

Daryl huffs, narrowing his eyes at you. "Why don't ya' go find yer damn boyfriend!" He yells. You flinch at his volume, tucking your arms around yourself. He feels a twinge of guilt in his belly.

"He's not my boyfriend." You mumble, turning to lie on your side in a tucked ball. "Prolly won't ever will be." You draw out sadly. Daryl doesn't feel bad for you. You don't need someone like Glenn. Between the two of you, the world would eat you both alive.

But he knows he shouldn't say that. You're sad, drunk, and probably seeking comfort. He's not sure how to give that, so he sighs, sitting on the very edge of the bed, far away from your body. "Why not?" He asks, glancing at you and then back to the floor, lifting a thumb to his mouth to chew.

"I like him, I think. But I don't think he likes me." Your voice trembles, small and quaint like a child. "He's all I have now." That breaks you, tears now fully streaming.

"Nah." Daryl says simply, letting the word hang in the air for a moment. "All our people-- they love ya." He looks at you when he says it, and the blue of his eyes almost shocks you. You can't remember a time he's made such intense eye contact with you, so you allow your teary eyes to roam freely over his own. Getting lost in the different shades and the flow of them into one another. You almost forget why you're crying.

You break out into a drunken, sappy smile. You lift your upper body off the bed, towel slipping down further. Daryl tries not to look. "Thank you, Daryl." You say through a smile that makes your eyes disappear, so wide that it coats your entire face. He flushes. He can't say that a woman, or a man for that matter, has ever looked at him like this. So happy because of something he said. "Will you help me find my room?" He hates the disappointment that flushes over him, but he nods anyway.

He helps you up, and practically carries you through the halls until you come across an open door with your bag on the bed. You hold your towel up as you stumble into the room, holding the door frame with the other hand. You stop before closing the door, giving Daryl a coy smile. "Goodnight, Daryl." You tell him before shutting the door. For a reason he can't identify, those words ring through his mind all night.

Hearing the click of the door shutting, you shrug off your towel. You throw yourself down onto the bed in all your naked glory, wrapping yourself in the pillowy soft comforter and drifting off almost instantaneously.

In the hazy warmth of your dream, you lay among a bed of pillows on your side. You're naked, bare skin brushing against the sheets lazily. Behind you, you feel the warmth of a lover's presence. When you crane your neck, it's Glenn. He smiles at you in that gentle way, running the back of his hand over your cheek. It's gentle, wholesome. You lean in for a kiss, closing your eyes. He meets you halfway, gripping your cheekbone softly.

But, as the kiss grows longer, his lips get rougher, his hand runs lower to caress your neck with a calloused hand. When you open your eyes, it's no longer Glenn. Instead, it's Daryl, eyes blown with lust. He pulls you back in, and you make no move to resist. He bites your lip and presses his front into your back. Bare skin on skin, you feel everything. You feel him, in all his glory. He's trailing one hand down your stomach, applying pressure to push you into him. He starts a slow grind against your backside. "Daryl," You moan out breathlessly when his hand slips between your legs. Your own hand grabs his bicep, hips starting to move against his fingers and his own hips behind you. Then, his hand moves away from you. You whine, but his hand grips your inner thigh hard. And then he's lifting your leg, placing it over his hip and notching himself on your entrance. You gasp, turning to make eye contact and nod feverishly. Just as he starts to push in--

Your eyes snap open, lungs grasping desperately for the breath you'd been holding. It's still dark, likely only an hour since you'd fallen asleep. You've slightly sobered up, but now your skin is clammy and your heart is racing. You wish you could deny enjoying the dream, but the slick you feel between your legs betrays you. Still, you feel a weight of guilt. And so, you decide to just enter back into a frustrating, restless sleep.

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

When Daryl enters the bathroom, finally ready to take a shower, he's almost angry at the smell that greets him. That same smell you'd infested his room with. He undresses quickly and haphazardly, tossing his clothes throughout the room. Ever since his earlier encounter with you, he's felt strange.

Hot, clammy. With a ball almost akin to anticipation sinking in his gut. He knows what this is. Knows it when his head starts to swim in the steamy room. He hasn't felt this way in so long. The feeling in his stomach grows and tingles into his toes under the stream of water, he's getting hard. He tries to convince himself he's only feeling this way because of the sudden sense of security, and maybe the alcohol. But as he grips himself, taking a shuddering breath, all he can think of is you.

It's wrong. God, it's so wrong. But no matter how much he tries to push the thoughts away, they always come back to you. You, wet and naked sprawled over his bed. In his thoughts, he tugs the towel off your skin, revealing everything. He'd treat you right, he thinks, panting. He'd kiss your skin and taste the fresh shower water lingering, he'd quench his thirst on your skin. He'd breathe you in before kissing you senseless. Though, he doesn't have much experience kissing. Still, what he lacks in experience he'd make up for in enthusiasm with you. For you. He'd kiss up and down your legs, from your ankles to the insides of your thighs, to where he really wants to kiss. You'd be tangy on his tongue, and maybe you'd whimper out his name. Daryl's gut grows tight, so tight that his toes curl against the slippery shower floor. Maybe your eyebrows would furrow, maybe your hands would tangle in his hair, gripping and pulling. He can almost feel it.

Suddenly, he's grunting, hips shooting forward as warmth washes over him. The shower water cascades over his form, washing his acts down the drain. There's a lingering guilt, but the relief he feels from head to toe overpowers everything. He feels more relaxed than he has in weeks.

You just never have to know that he'd ever jacked off to you, and he never has to know that you dreamt of him taking you apart. Simple enough.

❀~~__~~❀~~__~~❀

⤿Taglist (Open)

@celtic-crossbow @scudslut @itwasntaphasema @ryoujoking @i-wear-wet-socks313

#daryl dixion imagine #daryl dixon #daryl fanfiction #daryl imagines #daryl x female reader #daryl x reader #daryl x y/n #daryl x you #the walking dead daryl #twd fanfiction #twd imagine #twd daryl #twd smut #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl smut

[the-travelling-witch]

as promised, the outline for the halloween fic i didn’t write haha

pairing: suna rintarou x gn! reader (though i really considered marius von hagen as well >///<)

warnings: nsfw/ minors dni; incubus! suna, somnophilia, allusion to oral, wet dreams, dub con

haikyuu!! masterlist

♡ 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐮𝐛𝐮𝐬 𝐒𝐮𝐧𝐚 …

… who you meet while you’re out and about.

It was an accident, really. You didn’t watch where you were going for a second and immediately bumped into someone. Luckily, that someone manages to steady you by your shoulders before you can stumble.

There’s an amused grin on his handsome and for a few seconds you can’t do much but stare into his stunning olive eyes, captivated without noticing the mischievous glint lighting them up.

“Woah there,” he laughs, his voice smooth and melodic, and it’s a good thing his warm hands are still on you, otherwise your knees might’ve buckled at the sound. “Must be my lucky day today when someone as pretty as you falls for me.”

You profoundly apologise but he just shrugs it off, assuring you he could’ve watched his step too. Too soon for your liking, he lets go of your arms and you part ways with no way to contact each other again and your heart is just a little heavier because of it.

But, much to your joy, you run into him again at a crowded coffee store, searching for a seat when a familiar figure waves you over. You can’t help but grin as you chat the afternoon away, fingers brushing against each other occasionally, before exchanging numbers as well. Seeing the name flash across your screen when he asks if you arrived home safely, butterflies start flapping their wings in your stomach.

Suna Rintarou

It’s a name that leaves your lips as you stuff your hands down your pants that night, your mind clouded with images of him above you, underneath you and behind you, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is the thought of what his fingers would feel like, if he’d tease you and edge you or if he’d stuff you impatiently just to ruin you that way.

This cycle of running into him and consequently ruining another pair of underwear repeated over the next weeks and drove you to near insanity. And if you didn’t react to his flirtatious remarks yourself, Suna would show up in your dreams, leaving you to wake up needy with a throb between your legs.

Just when you think you can’t take it anymore, your dreams that night turn far more sinful than the ones you had before. Your skin feels feverish as you gasp the name of the man above you, whose hands bruise the fat of your thighs as he settles in between them. The grin he flashes you as he pulls your hips flush with his prominent bulge makes his fangs gleam in the moonlight.

Wait… his fangs?

“Good morning, sleeping beauty,” he chuckles darkly as his sharp claws dimple and dig into your flesh. Inky horns curve from his dark hair as he leans down to nip at your throat, leathery wings stretching out behind him. His voice is low and raspy as his lips brush the shell of your ear. “Did you have sweet dreams?”

“Suna, what—“ you try to shake your haziness only for it to be replaced by a different kind of fog when his lips slot against yours. They’re just as soft as you thought they’d be and you instinctively melt back against your pillow. However, there’s a taste of something else there…

“You’re delicious, wouldn’t you agree? Worth the wait I had to endure,” he whispers and it draws your attention from the tail flicking over your cheek back to where you are most sensitive, noticing the sheer amount of arousal coating you. Did he-?

“Quite the heavy sleeper, are you?” He laughs at the look of realisation flashing through your eyes. One of his hands gathers your wrist above your head, leaving you defenceless as the fingers of his other hand travel down your body; caressing the side of your face, the dip of your throat, brushing over one of your nipples. “Not that I mind. You make such sweet sounds when I play with you, even if you’re asleep.”

“Rin,” you whimper the nickname you’d secretly given him when you feel his strong thighs press against yours harder. Faintly, you wonder where his clothes went but the thought is just as quickly tossed away again when you feel the heat of his dick rub against you.

“Mhm, that’s it. Keep saying my name like that,” he groans, sharp teeth nipping against your shoulder and throat and he lines himself up, “especially when I’ll make you cum and stuff you full over and over again.

“And it’s going to feel so much better than any of the dreams I’ve given you so far.”

© the-travelling-witch 2023 - do not repost, translate, copy or edit

if you like my content, reblogs, comments and asks are always much appreciated ♡

➺ send in an ask to be added to or removed from my tag list

#┊holly’s potions ೃ༄ #┊ʚ hollyween 2023 ︎ɞ #haikyuu #x reader #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu smut #haikyuu thirsts #suna x reader #suna smut #suna rintarou #haikyuu suna #minors dni

[princess-tulip-writes]

Hi doll! 🤍 could you write something about reader being azriels mate and just being so girly and ditzy and low-key slightly dumb and clumsy and azriel just being daddy and giving loads of princess treatment and constantly taking care of her, my secret dream istg xoxox

i’m gonna write headcanons on this because there is just SO MUCH that i want to cover.

azriel shadowsinger with a bimbo mate

- azriel is a very tolerant male.

- he is so patient with you every time you stumble over yourself, or take a lot of time getting ready, or ask him what some of the big words he uses means.

- he finds your empty minded nature adorable and endearing, rather than annoying and can spend hours just explaining anything you wanted him to.

- there has been countless times where the two of you have just sat and talked all night; well, mostly you asking azriel loads of questions and the very intelligent spymaster answering them.

- he also loves to help you get ready.

- he’s freakishly good at braiding, and the night before you plan on wearing your hair curled, he’ll braid it for you happily. he knows all kinds of complicated styles too, and sometimes surprises you with them.

- watching you apply your lipstick is one of his favorite past times and he loves when it accidentally smears on the corner. it reminds him of how good he’ll fuck you into the mattress later.

- and loves when you deepthroat him and you leave a little lipstick stain on his pubic bone. he goes feral asf.

- but the dirty stuff is for later..

- he also loves helping you decide what to wear before you go out. he happens to be super helpful when it comes to fashion.

- the color pink now permanently reminds him of his precious baby.

- he buys you jewelry everytime he goes out without you, and it’s honestly so sweet.

- azriel’s the type to slide on and buckle your heels for you, and he’d do it so sensually without meaning to. he just loves the feel of your skin so much so that he can’t help but savor the warmth of them by lingering his fingers along your skin.

“such soft skin, baby. all f’me right?”

- he’s possessive asf, and will flip if another male zips your dress for you or carries your heels for you or even touches your hair. those are his duties only.

- he’s also very loyal. i mean, very. and he makes it abundantly clear to you and everyone else around him that he’s only yours. he keeps contact with females, other than the ones in his family, to a minimum because he simply isn’t interested. you’re the only feminine energy he wants to be around.

- and he is very quick to assure you that you’re the only female he will ever love and yern for, if and when you feel insecure or undeserving of him, by a) fucking you so good to remind you how feral you drive him and/or b) spending the rest of that day with you, cuddling, making love, shopping, dancing, baking; whatever you wish.

- azriel just worships the hell out of you and wants you to be hyper aware of that.

- when you’re clumbsy, azriel is literally the perfect male for the job of catching you when you trip or cleaning up the shattered glass you broke by accident or helping you fix your failed eyeliner while you were rambling to him about gossip.

- he loves shadowing you so much because he can watch you cutely stumble over your feel all day and knock things over, it makes him fall so much more in love with you the more you make mistakes.

- his wings are so helpful too, because he can sympathize with you about clumsiness (he used to have no idea how yo handle his heavy wings when he was little) and also, they shield you from the dangers that you accidentally put yourself in when you knock something important over or almost run into something.

- one time, you left the oven burner on once after you made azriel’s birthday breakfast and you nearly burnt the whole house of wind down if it wasn’t for his shadows alerting him that the dish towel you also left dangerously close next to it, caught on fire. the male had never sprinted down a set of stairs so quick that early in the damn morning—

- he totally had this whole scolding speech prepared for you, but the moment he resurfaced into your shared room and you gave him a sweet smile with a little ‘oops, ‘m sorry, azie.’, he had already forgotten about it and forgave you for your forgetfulness.

- if you ever ask him a question about something you have no clue about, no matter how complicated, he will explain it very thoroughly to you to ensure that you understand. even if it’s the dumbest question ever like; ‘who invented socks?’ or ‘do you think cassian or mor would win a dance off?’ or even ‘if i were a wyrm, would you still love me?’

- he just lives for your pure curiosity, he thinks it’s the most adorable thing ever.

- he tells his shadows to busy you by putting flowers in your hair while he works. not because he doesn’t enjoy your company, but because be feels bad when you get bored of sitting for too long. so he sends you and his shadows outside in your garden to go entertain you. ofc he keeps a close eye on you from the window of his office.

- he has absolutely no issue with flying you everywhere, and he does. he even uses his shadows to keep your hair untouched from the wind so it’s perfect when you arrive wherever.

- he sings you to sleep !!! and memorized your favorite childhood lullabies while you were in the frenzy so you get some much needed sleep. such a sweetie.

- speaking of frenzy…

- remember when i said ‘i’ll save the dirty stuff for later’?

- well it’s later.

!! 18+ minors dni !!

- okay, he loves you to death, he really does and would do nothing to cause you unconsensual harm.

- however, he does have a knack for seeing his pretty princess become a damsel in destress, y’know?

- i’m talking stuff like him tying you up, gagging you with your pretty panties he bought you, just watching you cry and give him those pleading eyes as you writhe around just gets him off so well.

- seeing your teary eyes gaze up at him, your iris filled with the hope to be fucked soon by your smirking mate, never fails to result in azriel shoving his cock in your watering mouth soon after you’ve started.

- oh my gods and when you whimper out ‘please, sir.’ through your gag? any sliver of teasing leaves his soul, and he gives in— but not without a few degrading words for you being such a ‘pleading slut’.

- i should also add that beforehand, while he tying you up and shoving something in your mouth, he always makes sure to be gentle and that you’re okay and comfortable! which is why he saves the gag for last so you can voice any concerns about the ropes or anything else that is bothering you.

- once, half way through tying the knot around your ankles, you admitted that you’ve changed your mind and just wanted to make love. you suspected that he would be disappointed so you pushed it off, assuming that you could push through for him, but once the final bonding was almost complete, reality set in and you knew it was best just to tell him rather then him discovering your disinterest later. and of course, azriel was happy to untie you and move you to the bed where he made sweet sweet love to you.

- moral of that story is that communication with azriel is key or else he will be very disappointed in you. he expects you to trust him wholeheartedly, without the doubt that he won’t understand or comply to your needs. he just wants whats in your best interest!

- definitely has a thing for you in girly lingerie.

- things with ruffles, little satin bows, floral patterns, frilly lace, ribbons, ect. especially in your favorite shade of pink! he just loves his dainty little girl.

- although, you do enjoy occasionally buying his favorite sets in cobalt blue for special occasions (like his birthday or a really tough week) because he literally goes so ballistic on your pussy when he sees you in it.

- man definitely is a munch and loves to make you sit on his face.

- loves to make you even dumber from being fucked out.

- okay back to the wholesome shit

- azriel love love loves to bathe you

- like he has a daily routine for you because he enjoys washing you up so much: a morning and nightly bath which he never misses. he even has curtain care routines for each time.

- in the mornings, he uses a pretty lilac scented soap followed by your appropriate skin and hair care routine.

- at night, he switches to a lavender scented soap with sleep enhancements to assure you a calm slumber, then follows that with your nightly skin and hair care.

- you’re honestly so pampered.

- he also lotions you up after your baths too which the matching scented oils. his hands feels so gentle and nice against your skin, you always feel so beautiful after.

- random thought, but he’d dress you entirely after too, from your bra down to your socks.

- he wouldn’t mind you being too dumb and pretty to do things yourself, he actually prefers it.

- the princess treatment was designed by azriel, like that’s just the truth. he’d spend every penny on you without a regret, and takes such good care of you emotionally and physically.

- i’ll actually elaborate a little more on the princess treatment part rn.

- he will 100% rub your feet after a long day of wearing heels. i canon that he knows very well how to work his fingers, both sexually and non-sexually, so he’s amazing at relieving the aches in your feet.

- as i stated earlier, he flies you around all the time. his big illyrian wings are a true gift to you, and you’re always running your fingers along the membrane absentmindedly. you just love his wings so so much and he doesn’t mind at all. he loves holding you close as you fly above the mountain tops and squeal. most nights when you can’t sleep or whenever you’re bored, he takes you to his favorite scenic places while listening to you ramble about new gossip or just rest on his shoulder silently.

- azriel is honestly the best mate, and loves you endlessly no matter what.

- i wish i have more to say but my writers block is terrible :( i hope this was worth the wait my loves.



#azriel 🌷 #azriel shadowsinger #azriel fluff #azriel smut #azriel x reader #azriel shadowsinger fluff #azriel headcanons #acotar #acotar fluff #acotar smut #acotar x reader

[hopepetal]

Masterlist

Read on AO3!

Part Four!

Reblogs and comments are much appreciated! :)

@applestruda

Impulse fell back into control of his own body in the same way one snapped out of a particularly long ADHD-induced dissociative state. Panicked, unthinking, and wondering how much time has it been? 

The book was still burning as Impulse instinctively reached out to snatch it from the flames, only fully processing a moment later that maybe he shouldn’t have grabbed something that was still actively on fire. With a cry of pain and shock, Impulse dropped the book onto the ground as the rain began to beat down more heavily. Stumbling back, he tripped over his own feet and fell, landing with a soft noise of pain as he held his injured hand close to his chest. 

For a moment, he sat there, the small fire put out by the heavy rain far too late. A fear the likes of which he had never felt before sat in his chest, causing his heart to race. 

What just happened to me? Is it going to happen again? My hand hurts I need to get it bandaged I need to TELL someone I can’t tell anyone what if it happens again what if I lose control and hurt someone what if– 

“Impulse?”

Once again, he was yanked from his spiraling thoughts by someone calling his name. Turning around perhaps just a bit too quickly, Impulse looked up to see Scar, sopping wet from the rain, standing behind him. “Scar,” he breathed out, equal parts relieved and terrified. “Scar, are you– are you okay?”

Scar frowned, his eyes immediately landing on Impulse’s burnt hand. “I… think I should be asking you that, Impulse. C’mere, we’re gonna get that all fixed up.” He carefully helped Impulse to his feet. “I’m not gonna ask what happened,” he began as they walked back to the main camp through the rain, “so don’t worry about that. But…” He sighed. “Just… Impulse, I– we– don’t want you to be suffering alone. We’re knights. We’re friends. We’re in this together.” 

Impulse nodded, trying to swallow that stubborn lump in his throat. “Yeah. Thanks, Scar.”

Mumbo, wearing a raincoat and holding an umbrella like any normal person would, waved to the two when they approached the tents. “Did you get caught in the rain?” he shouted, if only to be heard over the downpour. 

“No,” Scar called back, “we’re just naturally this wet!” 

“Oh, okay! Um, Grian and Pearl aren’t around, because, well, you know. Their wings,” Mumbo tried to explain, “their wings don’t– why am I explaining this to you, you both know this, goodness gracious…”

“Thanks Mumbo,” Scar said anyway, “are you gonna get inside? I don’t think this storm is gonna let up any time soon.” 

Mumbo shook his head. “This is actually the perfect time for me to study the possibility of harnessing lightning for power! Theoretically, it could work, but theoretically it could also blow me up. And to be honest, I can’t wait to see which one it is.”

“Have fun!” Scar called after him, before leading Impulse to the swaggon. Instead of tents like the other knights, he usually just stayed in the same place he did before joining the knights. “I have bandages and burn stuff here, because goodness knows I burn myself plenty when cooking. Just sit down right there…” He quickly rifled through one of his chests, before pulling out clean bandages and burn ointment. “Aaand I should have some water– how are you feeling, by the way?– here it is!”

As Scar helped Impulse cool the burn and clean his hand, Impulse was at a loss for words. Scar seemed to take note of that after a few minutes of him being unresponsive to the attempts at keeping the mood light hearted, and continued to silently bandage the treated burns. 

“I’m sorry,” Impulse began, trying to keep his voice from shaking. “I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

Scar chuckled softly, understanding shining through in his eyes. “I think I’d know that feeling better than anyone, Impulse. You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. I know I’ve done more than my fair share of… poorly thought out things… in the past.” 

Impulse had to bite back a laugh. “Yeah, I can think of a couple more memorable ones,” he admitted, “but I just… I dunno, Scar. I…” He sighed. “What would you think if I wasn’t human?”

Scar didn’t even pause. “I mean, Impulse, we’ve been over this a million times before. If you weren’t human, none of the knights would be.” He began to put away the bandages, ointment, and leftover water. 

Impulse frowned, shaking his head. “That’s not…” He flexed his right hand, testing to see how much he could move still, before placing it back in his lap. “What do you think of me now?” he pressed, looking back up at Scar.  

Scar smiled, turning back to Impulse. “Oh, that’s easy. You’re strong, kind, passionate, smart, a really good teacher, an amazing fighter, you’re funny, you’re creative, and just… you’re a great friend.”

“But what if I wasn’t…” Impulse tried to figure out how to word the question, bouncing his leg slightly. “What if I wasn’t just me?” 

Scar thought for a moment, before shrugging. “Well, I don’t think there’s any problem with bein’ that! And, Impulse…” He sat down so that he could be at Impulse’s eye level, folding his hands in his lap and leaning forward. “You’re making it sound like there’s something wrong with being human.” He smiled kindly, but there was something that stopped it from reaching his eyes. “That’s what this is about, yeah? I’ve been… I’ve been thinking about it for a bit. With everything going on…”

Impulse shook his head, interrupting Scar. “No, no, no, there’s nothing wrong with being human! I just… what if the me I am isn’t good enough?”

For a moment, there was silence.

“Oh, Impulse.” Scar’s voice broke slightly on his name. “You are more than enough. You have always been. I’m so happy you’re one of my friends, a part of my life, you…” He took a deep breath, in and out. “If you could see the things you’ve done from an outside perspective, you’d see it– just how much you’ve changed and impacted lives. I…” he trailed off, caught for a moment in a fleeting memory. “I can say for a fact I’ve changed for the better since I met you. So please don’t ever say or think that you aren’t good enough. Because you are. Because you always have been.”

Impulse tried to blink away the tears that suddenly were welling up in his eyes, but it was too late. His vision blurred, and the next blink sent salty drops falling from his eyes to make dark spots on his fresh bandages. It was as if the dam burst with that, and tears began to fall in a steady stream as Impulse’s shoulders shook. 

All this pain, all this fear, all the self doubt and anxiety… and he wasn’t alone. He had never been, really. If it hadn’t been for him shutting the other knights out, he wouldn’t have ever ended up with a demon in his mind taking control whenever it wished. But now…

“Thank you, Scar,” Impulse got out, furiously wiping his eyes. “I… I think I needed to hear that.”

Scar nodded. “Of course. I… I can’t say I know exactly how you feel, and I wish I knew more to help you. But just… talk to us, okay? Or, gosh, I don’t know– talk to someone, at least! We won’t be able to help you if we don’t know you’re hurting.”

“Okay. Okay. Thank you. Thank you so much.” Impulse wiped away what he hoped to be the last of his tears, taking a few deep breaths to calm down. “I– I will. I promise I’ll talk to you guys more. And I’m really sorry about all of this.”

Scar waved his hand. “Ah, don’t be. We all have our moments.” He smiled tentatively. “Do you want to stay here with me and wait out the storm? We can make bets on if Mumbo’s new experiment blows up or not.”

Impulse grinned– a real, happy grin. “Sounds great.”

–

Somehow, things got better.

The first day Impulse woke up feeling well-rested, he could hardly believe it. But it continued to happen, again and again, until finally he was waking up at a much more normal time. 

“For you, maybe,” Grian had said, but the clear relief in his expression over Impulse’s “recovery” had taken away any snark intended. 

Slowly, Impulse began to heal. Not only from the burns, but from the exhaustion and lack of appetite as well. The animals seemed to forget all about their previous distrust of Impulse, though Jellie still was a little wary. He didn’t really mind, of course. The joy he felt from being able to settle back into his life again was enough.

The other knights were thrilled, too. It was like a fog had been lifted from the camp, and everything just felt… lighter.

“Alright.” Pearl interrupted the lively chatter during lunchtime about two weeks later, “we’re unfortunately getting a little low on vegetables and some other supplies. It’s been a while since Impulse and I brought back everything, and I don’t want it goin’ bad, ya hear?”

“Soup day?” Mumbo piped up, eyes wide. They’d all heard this speech a million times, and it was always something the knights looked forward to. 

Pearl nodded, smiling. “Soup day.”

“I don’t know why we call it soup day,” Grian mumbled, “it really ends up more like stew, if you ask me.”

Pearl rolled her eyes. “Because, goofball, it’s tradition! And also, soup sounds nicer than stew.”

And so, Impulse found himself paired up with Scar, who kept watch over the pot and stirred while he chopped vegetables. 

“Whew!” Scar wiped the sweat from his forehead, turning away from the fire. “It's been a while since I've cooked. I forgot how hot everything gets!”

Impulse laughed. “Yes, that tends to happen with fire. Shocking.”

“Oh, you hush!” Scar grabbed a large spoon, waving it sternly in Impulse's direction before turning back to the pot. “You just keep cutting those veggies, mister.”

“Aye aye, captain.” Impulse turned back to the cutting board, reaching for the knife that lay beside it. 

Do it.

Impulse froze. His hand stopped where it was, hovering just over the knife. Taking in a deep breath, he closed his eyes for a moment. He had to calm down. He was– he was just hearing things. Nothing was wrong. He was fine. The demon was gone. It had to be. It hadn’t spoken in weeks. Why would it show up again now?

Impulse picked up the knife, placing a washed and peeled carrot on the cutting board. He began to cut the carrot into thin slices with deft hands. In the background, he could hear Scar humming to himself as the fire crackled. 

It's just you and him. Alone. The words were like a fog settling over his mind, like icy hands gripping at his heart. An easy target.

Impulse's chopping stilled as he tensed up, before starting to cut again. His movements were sharper, harder, and one of the carrot slices flew off of the table. “Gosh–” He set the knife down, bending to pick the carrot slice up and throw it away. 

“You good, man?” Scar called from where he stood beside the fire, not turning to look away from the pot. “Havin' some troubles?”

He has his back to you.

“Nah,” Impulse joked, though his tone was a bit forced. “Just underestimated my own strength.” He straightened back up, gripping the edge of the table with his hands. 

No. No, no, no no no no. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t be happening. Not again. Not now. Not after he’d finally started to be happy again. 

The voice cooed softly in his head, a persuasive siren song. It would take nothing at all to kill him. Impulse found his hand drifting toward the knife, unable to stop. To stab him in the back... He picked it up. Somehow, this was different from the possession. Yes... feel the thirst... spill his blood–!

The demon wasn’t making him do anything. This time, it made him want to.

“No!” Impulse breathed out, stumbling back. He threw the knife down on the table. “Sorry, Scar. I gotta go. I'll tell Grian to come out and help you.” 

Impulse fled, not sticking around to hear Scar's confused “Wait–!”

–

“...just worried, is all. I know you see it too. It’s like whatever happened–”

Whatever conversation Grian and Pearl were having before Impulse interrupted had probably been important by the sound of it, but Impulse didn’t really have the time to feel guilty about that. Panicked, he looked back and forth between them both, still panting slightly. “Grian?” he got out, trying to force his voice to stay calm, “Grian, I need you to go help Scar. I– I can’t…” He trailed off as he realized just how stupid this all sounded. 

Pearl took a step toward him, her face unreadable. “Are you feeling alright, Impulse?” she asked, and after a moment, Impulse swallowed and nodded. “Are you sure, mate? You’re looking awfully pale.”

Grian said nothing, but Impulse noticed how his wings had slightly spread out, colourful feathers slightly puffing up. Grian had never been surprised by anyone before– he somehow always knew when someone was coming. So unless he had been angry at Pearl for some reason (which, thinking about it, wasn’t all that unbelievable), it had to have been Impulse who had set him off. 

…right?

Impulse just tried to smile and nod. “Um. Yeah. Sorry.” His eyes kept drifting back to Grian, which Pearl noticed.

She turned to Grian and smacked him on the shoulder. “Hey. Birdbrain. That’s Impulse, mhm? Our friend? Pull yourself together, goodness gracious.”

Grian blinked, shaking his head slightly. “Oh– was I staring? Uh, yeah, sorry about that.” His wings slowly folded back behind him, and he lost the alert posture. “Sorry. What was happening?”

“Nothing,” Impulse got out. “I’m good. I promise.”

Pathetic. He was pathetic. It wasn’t even that long ago when he’d had that conversation with Scar about reaching out, and being more open with the other knights. Guess this was just another thing he managed to screw up instantly. 

Impulse began to back away from the two. “The uh. The soup! Yeah, the soup’s almost done. I’ll see you guys at dinner…?”

Pearl smiled, if only to put him at ease. “Of course. See you at dinner, Impulse.”

Impulse began to walk away, and it was only when Grian and Pearl started talking again in hushed tones was he reminded that the contract with the demon gave him enhanced hearing. Nevertheless, he didn’t want to invade on their privacy–

“I told you. You could see it in his eyes.” 

“Grian, not now.” 

…especially when this was clearly about him.

Impulse ran the rest of the way back to Scar, and was all-too relieved to see that Mumbo was there as well. “Hey. Sorry about that. I don’t know what came over me.” 

“Oh, it’s alright!” Scar called over to him, “we’re just about finished up, so don’t you worry!”

“I got to chop the vegetables,” Mumbo added, “but really, I’ve been thinking– it would be quite simple to just get an automatic…” He started to ramble about his idea of an automatic vegetable cutter, but Impulse found he couldn’t quite follow along as well as he’d hope to.

The demon was back. Or maybe it had never left. And not only could it speak to Impulse and possess him but it could influence him as well. 

Impulse was strong. He had trained all his life to hone his strength and skills. He couldn’t fly, couldn’t breathe underwater, couldn’t withstand a fiery blaze, and most certainly couldn’t teleport. But he was strong. In terms of pure physical strength, none of the other knights stood a chance.

And that terrified him. 

Dinner went by in a blur, and it felt as though barely a moment had passed by when Impulse laid down to sleep. He had been stuck in a sort of zoned out state ever since the demon had reappeared, and only now did his head feel more clear.

Today had been a warning. What happened with Scar– Impulse could’ve killed him. The fact that he hadn’t was frankly a miracle. But it would happen again. The demon would speak to him and he would pick up the knife and he wouldn’t be able to stop himself in time. 

Tomorrow.

Impulse would leave camp tomorrow, and he would run until he was far, far away from anyone he could hurt.

But for now, he needed to sleep.

#my writing #boatem knights au #impulsesv #pearlescentmoon #grian #goodtimeswithscar #mumbo jumbo #hermitcraft fanfic #obv i'm not updating the ao3 rn #bc of the attack

[anarchy-and-piglins]

Techno's mother did not cry out for him when they dragged him out of the house.

Her eyes were distant, closed off. She knew what was about to happen just as well as he did. Before he was born, she had already resigned herself to the grief of losing a child to the woods.

It was simply his purpose.

The leader of the village passed a thumb over his forehead and left behind a trail of blood, telling Techno that he should be grateful.

"It is an honor to be chosen for this," the leader said. His voice did not waver. He had sent off so many before him. Techno looked him in the eyes, unable to feel scared.

When he was little, he once asked his mother why they didn't just... leave? She had spoken vaguely about the fertility of these lands, the bountiful harvests that meant they would never know hunger. The clean waters in the river thriving with fish, the blossoms on the trees bursting with fruit. She had told Techno all of it, all the reasons that living there was a blessing.

And yet she failed to justify the price at which that blessing came. The reason he was born.

The woods hungered.

In the middle of the night, those trees called out with ravenous appetite to be fed. The townspeople send their sacrifice. And when the morning came, they would find nothing but the bones were left.

It was easier to know who would be sent so there was no risk of growing attached. Every decade, a child was brought into this world to bear the burden. Techno had spent his entire life locked up in his room. His mother fed him and had pity enough to entertain him with stories through the solid oak door. She said she did not want him to die knowing /nothing/ of this world.

But she wanted (no, needed) him to die all the same.

"Do not take it off." They fastened the blindfold around his eyes. "Do not look at them, or they will make your death slow and painful. You'll want this to be swift."

Techno nodded, feeling the leader's hand squeeze his own one last time.

The grass was cold beneath his bare feet, slightly wet with dew - a prelude to a sunrise Techno wouldn't get to witness. He walked, the wind pulling at his hair, stumbling without sight. Deeper, deeper.

As if his heart could hear them calling for him, for their chosen one.

And when he collapsed onto his knees, it was not exhaustion that pulled him down but their powers that made his shoulders heavy.

"He's not scared." One of them spoke, petulant. They sounded younger and boyish. Techno couldn't describe it.

"He's not. Admirable."

"Or fucking stupid. Does he not know he was sent here to die?"

"I do," Techno said. He could hear the very earth go quiet. He was told not to speak to these beings either. But he refused to go quietly. If he could not change the inevitability of his death, he could change the way in which he died. It was the only thing Techno could ever control.

So he had made a vow to himself that he would not be afraid. He would go with his head held high.

He flinched when a hand cupped his cheek, tilting his face up. He wasn't supposed to be able to see, because of the blindfold. But the woods cared not for human reality. Techno felt like he could picture perfectly the man observing him, long blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Dark wings of midnight feathers stretching from his back. The slight stubble around his chin and the dimples in his cheeks when he smiled in amusement at Techno's stubbornness.

The two behind him, not human either but projecting themselves for the moment painfully mundane. But all wrong, just in a way that it made Techno dizzy if he tried to focus too hard on it.

"He's different," the man said.

"Didn't you teach us not to play with our food," the one who hadn't spoken yet sighed.

But the man just held on, grip a bit tighter. Techno was blind again, the vision melted away, but he felt like their images had been burned into his mind. A razor-sharp smile broke the man's face. "I don't think he's food."

"They gave him to us, though?"

"True." The man hummed, pleased. "They gave him to us. But perhaps those silly humans mistook his purpose."

The woods hungered. But Techno was much more concerned about what would happen if they sunk their roots into his flesh forever.

#dark sbi #technoblade #shara writes

[creative-crybaby]

Ticking Dine Bomb

PAIRING: timeskip!Miya Atsumu x fem!reader x timeskip!Sakusa Kiyoomi

GENRE: smut (18+)

Minors DNI

TAGS + WARNINGS: threesome, fingering, nipple play, double penetration, oral (m receiving), creampie, light manhandling, cum eating, dacryphilia if you squint

Let me know if I missed anything.

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

SUMMARY: With your boss making you work overtime (because of course she does), you now have less time to prepare for your dinner date. Getting ready shouldn't be as stressful as it is, and your lovers are kind enough to help you relax.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hello I am alive :)

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

The loud slam of the apartment door startles Sakusa and Atsumu. Before either of them can go to investigate, you’re already speed-walking into the bedroom, unbuttoning your blouse as you try to avoid stumbling. A string of apologies and curses cascade from your lips as you rush past the faux-blonde, who offers you a low whistle as he catches the sight of your bra.

“Hello to you, too,” he muses, watching you fumble through your shared closet. You don’t bother scolding him for his sultry tone; you can worry about that later. That supposed concern now belongs to your lovers from your lack of response. A large hand gently lands on your shoulder, halting your movements. 

“Are you okay?” Sakusa asks as you turn to face him. You remember to breathe. Shoulders dropping, you place your hand on top of his.

“Sorry,” you mumble, brows creasing as you shut your eyes. “My boss asked me to stay behind to help her with something. Said it wouldn’t take long.” You pinch the bridge of your nose with a sigh. “I should’ve known better. Today of all days…”

“Our reservation’s in half-n’-hour,” Atsumu chimes in. “We can even help ya if ya want.”

“I feel like a mess,” you groan, walking over to the vanity. Giving your makeup a once-over, you press your lips in a thin line. “At least I won’t have to redo my makeup. Maybe a little touch-up.”

“Like I said,” the setter drawls, leaning over your hunched frame with a sly grin, “we can help ya.”

Your expression twists into one of annoyance as you stand up straight. It’s only then you notice how well-dressed your lovers are. While they’re both sporting black dress pants, Sakusa’s buttoning up his black vest over a simple white button-down with its sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and Atsumu, a maroon button-up. With the latter catching your dazed stare, his smile shifts to a smirk. The familiar look is enough to snap you out of it.

“You can help by finding me something nice to wear,” you huff, lightly pushing at his chest. The faux-blonde gives you a pout before dragging himself to the closet.

The wing spiker approaches you once more. “Is there any way I can help?”

You hum, eyes trailing towards the vanity. “Help me fix my makeup?”

The ravenette nods, gently holding your chin to raise and get a better look at your face. With almost nothing needing fixing, he scans through your lipstick collection before picking his favourite shade of burgundy. You exhale through your nose, too tired to offer a full laugh at his choice.

“Make sure to pick a dress that’ll match her makeup,” Sakusa orders without removing his focus from you. 

“Shouldn’t it be the other way ‘round when gettin’ ready?” Atsumu grumbles as he whips his head around to face the other athlete, his accent growing thicker from frustration. When he gets no response, the setter sulkily returns on his journey to find you something to wear. 

You, meanwhile, keep your eyes on Sakusa with heavy lids as he concentrates on your lips. He drags the lipstick across your pout with absolute delicacy and precision, not leaving a single spot unpainted with the bold colour. His focus only intensifies as he traces your cupid’s bow, though it doesn’t diminish once he’s done. How can he stop staring when you’re this breathtaking? 

The next part, while it may involve a bit of a mess, is always his favourite. As if by muscle memory, your lips part enough for him to slide in his thumb. With eyes darker than the bottom of the ocean, it’s almost impossible to notice them dim as you suckle on the digit before he slowly pulls it out. He barely acknowledges the ring of dark red around his thumb, his gaze now meeting yours as he feels his cock stir in his slacks. 

As much as he’d love to have your lips wrapped around something else, his fantasies are cut short once the other volleyball player approaches you two with a dress hooked over his arm. 

“Why do ya always get to do the fun part?” Atsumu whines, having noticed the previous tension. His childishness earns him an unamused expression from the wing spiker and a tired blink from you. 

“I do a better job with the application,” Sakusa states, causing the faux-blonde to pout. The latter quickly regains composure, however, as he remembers his task. He holds up a long, dark chocolate dress with thin straps that cross down the open back, and you reward him with an approving nod. The ravenette merely hums. “Looks like you do have some common fashion sense.”

The older Miya twin grumbles a “yeah, yeah” before setting the dress down on the vanity chair. His attention back on you, a grin spreads across his face as he wraps his arms around you from behind. With a light tug to your unbuttoned blouse–you forgot you were still wearing it–he peppers kisses across your exposed neck. 

“Let’s get the rest of this off, shall we?” he drawls, sliding the top off your shoulders. From his position, Atsumu has the perfect angle to stare down at your chest, the bra he bought for you for Valentine’s day layered with a tan lace on a beige-white base. 

Sakusa, while he would normally scold the other athlete, is in no position to do so as his eyes wander south. With his staring being of no help, he decides to lower himself to the ground, large hands on your hips as he looks up at you for permission. You nod, and he shimmies your skirt down your legs, exposing matching panties under a sheer layer of black tights.

You feel Atsumu’s lips spread into a smile against your skin, but you can’t seem to copy his energy. 

“So tense,” he mumbles. “Ya really ought to quit yer job. It’s killin’ ya.”

“I love my work,” you sigh, tilting your head to the side to expose more of your neck to him. “I just don’t feel the same way about the people I do it with.”

“Still,” Sakusa interjects, hooking his fingers past the waistband of your tights, “it’s difficult to enjoy something you love in a bad environment.”

A chuckle sneaks past your lips as he slips the article of clothing down your legs. You miss the sharp intake of air from the wing spiker as he continues his actions, but with the growing smirk pressed against the junction of your neck, it’s clear that Atsumu heard him. 

“You’re one to talk,” you smile in amusement, peering down at the ravenette. “Knowing you two, you’d still find a way to play volleyball even if the world was ending. Especially you, ‘Tsumu. Don’t think ‘Samu hasn’t told me about your high school shenanigans.”

While Sakusa holds back a snort, Atsumu doesn’t bother hiding his frown as he presses his cheek against yours.

“That’s different,” groans the faux-blonde. “We have a good captain; yer boss keeps leechin’ onto ya. It’s stressin’ ya out, even when yer at home with us.” The calloused hands holding your waist now take their time gliding up your body to tug teasingly at your bra straps. “Ya gotta relax, angel. Let us help ya.”

Soft lips find the sensitive spot behind your ear, though you don’t give them any time to have their fun. You turn your head to face the setter. 

“I need to get changed,” you huff.

Atsumu shrugs. “Ya don’t need to.”

“I’m not showing up to a fancy restaurant in my underwear.”

“I don’t see an issue—”

“That’s enough, Atsumu,” Sakusa interrupts, glaring at the other athlete. Despite the weight his gaze holds, having his hands lay on your hips strips some of the wing spiker’s intimidation away. 

“What?” Atsumu feigns innocence as he peers down at the other male. “Ya don’t think she looks good in this? I could stare at her all day.”

That makes two of us, is what Sakusa would say if it were the point he was trying to get across. The lace from your panties merges its pattern with his fingerprints, and the urge to remove the useless article of clothing makes his fingers twitch.

“I’m not disagreeing with you,” he responds carefully. “I just don’t think we should be adding to her stress.”

“That’s what I’m sayin’!” The setter exclaims. “We can take some of that stress away.”

“I’m right here, you know,” you huff, removing the faux-blonde’s hands from your body.

“So, what d’ya say?” Atsumu’s voice drops an octave as he rests his chin on your shoulder. Sakusa rises from his spot, his hands not leaving your hips as he places his forehead on yours. 

“You don’t have to,” he assures. “We want to help, that’s all.”

Even in a more serious moment, the older Miya twin snickers. “We?”

Before the ravenette can respond, you hold his face, cradling it in your hands.

“Okay,” you almost whisper, studying his face. “As long as we don’t miss our reservation.”

“Are you sure?” A drop of worry glides out with his words, camouflaging with the help of a stoic expression. 

You nod. “I think I’ve earned a break.”

“Yeah, ya do.” Soft butterfly kisses sprinkle onto your skin as another pair of hands find their way back on your body, one sliding up to pull at one of your bra straps.

“That means no teasing.” Your voice and expression are stern as you turn to face Atsumu. His giddiness doesn’t falter; if anything, he hooks his arms behind your knees and back and lifts you from your spot. You yelp, and the setter approaches the bed before Sakusa can say anything. 

“Let’s get to it,” the faux-blonde proclaims, placing you on the mattress before hastily unbuttoning his shirt and settling next to you. His lips attach to your neck, suckling your skin wherever they please as the ravenette joins you two on the bed. 

“No marks, ‘Tsumu,” you sigh shakily, eyes fluttering as he continues his actions and unclasping your bra. The wing spiker helps remove the undergarment, though his hands soon trail down to rest on your thighs. “I’m serious. I won’t have time to cover it with makeup.”

He doesn’t put up a fight, pulling away from your neck and instead helping you change your position for you to lean against the headboard. 

“Then how ‘bout I mark these instead?” The older male smirks down at your chest, leaning to wrap his lips around your nipple. Your fingers rake through his locks as he does so, though you don’t get a chance to look down as Sakusa gently grabs your chin to make you face him.

“Look at me while I touch you.” His voice may be naturally more on the quiet side, but it doesn’t make his order any less stern. The hand on your thigh trails up to the waistband of your underwear, sliding past it and coming in contact with your slick-stained cunt. Onyx eyes droop as their owner continues to gather your essence before two of his fingers find your clit. A strangled moan threatens to burst past your painted lips as he rubs tight circles, but you don’t dare look away from him. 

A familiar excitement blooms in your belly as Atsumu tweaks at your neglected bud, humming against your chest as the setter has his fun with you. Your grip on his bleached hair tightens and burns his scalp deliciously, and the ravenette takes the opportunity to slide a finger in your sopping hole. You refrain from bucking your hips as he finds your sweet spot, massaging it with a curl of his long digit. It’s not long until he adds another finger, your wetness used as a lubricant. 

For a moment, your previous concerns seem to abandon your body. The dark pools your lover has for irises keep you in a trance, refraining you from closing your eyes or even thinking about anything other than what the athletes have to offer you. 

“Poor thing,” Sakusa tuts. You suppose that’s his way of cooing, though this is as kind as he’ll get with either of you in bed. “Never catching a break with that boss of yours, hm?”

All you can do is whimper, and you feel Atsumu smile against your chest.

“Don’t worry,” his voice drops an octave, “we’ll take real good care of ya.” 

“Then quit wasting time,” you huff from neediness and frustration. The wing spiker narrows his eyes at you, but doesn’t say anything as his gaze trails to his teammate, who begrudgingly pops your nipple out of his mouth from the silent message. With their help, you’re on your hands and knees, the boisterous Miya twin behind you and the silent ravenette kneeling before you, his bulge mere inches away from your face.

“If we weren’t on a time limit,” Sakusa says as he unzips his slacks, “I would’ve done something about that attitude of yours.” His pants are barely around his thighs when he holds his leaking cock before you. Unlike the faux-blonde, he’s chosen to keep everything else on, and while you’d love to see everything under the fabric, you can’t deny that him keeping his attire on is even more attractive. “There’s always next time, I suppose.” 

Calloused hands tug at your panties before bringing them down as far as possible in one motion. The cool air hitting your soaked pussy has it clenching, an action you know has Atsumu grinning lopsidedly without even needing to look at him. But with your other lover peering down at you with lust bleeding into his eyes, you can’t find yourself caring. Even if you did, the leaking cock tapping against your lips would advise you to keep your focus up front. You know better than to go against that rule.

“But my lipstick…” You feel stupid for uttering them, but the words fly out before your brain can stop them from existing. 

Sakusa raises a brow. “I chose that colour for a reason.”

He slides his tip into your warm mouth, letting out a sigh while doing so. Bit by bit, you take more of him in until you reach the beauty mark near the base. A groan comes from both men; Sakusa for the heavenly sensation and Atsumu, the lewd display. You don’t feel the latter take the next step at his end (pun intended?) until the former slowly removes himself from the caverns of your mouth until only his tip remains. Another cock teases your pussy, collecting your slick to use as lube before nudging at your hole. A tight fit, but the setter takes his time filling you up, even going so far as to lean forward to reach for your clit to give it some well-deserved attention. 

Whatever tears planned on blooming out, you force to vanish. With the ravenette’s intent on smearing your lipstick on his cock, you don’t want to ruin your makeup more than he already will. (The all too familiar glint in his eyes already tells you that much.) At least he won’t go rough on you; your energy’s been sucked out of you thanks to work, and this little session was for you just as much as it was for your lovers. It’s why you give a small mewl of appreciation when Atsumu starts his thrusts nice and slow, rubbing your hip soothingly while muttering words of appreciation under his breath. Sakusa, on the other hand, uses your throat for his pleasure, though his strokes are gentle as his eyes bore down at you hungrily. They did the work, but you were technically in charge.

It doesn’t take long for the faux-blonde to find your sweet spot, causing your eyes to cross momentarily and a muffled moan to gurgle out. Through your hazy vision, you catch the dark red lipstick ring at the base of the wing spiker’s cock, a gradience following up the shaft every time he pulls back. Such a bold and intimidating colour, yet even what you can make out of the sight has you clenching around the other cock inside you. Both lovers let out their respective sounds of pleasure, synchronizing and tickling your eardrums. You feel full, and your eyelids droop from lust and fatigue. You still want more, and you almost forget about your time limit.

Almost, as in, you catch your alarm clock on your nightstand, eyes trailing to the bright red numbers. 

“Eyes on me,” the ravenette commands, causing your gaze to snap back to the front. You feel his stare, and your face grows warmer when you hear Atsumu snicker. 

“Yer supposed to relax, remember?” he quips, his accent growing thicker. 

You let out a silent whine before taking more of Sakusa’s cock as an apology. You refrain from gagging when you feel his tip prod the back of your throat, but it doesn’t stop the tears from sneaking back up to the corners of your eyes. At least your introverted lover was kind enough to wipe them away.

Had you the energy, you’d tell them to pick up the pace. For now, you’re grateful for the distraction. With both athletes stretching you open deliciously, culprits of the heat pooling in your lower stomach, you make yourself relax.

That is until the calloused finger is back rubbing harsh circles on your clit. You almost jolt in shock from the sudden change. Atsumu doesn’t speed up all that much, but he does add more force, hitting deep enough for you to feel him rearranging your guts. Over your muffled squeals, you hear Sakusa scoff, but not speak up about his teammate’s spontaneity. 

“Feel good, angel?” the setter rasps, a drop of sweat cascading down his forehead. “Can’t help m’self. Not when ya keep squeezin’ me like that. Shit—”

With your eyes rolling to the back of your head, you hardly notice yourself moving back to meet his thrusts, jaw going slack and neglecting the cock before you. 

Sakusa loathes messes. Anything unkempt or disorganized creates this itch somewhere he can’t locate but definitely needs to scratch. 

The sight of you, however, with drool trailing down your chin, lipstick smeared, and tears threatening to drop and ruin everything—makes his cock twitch. 

You’re downright filthy. 

His dick finds itself back in your warm mouth, making itself at home as it explores more of the wet cavern. A soft gagging sound from the back of your throat travels up his spine, and the ravenette can’t help the groan that escapes him as he sees the mess you make of his shaft.

Atsumu’s in no better condition. Not only does he get his own view of the action up front, but you’re just as messy from where he’s standing. A thick ring of white hugs the base of his cock as a layer of slick coats it. You don’t seem to want to let go of him, and whatever sound of reason his brain can muster is masked with the light squelching and pap pap pap from his skin slapping yours.

He’s selfish, he knows. This is all for you, of course. Though, there’s no reason for him to not have his fun. With your boss stealing you from him and his teammate, it’s only natural for the faux-blonde to miss you as much as he does. 

You’re exhausted when you’re back home to them. The setter will pout when you can’t afford the attention he desperately craves, though his heart can only choke at your drained state as you trudge to bed. Oh, how he’d love to give your boss a piece of his mind (not that you’d let him, much to his disappointment). For now, he can happily give you the appreciation you’ve been deprived of. He’s just going to do it his own way.

Even when words fail you, your body finds a way to show gratitude. Moans and wails turned gags hit the walls in the room with every thrust from both ends, tears fogging your vision and thoughts as you let your lovers take care of you. You grow dizzy, a spiral not only in your head, but your lower stomach, churning as your release grows near.

A sudden warm bitterness attacks your tastebuds as you try not to choke on the liquid filling your mouth. Sakusa stills his hips with a drawn-out groan, spurts of white painting your tongue and throat as well as the corners of your lips. Even in your far-away state, you swallow some without much struggle, and the ravenette lovingly caresses your cheek.

With your mouth free, so are your cries of pleasure. You know better than to look away from the wing spiker even after he’s finished, and with begging eyes and a tear-stained face, you offer pure desperation as his air of nonchalance returns while he tucks himself back in his slacks. 

You haven’t forgotten about Atsumu. You couldn’t even if you wanted to, not when he’s still pounding into you like an animal, lifting you to press your back against his chest. He pulls you into a messy kiss, swirling his tongue in your mouth as he swallows some of his teammate’s remaining cum. He hastily pulls away with a satisfied hum and smile, eyes drooping as he sees how he further messed up your makeup. 

Surprisingly, he’s not as vocal as he normally is, as the setter can only seem to pant heavily along with his deep strokes. If you could see him properly, you’d find his focus fixed on where you two connect, where your ass and his hips create a loud noise on impact, where you mix your arousal, more than enough for lubrication. 

It’s lewd enough to have him fill you up with his load, and the extra warmth has you following him with your own orgasm. If the setter’s arm wasn’t around you, your body would have toppled down onto the mattress from the tidal wave of your high, legs trembling from such a sensation. 

“Shit!” Atsumu heaves, body stiff against yours. “That’s it, baby.”

The last thing you vaguely see is Sakusa before your frame flops onto the bed, gasping for oxygen. You feel the faux-blonde slide out of you, making you groan as you twitch from the loss. A coherent thought has yet to make its way into your head, though you barely catch the mattress tipping and rising as your lovers move around to prepare to clean up. 

You’re not sure how long it took you to calm down, just that a large, calloused hand rubbed your back while a soft voice uttered praise, a familiar accent pulling at the corners of your lips. A fluffy material touches your skin, and you shiver from sensitivity as it wipes away as much of the cum oozing out of your spent cunt. You hear a whispered apology with every one of your physical reactions, but the other touches from your lovers keep you calm during the process. 

It’s such a shame the bliss is cut short, though, as you seem to recall your time limit. Jolting up, you snap your head to the alarm clock.

“Shit!” you gasp as you read the numbers. You rapidly push yourself off the mattress, quick to grab your dress from its resting spot. “Shitshitshitshitshit—”

Your reflection silences you as you catch yourself in the mirror. The subtle makeup you sported for work would’ve been fine for tonight’s occasion had it not been completely ruined from your tears’ abuse. The burgundy lipstick is mostly on parts of your face where it shouldn’t be, along with your mascara and eyeshadow. Hell, it’s all destroyed: you’ve seen final girls in horror films more presentable than you.

A low whistle catches your attention—Atsumu stands behind you, admiring his reflection. (How you didn’t notice him sooner, you have no idea.) Some of your lipstick is smeared across his mouth from your mini makeout session; he smirks before wiping the mess off with the back of his hand.

“Say what ya’ will about Omi-Omi’s piss-poor attitude,” he chuckles, “he’s got good taste. This colour suits us both, don’tcha think?”

“I heard that,” said lover grumbles as he enters the room. When did he leave? “The bath’s ready for you, dear.”

His gaze softens upon landing on your wrecked form. Your eyes don’t return the love, instead staring at him incredulously. 

“How can you two be so calm?” Your exasperation is evident in your voice as you rapidly try to fix your hair. “We’re late.”

Your lovers share a look before nodding. Hoisting you over his shoulder, Atsumu then strides out of the room, following his teammate as you slap his back, barking at them to put you down and how they promised they’d help you get ready and not be late.

Sakusa hums as you all enter the bathroom. “We said we’d help you relax. I don’t recall ever truly agreeing to finish before we need to leave.”

Your expression falls into one of hopelessness as Atsumu snickers, gently settling you down. Water fills the tub, bubbles decorating the outline as the scent of vanilla reaches your nose. Your body immediately relaxes at the familiarity, though you’re still on edge. 

“But…” Words fail you, and you hate it. “Tonight… the—”

“Don’t worry,” the setter waves off dismissively as he gets some makeup wipes. “I’ll call to cancel.” He offers a grin for good measure, softly removing the mess from your face the best he can. “Tell ‘em an emergency came up. Not like they’re gonna investigate us.”

Sakusa nods in agreement as he removes his clothes. Once he’s fully nude (and you get an eyeful), he carefully steps into the tub before bringing his arms out to you. With no more energy to argue, you take his hands, letting him assist you while the faux-blonde momentarily leaves the room. 

With you nestled in the water between the ravenette’s long legs and leaning against his chest, you’re certain you could fall asleep at any moment. Soft kisses trickle onto your shoulder, tickling the skin there and making you squirm. 

“He’s right, you know,” Sakusa mutters against you. “We’re just trying to take care of you. You shouldn’t force yourself to do something you obviously don’t have the energy for.”

You smile fondly down at the water, then snicker. “You sure this isn’t just an excuse to avoid being near a crowd, Omi? It’s a pretty popular restaurant, after all. Tough to even get a reservation.”

He scoffs, burying his face in the crook of your neck. You refrain from teasing him any further when your other lover reenters the bathroom, his phone held up to his ear. His gaze meets yours, making his lips curl upwards before he ends the call.

“All settled,” he grins, walking closer to you. “See? Not that big of a deal.”

You don’t get to retort, not when your stomach grumbles. You copy the sound with your throat in annoyance, and Atsumu chuckles as your face grows warm.

“We can order food once we’re cleaned up,” the wing spiker suggests. “Whatever you want.”

“I can call ‘Samu,” the faux-blonde adds, ready to open his phone again.

“Leave him alone,” you sigh, gently grabbing onto his wrist. “Can’t keep going to him for food, ‘Tsumu.”

“What? Just helpin’ ma’ twin’s business. ‘Sides, yer his favourite customer.”

You tiredly pout at the smug undertone, though that doesn’t stop your lovers from looking at you in adoration. While Sakusa holds you close, the setter gently pinches your cheek with a smile. 

Even with some of your energy back, it’s nice seeing you give yourself a break. Your shoulders relax, your body far less tense as you seemingly melt in the ravenette’s arms. When was the last time you gave some time to yourself? Even at night, when you should be resting, you find your dreams consumed with a workload that’s yet to come. 

For now, though, you’re safe. You’d have loved to get all dressed up to spend the evening with your lovers, but you suppose you understand why keeping you home was necessary. You’re not as alert, but your surroundings are clear. 

It’s when Atsumu joins you in the tub do your remaining anxieties dissolve into the water. A successful bomb defusion, where the rapid ticking of your heart ceases and leaves a rhythm of delicacy in its wake. 

You breathe.

© creative-crybaby, do not repost or modify

#hq #haikyu #haikyuu #fanfic #fanfiction #haikyu!! #haikyuu x reader #smut #miya atsumu #sakusa kiyoomi #atsumu smut #sakusa smut #atsumu x reader #sakusa x reader #inarizaki #itachiyama

[sylasthegrim]

The Silver Princess - Chapter 14

Pairing: Cregan Stark x original female character (Targaryen OC)

Tags: arranged marriage, romance, romantic and sexual tension

Word count: 3,550 words

MASTERLIST

The Silver Princess

CHAPTER 14 - THE BLOOD OF THE WOLF

As the smoke slowly faded from the air, the shadow of a man appeared. Standing at an impressive height, his bulk accentuated by leather armor, a man holding a thick sword in one hand and a large ax in the other was walking toward her. Sylas the Grim.

The man was injured, Rowena could tell. He had a large gash across his leg and limped quite heavily, but it didn’t seem to dissuade him —rather, it seemed to spur him on. Half of his face was covered by the collar of his coat, and the white and gray furs were matted with blood. His hair was flaming red, and so was his beard, and Rowena was so stupefied by finally putting a face to the name that she could not react. A few feet behind her, Silverwing was still spewing fire at a few men who had tried to sneak up on the beast while both she and her rider were busy removing the spike from her side.

Rowena took a step back, intending to warn her dragon of the man approaching them, but either because of the shock or the smoke, she could not find her voice. Instead, all that came out of her throat was a whimper that turned into a cough as she tried to raise her voice —paralyzed by the sudden reality that she had landed in the middle of a battlefield, she was helpless to warn anyone of the man walking toward her, and had no weapon to defend herself.

Silverwing seemed to sense her distress, but she was swept up in her own as another spear was launched at her, and it snapped Rowena out of her stupefaction. She quickly bent to the ground to retrieve the large spear that she had removed from Silverwing’s side, and even though the weapon was too heavy for her to use, it gave her a sense of protection. She shouted at Silverwing but the beast was still occupied, her attention captured by the numerous men around her, and as she tried to swing the spear above her head, its weight took her down.

Stumbling in the mud and frost, Rowena cried out as the man they called Sylas marched toward her, his grip firm on his weapon and determination etched across his face —he raised his ax as though the weapon weighed nothing and Rowena sprung to her feet, ducking under Silverwing’s folded wing, but the sudden instinct to protect her companion overtook her and she ran.

She took off from the scene, running as fast as she could despite the spear she was dragging behind her, and she knew it would only be a matter of seconds until Sylas would reach her. She tried to scream but the smoke choked her and she sobbed, panic coursing through her veins.

In a last, desperate attempt she turned and tried to grab the spear with both hands to protect herself, but as Sylas came face to face with her, she realized how defenseless and helpless she really was. 

Before she could even form a last thought or a last prayer, a dark shadow appeared behind them, and Sylas was dragged away from her —it was a horse, large and black, and the man atop it made Rowena’s heart soar. It was Cregan, his hair in disarray and his leathers caked with mud and blood, and Rowena breathed a sigh of relief.

On the ground, Sylas struggled to get back up, blood pouring from his leg wound. Ax in hand, Cregan jumped from the saddle, and it was only by a last second reflex that Sylas avoided it. Cregan landed on his feet with a snarl, and as Sylas got up, both men jumped at the other. 

Swords and axes clashed, and as Rowena cried out, Silverwing finally turned to them and roared. A cloud of red set the air ablaze over them and it seemed startle both Cregan and Sylas, and in a flurry of leather and steel, they fell to the ground. Rowena cried out as Cregan found himself on his back, the Wildling straddling his chest with his sword under his neck, but he regained the upper hand as he managed to hammer the handle of his ax into the other man’s wound. It was not enough to push him off, but it did create a second of confusion, and as Silverwing crawled toward them, her folded wings displacing dust and smoke, Rowena knew she had to act quickly.

“Stand down, Silverwing,” she shouted over the deafening sounds of the battlefield, and ran toward the two men, hoping she would be quick enough and that her dragon would keep holding a part of Sylas’ attention. Silverwing roared with a deep rumbling that signaled the mounting fire in her belly. Picking up a stone she found on the ground, Rowena hit the man over the head as hard as she could —blood sprayed from the flaming red hair, and then from a gash on his neck as Cregan dragged the dagger he kept concealed in his leathers across his face and throat.

Cregan pushed the man aside and rose, tugged along by Rowena as she screamed a word he had never heard from her, but did not need to to understand its significance. 

“Dracarys,” Rowena roared and Silverwing engulfed the scene in flames —faces tugged in each other’s shoulders, the Lord and Lady of Winterfell bore the sudden heat in the air as Silverwing reduced Sylas to ashes. Rowena breathed a sigh and Cregan grunted in relief as they realized what had taken place, but there was no time to savor any victory, as the fight was still raging all across the Gift.

“Call back your men,” Rowena shouted to Cregan, barely waiting for his nod of confirmation before she took off, running toward her dragon. She was stopped as her husband caught her by the arm, and soon a cold mouth was pressing against hers clumsily. She pressed back against Cregan, and their kiss was more pain than comfort, the taste of blood on their lips.

Cregan nodded again as he pulled back, and she thought she heard a go from him. This time he didn’t stop her as she ran and climbed atop Silverwing, barely taking the time to buckle herself to the saddle before the great silver beast launched herself into flight.

In the cold of the early northern spring, the northmen retreated and dragon fire burned the valley until silence spread over it, heavy and victorious.

Rowena would have never guessed silence could sound so overwhelming.

She had made Silverwing land atop a hill overseeing the valley, and as she came down she took in the sight of devastation and loss. Bodies littered the frosted grounds, and all over, men were helping others, healing the wounded or putting the dying out of their miseries.

Her throat tight with a pain she had never felt before, her chest clogged with the smell of smoke and dragon fire, Rowena made her way down under the gazes of a few of her men who nodded at her in respect, all keeping a solemn silence. She was glad for it, as she would not have been able to find her voice —comforted by Silverwing’s presence and very nature, she tried to remind herself that all she had done was in the best interest of her men, of her people.

In the middle of the field, among the fallen men from both sides, Cregan was on his knees, his forehead resting against the handle of his battle ax. He was praying, whispering under his breath as silent tears were making their way down his cheeks, leaving clear tracks in the dried mud and blood on his face.

Without a word, Rowena kneeled at his side, her hands joined on her lap. She wasn’t sure which Gods to pray to, and so she sought all of them out, hoping at least one was listening and would be carrying those lost souls. 

In the morning, Rowena would fly back to Winterfell while Cregan led a party of men that were still able to fight, to find the rest of the Wildlings that had escaped the Gift and risked running more raids down south. After it was done, they would be reunited at home, but the two of them would be very different from what they had been when leaving.

When Cregan crossed the gates of Winterfell one evening over a fortnight later, it felt as though it had been years since he had left his home, and yet it had only been close to two months. Nothing had changed in his rooms, only he was not the same man he was when he had left. He felt tired down the bone, his spirit frayed at the edges, more brittle than ever. He had thought the battle would make him stronger but it had eroded something in him he did not know how to name.

“I will help you,” Rowena offered as she closed the door behind them, and she started to tug at the buckles of his armor without waiting for his answer. The leather was stiff under her fingers and she struggled a bit, but Cregan was grateful for her effort. 

The steaming tub standing between the foot of the bed and the fire was calling to him, and he longed to sink in the hot water and scrub the blood and grime from his skin and hair —the quicker his clothes and leather were off his body, the better. He kicked his boots off and relished in the feel of the soles of his feet on the cold stones of his bedroom. It was a simple but pleasurable feeling after weeks of riding and walking across the encampments, and of course, the ensuing fights. He had not had more than a rough and quick wipe with cold water since he had left Winterfell.

“Wait,” Rowena called, and he turned to her. “I need to wipe some of the mud and blood before you get into the bath,” she told him, and he nodded as he was too exhausted to even think of protesting.

He let her drag a damp cloth from his shoulders to the hollow of his throat, then down to his chest and stomach. He had a few wounds that had already started to heal during their way down to Winterfell —the stitches in themselves did not sting anymore, but there was a deep ache beneath his skin, into his muscles and perhaps even in his bones. He inhaled deeply when Rowena got to her knees to wipe his legs, but he said nothing, only widened his stance and did his best to remain steady.

There was an almost solemn silence around them, and the soft way she was looking at him made him feel cherished and worshiped. He knew he should have been the one to worship at her feet and he hoped she would forgive him for his exhaustion —despite how tired he was, there was tension under his skin, in the pit of his stomach. A need for comfort, for some kind of familiarity and relief.

As she was done, Rowen guided him to the tub with a hand between his shoulder blades and Cregan groaned as he sank into the hot water. From the corner of his eye, he saw Rowena throw aside the dirty cloths, caked in mud and blood so old it had turned black. He held his breath in and let himself sink fully under the clear water, rubbing his face with both palms and running his fingers through his hair to shake the strands loose. When he emerged, Rowena was waiting for him with soap and oils. She had removed her robe and was now only in a nightgown, her sleeves pushed up her elbows. 

Without a word between them, Cregan rested his neck on the edge of the tub and his wife ran her nimble fingers through his hair, massaging his scalp and cleaning the weeks of grime and oil from his roots. Soon the braids were gone and so was the matted mess that had kept them intact, almost dried in place. Cregan groaned in pleasure but still spoke no words as Rowena slid her hands down his neck to work the tension in his shoulders, and soon he was shivering under her hands as she pushed herself closer to the tub. The feeling of her thumbs pressing into the sore muscles of his upper back was heavenly, and the tension in his stomach only increased at that, and he realized that despite his exhaustion, he was getting hard under her care. 

Rowena sighed as she slid her face in his neck, not kissing him but breathing him in, enjoying the closeness and the feeling of their skin pressed together. For a long minute they stayed this way as he washed the front of his body, and she hummed when she looked down and watched as he cleaned between his legs.

“Cregan,” she murmured into his ear, and the sound of his name felt both arousing and comforting. It was said in such a loving way that it made him want to weep, but as soon as she slid her hands down his chest, chasing the curves of his muscles, he forgot about the prickling behind his eyes and surrendered to the instincts ruling his body.

Sliding her hands back up, Rowena rinsed his hair, using the flat of her hands to wipe the suds from his shoulders before rising. Cregan pushed himself up and took the soft cloth she handed him gratefully —he wiped his face dry, and almost dropped the cloth when he opened his eyes again. Rowena had dropped her nightgown on the floor and was stepping out of it, and before he could say a word or compliment her, she had pressed herself close and wrapped a hand around his cock.

“Fuck,” he grunted and she laughed —clearly a few weeks in his men’s company had not improved his manners and language. He smiled at her amused reaction but could not join her in laughter as she started an almost punishing rhythm, her grip firm and her movements practiced.

Cregan dropped his head into her neck, widening his stance again and curling a hand around one of her breasts. His head was blissfully empty, now from exhaustion and pleasure both. Selfishly, he surrendered to her hand as she kissed his chest, nibbling at his skin in the most pleasant manner, and all he gave her in return was rough swipes over her nipples. She seemed to enjoy it, as she pushed her chest further up into his hand, sighing.

He grunted and cursed under his breath as she circled the head of his cock with her thumb, spreading the wetness that was beading from it. His pleasure was sharp, almost painful, but he couldn’t resist the mad chase toward release, even though she had only started. Tonight was not for slow enjoyment, he knew, but rather for a fast release that would purge some of the tension that remained from the battle and the aftermath of it.

Rowena pushed him with a hand on his chest, guiding him backwards toward the bed until he fell back, sitting on the edge of the mattress. She captured his mouth in a kiss that could only be called passionate; it was deep and quick-paced. He suspected his beard must have been scratching her skin but she moaned into his mouth as she climbed on his lap, her soft thighs on each side of his hips.

It turned frantic in a matter of a second, her hand never leaving his cock, up until the moment she sank around him, her cunt tightening and her hips rising and falling at the same fast pace she had been stroking him. Both her hands on his shoulders, she pushed him back until he was lying flat on his back, and he wanted to protest his lack of leverage, except he could not find his words.

Rowena looked down at him, her white waves gathered at the back of her neck, a few loose strands framing her face, and he wished to tell what a beauty she was, and what a good wife she was to him, but it was all lost to the grinding of her hips and the tightness of her walls. The pleasure was taking him fast and deep, barely spreading over his body, but instead like a hot coal sitting in his core, building in intensity rather than expanding. 

“My love, I’m afraid I can’t…” he groaned, certain he could not satisfy her before he reached his peak, but Rowena shook her head, a satisfied smile spreading on her sweet face.

“Take what you need,” she breathed, clenching around him, “The night is young.”

It was all it took for him to spill into her —he hadn’t realized his peak was so close, and for a second he felt ashamed of himself. He deeply wished to please her, but as the aftershock spread in his limbs and the relief soothed the remaining tension in his muscles, he could feel slumber pull at his body and mind.

“Sleep now, there will be more time later,” Rowena murmured as she kissed his pliant mouth, curling up against him on the sheets, her head pillowed on his chest, and soon sleep took him.

When Cregan opened his eyes a few hours later, the room was plunged in darkness, the fire little more than cooling embers. At his side Rowena was asleep, her back turned to him, and her curves looked like frosted hills to his half-asleep mind, her long hair spilling out like icy rivers on the sheets and pillows —it never ceased to amaze him how long it was, reaching past her waist to graze at the top of her bottom.

He loved how it tickled his thighs when she rode him and threw her head back in pleasure; that image rekindled the simmering fire of his loins. Even in sleep there was something regal about her, in the way the curve of her hip narrowed down to a small waist that he hoped would soon round with a child, and the soft sighs she made as he took his lips on a journey along her body were the sweetest sounds he had ever heard.

Cregan started at her hip, gently biting the jut of her hip bone, then continued up to where her skin was the softest, as the skin over her ribs swelled into the side of her breast. He felt her rising from slumber, coming alive under his touch, and soon she reached back to wrap an arm around his neck, pulling him in by the hair. It had grown quite significantly —the sides would need shaving again, and the top would need to be braided, and so for once it all hung loose.  

“Yes?” he breathed in her neck, and he knew he did not have to elaborate as she sighed pleasantly, and he perceived an obvious smile in the way she breathed. 

“Yes,” she answered, her breath catching in her throat as he pushed inside without warning and little fumbling, hotter and harder than a few hours prior. “Harder,” Rowena asked as he started firm but slow, and she was grateful when he complied.

She rolled to her belly, taking him with her and he covered her body with his, his knees on either side of hers, making her cunt a tighter fit and he groaned at that. She did not relinquish her grip on his hair, only tugged harder at his dark strands, urging him on. His hips slapped against her bottom as he thrusted into her with more force and vigor than he usually allowed himself. Rowena cried out as he hit the spot at the deep end of her cunt, a sharp pleasure running up her spine, toeing the line with pain —but she needed to feel him, alive and healthy and strong, and she needed him to prove her their passion and fervor would endure war and the pain that came with it. 

She screamed into the pillow as ecstasy erupted at her core, and Cregan followed her in the next breath, groaning in pleasure between her shoulder blades, louder than she remembered him to be, the guttural sound making her spine shiver in delight. 

He pulled out carefully and she whined as she felt his seed spill between her thighs, but waves of the most pleasant sensation were still coursing through her body. She started to laugh, joy and hope bursting in her chest as an entirely new feeling bloomed behind her ribs.

“Rowena?” Cregan asked, and she turned, her face glowing in the white light of the morning peeking through the barred window. As they caught their breath he looked into her eyes, clear and bright, a glint of something akin to anticipation in her purple irises.

With a grace and a tenderness he had only ever seen a handful of times on her face, she spoke in a whisper, like a confession. “I should have bled a fortnight ago.” 

Authors' note:

We have reached the end of this story. The prologue will come in a few days. I have really enjoyed writing this story, I hope you have enjoyed reading it just as much. Thank you to those who followed it ♡

Comment to be added to the taglist. Reblog to show love.

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#fanfiction #hotd fanfic #cregan stark #house targaryen #targaryen oc #house of the dragon #hotd #hotd x oc #cregan stark x oc #cregan fanfiction #house stark #cregan smut #fanfic smut #hotd smut

[angeart]

hhau mimic arc rambles - part I

(~3k words)

One of the hybrid races is a mimic/changeling, a shapeshifter that can take the appearance of another person. They are the most likely to live in relative peace, as they can trick their way into looking human, but they live in constant fear, as one single slip-up can mean their death. 

There is another fate for a found-out mimic, though, and that is being used by hunters, as a lure for other hybrids. If the mimics want to live, they have to do what the hunters say, and bring prey that dies in their stead. 

At a time when Grian and Scar stumble upon a mimic, they’re already kind of  notorious in this world – a vex with a kill count and a rare violet-winged avian, greatly desired by hunters for trophies and rewards. (There are wanted posters and everything.) 

Now, our mimic for this story arc is one that is being used by hunters, and has been used by them for quite a while. But now he’s posed with the reality of Scar and Grian, two hybrids who have managed to escape hunters for so long, and— He thinks maybe, maybe he could swap his place with Grian. Maybe he could take that safe spot by Scar’s side, this vex who has killed his pursuers before, clearly capable of defending both himself and his avian. If the mimic could take Grian’s place, he could be protected. He could get away—

He is sent in as a lure, but he decides to take his fate into his own hands. (For better or worse.)

 The mimic finds an opportunity when Scar and Grian are slightly separated, and ambushes Grian. Doses him with weakness potions (he needs him quiet and still), copies his look, and hides him in a ditch under a pile of leaves. He uses maybe one too many potions, because Grian wouldn’t stop trying to move (he’s so so so terrified), but he also makes sure to take the time to hide him properly. (He doesn’t really want to sacrifice anyone to the hunters anymore—but he also knows where to go looking if this fails and he needs to make a sacrifice anyway.)

The mimic finds Scar, and tries to lure him in a different direction. (Away from Grian. Away from the hunters.) Scar instantly knows something is wrong; he knows Grian’s face by heart, and this isn’t a perfect copy. It’s too clean. Freckles slightly wrong. There are no deep bruises under Grian’s eyes from sleepless nights, no wear from countless tears that Scar’s vigilantly brushed away. 

But it does look like Grian. It sounds like Grian, afraid and pleading and vulnerable. 

Scar’s so hopelessly weak to it, so lost, so conflicted.

So while Scar asks where the real Grian is, he has next to no cards in his hands for this bargain. He can’t threaten violence, because he isn’t capable of it, not against a Grian-lookalike. All he has is despereate pleas, hands trembling, heart panicking, and eyes filling with tears.

The mimic is reluctant to release answers, clinging to the charade. He needs Scar to believe he is Grian, to protect him. To take him safely away from here. (But that ship’s sailed.) (He screwed up.) But if Scar won’t take him away from here— well, then the hunters are going to kill him. He’s terrified, and it isn’t even an act.

Two different kinds of honest, open desperations clash, and a deal is made.

Scar promises he’ll protect the mimic. Not only until he has Grian back, but after that, too. (He recognises the mimic is just scared. He’s a hybrid in distress, just like them.) It’s a heavy promise, but worth it if the cost is Grian’s life.

They go back to Grian, barely conscious but safely buried under leaves, and Scar immediately gathers him in his arms, relieved and reassuring, holding on. Lifting him up (something he’s intimately familiar with now; carrying Grian’s weight is so easy and natural to him at this point), he notes that they need to go. They – all of them, including the mimic.

The mimic trails after them like a cleaner version of Grian, holding himself timidly and one step behind, like a lost puppy. He’s relieved he wasn’t left to die; that the promise really holds. That despite everything, Scar is still willing to help him.

The situation that follows is difficult for everyone involved. 

Once the weakness wears off, Grian is very unhappy with the circumstances. He’s willing to deal with the situation, because Scar gave a promise, and Grian wants Scar to be able to keep his promises. They’re in it together. They’ll see it through. 

That doesn’t mean he isn’t unnerved and uneasy about this whole thing. Mainly because the mimic still looks like Grian. He’s anxious at every little interaction Scar has with the mimic. Watching and waiting, for the moment when the line blurs. For the possibility of Scar not being able to tell them apart.

Scar can tell them apart, so innately and intuitively. There’s a difference to their words. To the way they hold their wings. To the way they reach for him, the way they apply pressure with their touch. The way they say his name. (Grian always puts so much in just Scar’s name.) (It’s more timid and unfamiliar on mimic’s tongue.) But he can still tell that Grian is uncomfortable with this arrangement. He sees the way Grian goes withdrawn and quiet. He doesn’t like it.

The mimic tries to understand their dynamic, and he finds himself jealous and confused, something in him aching. He sees the way Scar cares for Grian, the ease with which he provides reassurances and affection, and he hurts to have a sliver of that too. 

But Scar is kind to him. He’s gentle and soft. The mimic doesn’t remember last time anyone came close to caring about him, and this staggers him to no end. Touch-starved and desperate, he quickly finds himself craving for more. 

There is a lot of missteps that happen. And a handful of things that go right.

The mimic grew up in this world, and is much better at scavenging and recognising safe food and hidden cracks in terrain for possible shelter. He helps out whenever he can, eager to please, wishing so much to be able to at least somehow return the favour. 

And yet when Grian and Scar curl up for the night, he’s still alone, on the sidelines. He looks on with so much painful yearning, but also knows that it’s not his place. It will never be his place. He’ll never get to know how that feels like. 

He can’t slot into that place that Grian gets to have. He knows, viscerally, that if push came to shove, he wouldn’t be the one Scar’d save, between him and Grian. They are letting him stay, but he’s disposable.

He understands.

Or— he thinks he understands, anyway.

(He really wishes to be Grian.) (He isn’t, he can’t be.) (He— who is he, though?) 

Over time, as he realises they aren’t going to chase him away at any second, he grows bolder and more curious. He’s more at ease with his wings than Grian is, not having the burden of associated trauma. They’re clean and brilliant, and they brush against Scar so very easily. He seeks out his presence often, feeling the safest when he’s next to Scar’s side—a spot that was never meant to be his. 

Grian watches, and he wonders. He wonders if this other version of him isn’t better for Scar. Without panic attacks and inaccessible wings and soul torn-apart by wounds that bleed through so easily. This version of him capable of getting them dinner and recognising hunters’ traps from a distance. 

He wants to ask Scar again, if he wouldn’t be better off without him.

He asked him once, all the way at the start, back when they found each other in this horrible world. He told Scar to leave. And Scar said, never.

And yet. Here Grian is, wondering again.

On top of all of this, there’s also a ribbon incident, one which I will write separate rambles about. Or maybe a oneshot fic. We’ll see which way my hand slips. What you need to know about it, though, is that it results in the mimic adjusting his appearance. 

And oh boy. Does that open a whole another can of worms.

The mimic can’t change his appearance completely at will. He can borrow, and steal, and, well, adjust, to a degree. 

The adjustments he makes, when asked to stop looking like Grian’s exact copy,  are—

Make his hair slightly darker than Grian’s. 

And—

Make his wings dull brown.

(you can see how that looks like here)

This is a big deal, in a world where Grian’s wings are a beacon and a burden and his greatest source of fears and insecurities. To see his look-alike take that vulnerability and overwrite it so easily, strip it down and turn it into something muted and unassuming. Take the cursed wings and twist them into something much more safer, when he himself can’t do a damn thing about them— He isn’t sure how to deal with it. How to bear having this display rubbed into his face every day. How to swallow down the building nausea and the ever-increasing doubts.

This mimic is a better version of him.

Scar would be so much safer with him, instead of with Grian. Grian and his wings that attract trouble and enemies and—surely, inevitably—death.

He has a front-row seat to what it could look like, if only his feathers were different. But he’s powerless to change them. He just grows more upset with them, with himself, with what he is. (A burden a burden a burden.) (Going to get Scar killed.) 

So, quietly, Grian withdraws further.

This all amounts to: the mimic grows attached to Scar, and craves some form of love and safety, in a world that was only ever scary and hurtful to him. But through this all, him and Grian never really build a bond. That’s not to say there aren’t good moments between them. But the missteps outweigh them. It’s all too complicated. Too stifling. There’s no easy way to untangle it or fix it.

They carry on like this for a while, but it’s clear this isn’t working. It’s clear to Scar, because he can see that this hurts Grian. And he feels helpless, because he doesn’t quite know how to fix this. All he knows is he needs Grian to be okay. And his gentle reassurances and soft affection and tight hold at night? They aren’t enough.

So one night, they talk. 

Scar asks if it isn’t working. And Grian shakes his head to dismiss it, even though clearly it isn’t working. He’s reluctant to say he wants it to be just the two of them again. That he can’t bear the sight of this other version of himself, interacting with Scar with such ease, earning softness from him. Imagining what it would be like to be replaced. He just doesn’t want it to be like this. He can’t stand it. But he doesn’t want to forsake another hybrid. He knows how scared the mimic is. How harsh this world is. How unforgiving. So how can he say any of it?

Scar doesn’t force him to explain any of it. He takes the scraps Grian gives him, and lets them be enough.

Quietly, in the depth of night, they throw around a tentative suggestion. Maybe they could leave the mimic somewhere safe? Maybe that would be the best course of action? To keep Scar’s promise and to stop them from falling apart? It feels like it might be something to consider. But it’s late and they’re tired, and maybe they should think on it some more. They leave it hanging on a fragmented, bitter hope with a maybe.

The mimic, curled up on the floor with his back to them, wide awake, hears all of this.

He can’t go back to being alone, fending for himself. He’ll get captured again. He’ll get killed. But more than that, he can’t stand the idea of losing that gentleness Scar steadily provides. He doubts he’d be able to survive on his own in a cold, cruel world without anyone looking out for him, and he doesn’t know how to live without that scrap of kind softness. Shared evening meals and sprinkled laughter and fleeting touches. Someone to talk to. A hand to hold when afraid. 

He doesn’t know how to be without those things anymore.

So he makes a plan. Terrified and desperate and sick to his stomach, but finding himself cornered and at a dead end. He’s grasping at straws. He’s—

He’s going to make this work. 

He won’t be abandoned. He won’t be discarded. He won’t be left to die.

 Once they fall asleep, the mimic copies Grian’s look. Properly copies it. Every bruise and scratch. Every freckle and misaligned feather. And he tucks it away for later. Waits for his chance, for Grian to be out of sight.

He still has a couple of weakness potions on hand.

All it takes is one moment. One moment of Grian being on his own. 

The mimic drops weakness on Grian—a lot of it. He incapacitates him properly, hastily steals the ribbon and the cloak, and then he sneaks up on Scar and uses another weakness. This time just one, before ducking away. 

His little plan whirring to life, the mimic shifts to his perfect Grian copy and approaches from a different side. He drops to his knees, frantically asking Scar if he’s okay. Convincing him that the mimic tried to ditch them, he saw him running away and they need to move in case he went to snitch to the hunters. He sounds terrified. Playing the perfect role of Grian in distress.

He’s using everything he learned from watching Grian—all the things Scar used to so easily, so naturally tell them apart. Voice inflections and touch pressure and the way Grian holds his wings, all of it. Pushing fear and urgency into his voice, constantly calling Scar’s name, checking on him, asking if he is okay, if he can walk, insisting in a panic-pitch that they need to go.

He sounds so so afraid. (He sounds Grian-afraid—Grian is terrified of hunters.) He’s begging Scar to move. He knows it’s hard, he knows, but please please Scar, try anyway. 

Scar is dizzy and sick and confused from the potion, head foggy, too sluggish to think. He’s correct in a guilt-riddled realisation that the mimic betrayed them, but completely wrong as to how the mimic betrayed them. (He tells “Grian” that he’s glad he’s safe. He’s sorry for trusting the mimic. He’s sorry this happened. He trails off. Everything’s spinning.)(Grian is panicking and Scar is so weak to seeing him like this. He listens. He does his best to stand up. To reassure. To help. To go, go, go.)

The mimic swallows the guilt, the raw, bitter awfulness of what he’s doing. And, desperate to put enough distance between them and the real Grian, so that Grian could never trace them, never find their way back to them, to never shatter his lie, he leads Scar deeper and deeper into the forest. 

And oh, he’s doing such a good job of pretending to be Grian. Even if Scar is dazed, perception hazy and thoughts unstable. The mimic is stellar in his performance this time, not leaving space for doubt. (Grian’d hate that he has him copied so awfully well.) (And oh, wasn’t he always afraid this would happen? Wasn’t he terrified that one day, Scar won’t be able to tell them apart—?)

Grian didn’t get the courtesy of being pulled  into a ditch and covered up by leaves this time. He was left lying in the open, bright wings helplessly sprawled, unable to do anything. (There was no time—) He’s scared for Scar, not knowing if he’s okay. He’s terrified of the forest and his own utter defencelessness. He’s lowkey having a panic attack, but his body is too numb to do anything about it.

The potions don’t wear off completely yet when he’s found and attacked. 

Weak and sluggish and stumbling, and so very alone, he scrambles to fight for his life.

--

On the mimic’s side, a week or two pass, filled with him sneaking diluted weakness into Scar’s water supply, to keep him slightly dazed just enough so that Scar doesn’t look at him too closely. And they keep going, further and further away. Scar doesn’t know why he’s still feeling so weak and off. He isn’t sure where they’re going, either. He thinks Grian seems anxious, as if they were possibly being pursued (not an outlandish idea at all, in this world), and Scar doesn’t quite know how to unknot his own guilt about this whole situation. (Oh if only he knew, right?) So he goes, because going is all they’ve done these months anyway. Constantly on the run. Constantly hiding.

But the weakness runs out.

Scar is finally feeling clearheaded again, and he’s so relieved. He will be able to pull his weight now, take some of the burden off Grian. They’re okay. They’re okay and—

One wrong reaction. One misunderstood question. One anxious, scared, paranoia-riddled heart jumping too fast. That’s all it takes. 

One wretched  apology.

One pause. 

One small, shaky, uncertain “... Grian?” Begging to be wrong.

The possibility is snaking its way into Scar’s brain and he's terrified.

It’s been days. It’s been days since they ran away from the mimic. It— Surely, Scar is wrong here?

Scar’s fingers brush over Grian’s earwings. He’s not allowed to touch them. Grian wouldn’t let him. Grian—his Grian—would spiral into panic at the lightest touch against any of his feathers. And—

And this isn’t his Grian.

Anger, fear, hopelessness. Pointless apologies. Questions Scar isn’t sure he wants to know the answer to. (He needs to know.) (He needs to—) (Where is Grian?)

“We left him behind.”

We.

Scar wants to argue there’s no we, but��� It’s true, isn’t it? They both did.

They left Grian behind. Days ago. Alone and without supplies. In a world that desires nothing more than to slaughter him. 

Anger topples into despair. Scar feels like he’s losing himself, vex magic thrumming through his veins, wild and uncontrollable. Nails shift into claws. He’s ready to tear this wretched world apart if it’d mean Grian is safe—if it’d mean Grian is alive.

Reaching out, Scar yanks the stolen ribbon off mimic’s wrist. He grabs the cloak and pulls it off of him. (He needs to return them.) (Where is Grian where is Grian where is Grian) 

Not knowing which direction to go, Scar goes anyway.

The mimic doesn’t follow.

--------------

find more in the hhau au masterpost>> here

#hhau #mimic arc #as promised! the rambles! #pART ONE! #yes there's more to come #and me and link might eventually compile some oneshots for this too #for all the skimmed over details

[anonymityisfunwriter]

Sunshine on Sakaar - Prologue

AN: Hello, dear readers! So when I was writing The Twin Flames, I started thinking about how Sunshine would react during the Avengers Civil War. A big part of her character is conflict avoidance and being a big people pleaser, so my first thought is that she would have tried not to pick a side until she was forced to do so. The other thought I had was what if she was never involved? How would she not be involved? What if she ended up on Saakar with Bruce? I decided that the idea didn't make as much sense as her being on earth and honestly, I think the Civil War scenes really add to her character progression, but I wrote them anyway because I thought it was funny and people are always asking for more Sunshine and Loki, so here it is! I ask that you don't take this too seriously, it's not really going to be a series, just mostly some scenes and drabbles, but I hope you enjoy!

Anon's 1K Celebration Part 1

"Hey, guys," Sam calls, stumbling through the rubble of what was left of Sokovia. "Where is she?"

The realization dawns on Steve suddenly. He left you on the Quinjet. You were still on the Quinjet. The Quinjet that Hulk just took off in. "Nat, when you say Bruce took off..."

Nat claps a hand over her mouth, "Oh my God."

"Guys," Sam calls again, this time with more urgency. "Where is she?"

Steve turns to Sam with a morose expression. "I'm so sorry, Sam."

Sam's chest heaves with panic, jumping to the worst conclusions, "No, no, she's fine. She was hurt, but you said you were-"

"I did," Steve immediately replies, "I didn’t mean that she’s- she’s alive.”

“But?”

“But I put her on the jet, Sam," Steve explains, his voice hollow yet thick with guilt. "To - to keep her safe while she was passed out. I left her on the jet."

"You left her alone?" Sam bitterly accuses.

"The team, they needed me. I thought she'd be safe there, out of harm's way."

"Where's the jet now, Steve?" Sam demands.

"Bruce - Hulk, actually, is with her. He's flying the jet."

Sam helplessly clutches his damaged wing, unable to take off and look for the jet. "The Hulk is flying the Quinjet right now? Are you kidding me?"

"Nat's tapping into their comms right now. Who knows Pinkie Pie might be up and piloting her way back here as we speak!" Tony offers in an attempt to console him. 

"Because we're just always that lucky," Sam sarcastically retorts. He shakes his head, doing his best to remain confident and optimistic for your return, "It's okay, it's alright. You know, we just need to find the jet. We can find them and all this will be over."

"I'm in," Nat announces.

"So where are they?"

"He's flying in stealth mode."

Sam angrily groans, "Of course he is."

"Hey, big guy. You did it. Job's finished. Now, I need you to turn this bird around, okay? We can't track you in stealth mode."

Natasha hears a loud clang of Hulk's heavy fist against the console. She flinches at the sound. "I know you're hurt but your friend is back there and she needs you right now. Please."

Another loud smash of Hulk's fist causes the screen to flicker in and out.

Sam takes over, grabbing Nat's wrist and shouting into the little hologram screen, "Bruce, I swear to God, you bring her back. You hear me, you bring your ass back here right now!"

The screen flickers for an even longer moment, Nat turns to Sam with a remorseful look, "Sam, we’re about to lose all communication."

Sam turns to Tony with a pleading, frantic expression, "Tony, there's gotta be something we can do. Pull them out of stealth mode! Go after them! Do something!"

"I'm trying!" Tony frustratedly exclaims. "If I could do that it wouldn't be much of a stealth mode would it?"

"Tony...."

"Romanov, buy me some more time, keep him talking," Tony orders.

"Come on, big guy, pl-" Nat's words are abruptly cut off with a blank screen.

Sam's eyes flash over to Natasha, "What just happened? Nat, what just happened?"

"He just shut us off."

"Now what?"

"They could be anywhere."

AnonymityIsFun Masterlist Anon's 1K Celebration

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[xamaxenta]

Bad boy coded Ace showing up at the Outlook mansion hair slicked back, leather jacket heartthrob look going on knocks using the fancy griffon head door knocker and asks for Sabo to the butler that opens the main entrance

The young master is not in tonight good sir is all the butler has to say

Ace smiles because his phones buzzing in his pocket , Sabos home and he owes him a date night oh i can wait he says backing up and jogging back down the posh steps to where hes parked his motorcycle beneath the set of windows where Sabos room situates

The butler calls the head of house Outlook III who is punctual and picks up on the first ring, informs the master that there is a right hooligan on their front lawn looking for Sabo

For sabo? No one comes looking for sabo if he can help it.

It could be described as a thunderous manner in the way he strides into the wings of his most disobedient first son, raps on his bedroom door and demands an explanation

When there is no answer he finds the key, third on the hoop on his belt because the first two are for the front door and his office respectively and lets himself in because Sabo has always had a defiant streak no amount of heavy handed discipline could tame, finds said son perched on the sill of his window, half way out into the midnight air

What in the seven hells do you think youre doing?

Its a demand that falls flat because Sabo looks back at him from over his shoulder his pale skin abnormally flushed, mottled because it clashes with the shiny rippled scar knitting across his face, his smile is uncanny and lopsided and the ungrateful sly tone in which he addresses his father is as always smarmy, too clever,

Nothing father, nothing that concerns you

And then he jumps and Outlook stumbles trips over the corner of an overturned rug, catches himself against the open window sill to see Sabo caught up in the embrace of said unappreciated night time visitor, they make eye contact, the dark haired man with pale eyes that catch moonlight and his smile tilts up victoriously, one hand possessively curled up into golden curls of hair, the other arm fast around the waist of his son

It clicks, its the god damned piano tutor theyd hired for Stelly, he hadnt recognised him out of his uniforms— Outlook bellows his final verdict

“Youre fired Portgas!”

“Then I’ll be taking my severance payment.” Ace replies cheekily, Sabo rears back in surprise at his statement, shock apparent and Outlook feels the vein in this neck up to his forehead throb and his vision blur

“Then take him you harlot, he’s never been useful to me in any capacity.”

Shaken by his apparently immediate disowning, Sabo shouts back a slew of swears at his father, but he doesnt sound upset in fact it sounds the opposite

Disgusted and thoroughly annoyed Outlook III slams the window shut to the sound of his heir’s piano teacher running off with his firstborn son

#saboace #acebo #xam writes #Sabo doesnt even care #also rip Aces spine the real MVP here for catching Sabo jumping from a third floor window lol #and in the subject of things the stuff Sabo actually cares abour which is little thb he alreadyhad Ace sneak #those items offsite #sabo gave whatever he cared abt to ace to take away earlier #so #to tie that loose end up #they elope!!! #MAN i cant type for shit

[not-poignant]

Excerpt from Tradewinds, coming January 31st:

A sudden, heavy flapping sound; distressed wing-beats. Matan looked up, alarmed, to see Udir in true-form, winging low towards the caravans at speed. Matan saw dark flecks of liquid shaken off Udir’s body with every stroke of his wings. He was bleeding. He’d been wounded. Pale yellow eyes barely took him in, a beak open and sharp tongue panting. Instead of executing a neat landing, Udir slammed straight into the second caravan, leaving a smear of blood on the tarp. He fell in a flutter of wings as Matan rushed towards him. ‘Udir! Are you all right?’ The great, injured bird said nothing. A patch of ivory-cream feathers on Udir’s chest were stained dark with blood. Udir wasn’t shifting back into hybrid or human-form because he was in too much pain. Everyone knew that when a shifter wouldn’t change back, they were trying to use their true-form to handle the worst of an injury. ‘Hey,’ Matan said, making his voice soothing. ‘Hey it’s okay. It’s going to be all right.’ He had no idea what he was talking about. He stiffened and looked around for any signs of birds or fae approaching, anyone who wanted to do them harm. There was no one around. He carefully tried to reach for Udir, wanting to pull him out of the churned up dirt at least, but Udir’s hooked beak went for him, snapping weakly. Then he stumbled, a wing stretching out to stop him from falling sideways. Matan clambered up the second caravan, ready to wake Biani and Mara, when Red and Kaulo arrived – huge shadows in the sky that made Matan cringe and feel a terrible, primitive fear. They landed, changing into human-form immediately. ‘Pack up! We’re leaving now!’ Kaulo shouted, and he disappeared into the second caravan. ‘Come here, Udir,’ Red said, approaching Udir, a stern look on his face. Udir wasn’t listening to any of them, eyes wild. Red didn’t flinch when he took a nasty beak slash to the arm. His movements were steady as he firmly grasped Udir in his hands. ‘That’s it,’ Red said softly, arm bleeding as Udir struggled in his grip. ‘We’re getting out of here, Udir. Calm down.’

Hurt/comfort in a Fae Tales story? It's more likely than you'd think!

#original story #fae tales #fae tales verse #merchantverse #matan and udir #mm romance #queer romance #fantasy romance #high fantasy #epic fantasy #hurt/comfort #angst with a happy ending #y'all i'm happy this novel will have a home now #it's canonically set in the period of time when albion was in power #between Game Theory and the Court of Five Thrones #but you don't need to have read those stories to understand this one!