#the merciless pillow war

[benbraeden]

dating a hunter means seeing random, new scars appear. dating a hunter means knowing that they will never be at peace, even in their sleep, they are always going to be clenched knuckles and damning nightmares. dating a hunter means finding various forms of weapons hidden throughout what could have been a home, but instead is the next rundown, dingy motel. dating a hunter means that loving all their flaws too, and the downfalls of their job.

#“ 𝒊. character study ﹕ heaven and hell are warring inside you‚ always brutal‚ always merciless. #thinking about ben's family whenever he comes around and he has a NEW scar that he doesn't talk about. #because he doesn't think about them? because it comes with the job. #but how sad is it to see someone that you care about so much; put themselves through danger on PURPOSE for the sake of others. #and that's not just ben; its ALL HUNTERS. #dean sleeping with a knife under his pillow; sam having nightmares constantly; never being able to really have a HOME. #just motel to motel. #and a feeling of never really having something that is THEIRS for so long. #being a hunter can be so fucking sad.

[her-devils-advocate]

To the dark I said pour and forgot to say when

pairings: Levi Ackerman x reader

genre: hurt/comfort, angst

summary: It's starting to become too much for you, training the recruits just to watch them die. You take pride in your position within the scouts, but pride can't suffocate the growing guilt. Luckily, Levi is there to help pull you together.

warning: mentions of overthinking, anxiety, and breakdowns

@humanitys-strongest-bamf, since you wanted to be tagged once it was finished! <3 Hope it's still okay to tag you in!

word count: 2,491

ao3 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55262311

It had been a while since he had seen you, not since earlier that morning on the training grounds. You had asked if he could take over training the recruits for you, the cold and crisp morning air had felt unusually tense when you approached him, almost as if he could sense the war raging behind your eyes.

You hate having to pass up duties like that, guilt tearing you apart as you think of the long list of responsibilities that he's had to put aside for you. Not to mention that you enjoy training the cadets. You enjoy watching them grow stronger each day and doing all you can to give them the best chance they can have within the Survey Corps.

Maybe that's why you passed the morning's session along to Captain Levi instead. 

His piercing eyes followed your every move as you tried to act natural. Your shaking hands tightly gripping your biceps as you crossed your arms, throwing him a sweet smile while you made the request. The fact that he hadn’t mentioned the evergrowing paperwork awaiting him on his desk had shocked you, the common tease often thrown between you going unused, yet you didn’t dare question it in case it ruined your chance of shifting routines. 

You simply thanked him before quickly retreating after he slowly agreed to do so, missing the way his eyebrows crinkled with unease.

You take pride in your position as one of the squad leaders within the Scouts, a position you take very seriously and have worked hard to achieve. While you know better by now, you can’t help but get attached to the people under your command. How could you not with so many different and young personalities looking up to you for guidance? You care for them and want to see them thrive.

Yet each new attachment brings a fresh crack in your heart whenever a mission goes badly. No amount of training or lectures can prevent the inevitability of the world you live in; while you wish for the best when it comes to your cadets, sometimes the world wishes otherwise.

The world is cruel and the titans are merciless.

You have lost many soldiers under your command, some of whom you consider friends. You still see their faces when you try to close your eyes, guilt flooding through you whenever you realise you have forgotten a name. You can’t remember the last time you slept the whole night instead of being haunted by the suffocating past.

How can you train these fresh faces when you have so many to remember already? 

Are you even capable of training them after losing so many?

What gives you the right to survive after so many have fallen?

The thoughts are relentless as you rush into your room, you slam the door shut behind you before diving into the worn mattress on the bed. The familiar sting of tears is the only warning you get before the dam breaks and all the unwanted feelings you had bottled up begin to rush down your cheeks.

You push your face deeper into the pillow, wishing that the thin fabric would drown out the thoughts rattling around your skull. You feel miserable as your mind torments you relentlessly and a part of you feels bitter that it couldn’t wait until nightfall before starting its assault. Your mind couldn’t even give you the decency of letting you hide your shame in the shadows.

The golden rays of sunlight flowing in through the window taunt you, giving the room a peaceful haze and ignoring the despair within. You stare up at the soft light, the river of tears silently flowing down your cheeks and onto the pillow, as you simply watch the silver specs of dust float around you.

Your tears grow and your breathing quickens, how dare you appreciate such a sight when so many you care for are now unable to? 

You weakly hit the pillow, as if you could transfer the thoughts out of your mind and into its damp cotton prison instead. 

You don’t know how much time has passed, but from the busy commotion echoing around the headquarters, you can guess that training has since finished. You’re not surprised when Levi eventually finds you, although you hate him seeing you like this. 

He slowly walks over to you, and the sight of your tear-soaked pillow causes his heart to clench. He had a feeling something was off when you had spoken to him and he regrets not stopping you and asking then and there.

"Hey, talk to me." 

Levi's voice is unusually soft as he takes in your red-rimmed eyes, slightly swollen from the hours spent crying. His eyebrows are furrowed in concern as he reaches his arm out, hovering just above your shoulder, almost as if he's conflicted on whether he should touch you or not in your current state. He quickly makes up his mind as he gives it a comforting squeeze. You timidly look up at him, finally meeting his gaze. Even through the blur of tears, you can see the worry on his face as his usual mask of composure slips.

"You'll think I'm pathetic." You say quietly. If it were anyone else, you would have ushered them out of the room by now, content to be left alone to drown in your self-doubts. If it were anyone else, it would have been an order, but it just had to be one of the few members ranking higher than you who had come to check up on you.

If you were in any other mood, you might have tried to jokingly order him away, teasing him with his rank in a way you know he pretends to hate. Instead, you simply sigh. You know he’s unlikely to drop the subject when it involves you, even more so when he’s concerned. And as much as you hate to admit it, you’ve given him multiple reasons to be.

"I won't."

The sincerity of his voice makes you freeze momentarily, part of you would be fine with him shrugging and walking away, silently agreeing and leaving you alone to deal with it. It would sting, giving you yet another thing to overthink once you get through the current bout of thoughts. Not that he would leave you in such a state, but at least that way you wouldn't have to bear the heart you dedicated with all the current cracks on display.

"You should."

"I won't. Don’t tell me how I should feel." His voice takes on a stern edge, the tone softened by the grip on your shoulder tightening before he kneels on the floor before you. His eyes are determined, unwilling to let you bottle it up, much like how he would. A habit of his that he would rather keep to himself than share, for your wellbeing.

You groan, digging the heels of your hands against your swollen eyes, trying to wipe away what remains of your tears. You take a few seconds to compose yourself and to try and quiet the whirlwind in your mind, just enough to vocalise your distress. You can feel Levi’s steel eyes following every little move you make, almost as if staring hard enough would unlock all the answers for him. “If only that would work,” you think dejectedly. 

“It was just too much.” The words come out as a small whisper against your wrist. You can almost hear his mind working to connect the pieces.

“It’s just one of those days, I guess. You know the ones where you wake up and everything just feels…wrong? Then I took one look at the recruits waiting for me to train them and remembered all the other recruits that I had failed.”

His gaze softens as he takes your hands, pulling them away from your face and forcing you to look at him. Gone is the aloof and somewhat intimidating captain that the Scouts have come to know. Before you is the man behind the title of Humanity’s Strongest Soldier, the side of him that only a select few get to see.

“That’s not your fault, not now, not ever. You can’t control everything that happens when we leave the Walls and I know that you know that.” He releases one of your hands so that he can gently grip your chin, tilting your head down to look him in the eyes.

Pure determination and understanding swim within the sea of silver that stares up at you. You want to hide from his gaze, feeling undeserving of it, yet his soft hand keeps you firmly in place.

“I’m not going to bullshit you and say that all the kids we’re training won’t drop like flies in a mission one day, and frankly if you wanted to hear that, you would have gone to someone else.”

“Technically, you came to me.”

The slight twitch of his eyes almost makes the corner of your lips lift.

“What I’m trying to say before you interrupt me again, is that what we can do is our damn best to prepare them. I’ve seen how you train them and it’s impressive. You have a talent when it comes to getting the brats to pay attention. We know the risks, as do they, but at least you are giving them the best fighting chance they can get. Got it?”

You stall for a moment, mind peacefully going blank at his words. You know he struggles to show the emotions he had buried deep below the wings of freedom adorning the breast of his uniform, but seeing him try for your sake causes a new lump to form in your throat.

Your silence tests his short patience and he gently tugs your chin, almost as if trying to force you to nod and accept his words. You fight the urge to jump into his arms, squeezing him tight in response. Instead, you clear your throat to try and dislodge the emotions building up.

“Got it, and you’re right. I’m sorry for being so pathetic. I know we can’t save everyone and that it’s a naive dream in the first place, which is why I always do my best to train them as much as I can.” You give him a watery smile, blinking rapidly to prevent the new wave of tears from escaping.

“I think everything I was trying to bottle up slipped out over time and snuck up on me today. Thank you, Levi.”

You receive an eye-roll in response, yet you don’t miss the way his shoulders relax, the one hand still holding onto yours giving you a warm and reassuring squeeze.

“Good. I don’t think those kids would have lasted this long if it weren’t for the rigorous training you’ve put them through.” Levi’s voice is low as he considers his words.

“Don’t forget that and don’t let this,” he gives your forehead a light flick as if to emphasise his point, “make you its prisoner. Overthinking like this will never do you any good, trust me. If you want to talk, you know where my office is. It’s not like you don’t already waste my time chatting my ear off about four-eyes’ shitty experiments or anything.

This time, you can’t hold back as a few tears begin to slide down your flushed cheeks, betrayed by the warm relief spreading through you. You scramble to wipe them away, having cried enough for the evening and maybe even a lifetime now.

“That will be twenty extra laps around the training grounds, by the way.” 

You can hear the amusement in Levi’s voice, yet his face remains passive as he watches for your reaction. You throw him a glare as his eyes crinkle, clearly happy with the response he has gotten. Your self-doubts and tormenting thoughts are now a thing of the past with his subtle distractions, something you slowly realise was his plan all along. If annoying someone out of their misery was a sport, you figure Levi would have dozens of gold medals by now.

“Why? Is this for getting you to train my squad earlier?” Your voice is raised in pitch, the confusion evident as you cross your arms.

“No, that’s for calling yourself pathetic in my presence. Twice.”

“I’m learning to make sure you’re not in range when I do so.” You mumble, unaware that the man before you has caught your private words.

Now it’s Levi’s turn to fix you with a glare of his own, clearly not amused with the idea. You begin to fidget under the silence, wondering if you had taken it too far, too soon. Before your still anxious mind can replay the last minute, he flicks your forehead again, harder than before.

“That's thirty laps now. I’ll make it fifty if I hear a single complaint.”

You release a dramatic sigh, showing your displeasure with the command without digging a deeper hole for yourself so soon. You anxiously break eye contact, earning a small eyebrow raise in response as you fiddle with the frayed blanket beside you.

“I’ve changed my mind,” his gruff voice cuts through the silence that fell between you, catching your nervous attention once more.

“Sixty.”

“By the walls, Levi. Stop making it higher, I’m not going to complain!” You throw your hands into your lap in exhaustion, your previous breakdown having sapped any strength you had for the day.

“I just… I wanted to thank you again, for checking up on me and for making me feel better.”

He clicks his tongue in response, his hand coming up to ruffle your hair, before giving one of the strands a playful tug. You groan at the action, playfully swatting him away while rolling your eyes.

“If you want to thank me properly, then you can go and make us some tea for the evening. Bring it to my office once you’re done. Bring a book as well, I need to finish this paperwork tonight and I don’t care for whatever trouble Hange has recently caused.”

“Aye aye, Captain.” You give him a lighthearted salute before rushing to the door, not even trying to hide the excitement at the idea of spending the evening curled up in his office, drifting off to the sound of his pen gliding across paper.

Once you reach the door, his low voice catches your attention once more, rooting you in place. “Oi, I mean it.”

“What? The stupid amount of laps you will throw on me if you hear me complaining?”

“Tch, not that. I meant it when I said you could come to me. Now don’t you have tea to be making?”

You hold back a retort, feeling too happy to bicker with him, even in a playful manner. Instead, you simply nod before silently moving towards the kitchen, your heart feeling lighter than it has in months.

#♥. writing #levi ackerman x reader #levi ackerman #levi x reader #aot x reader #levi ackerman x you #captain levi #aot levi #captain levi x reader #shingeki no kyojin #attack on titan #aot #snk #this took longer than i thought considering its the 2nd levi fic i started #only to end up being the 5th one posted

[the-pessimists-paradigm]

The Merciless Pillow War

#obey me game #obey me! #obey me #omswd #om! lucifer #obey me lucifer #obey me shall we date #obey me transparents

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Civilian Asset 4.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Still far from home and far from well.

Master List / Prev Chapter

Warning: 18+ (fairly tame chapter, but stands for entire series)

Tagging: A couple folks have asked about tagging. Unfortunately tagging breaks my posts, so I don't keep lists. But I DO reply to each comment on each chapter when I post something new. So it's like a hand-written invitation delivered by butler to your inbox.

A/N: Tumblr is being weird with links, and I'm not sure how to fix it. Had an extremely rough month really working on a piece about school safety... enough said. And I've been sick. So. Ya'll mean the world, thank you for your continued support!

4.

You’re drowning in a sea of hands.

They push and pull like ocean currents, and you’re as helpless in their merciless grip as a swimmer in a riptide, tumbling so deep you can’t remember which way is up. There’s air, but an arm around your neck presses on your trachea. Suffocating you. No matter how much you claw and wheeze, it only tightens, slow and inextricable. The worst kind of promise building in the pressure.

Thousands of strangers’ fingers paint you with intent, sweaty and slick. Each hand wants something. Maybe they’re working in chorus, or maybe each one is out for itself. It’s impossible to tell by the way they paw, snare, and grab at you. Whatever they want is inside. Deep in your belly or hiding in your spine, some key or secret blunt nails work to pry out. They won’t be satisfied until you’re swallowed, torn apart, and sorted into pieces.

The dark smells like old carpets, bird shit, and rust.

Waves of touch tug you in opposite directions, twisting your arm behind your back and your foot over your head. It’s chaos. And it hurts. But they’re all moving you, hauling you into a hell that sounds like war. You’ve never heard gunfire like this. Only three clean shots from a distant sniper rifle. But the cacophony ricochets with dozens of automatic weapons, and the hands scratch and dig into your skin, greedy for your fear as you sink into the echoes…

And wake with the gunfire still in your ears.

Sharp, jolting breaths lift your shoulder, punching through your chest with a salty aftertaste from the tears and mucus trickling down the back of your throat. Everything else locks in place. Your legs are too achy to move. Your eyelids stick open, drinking in shadows. Lying on your side, you not only hear but feel your pulse beating in your ears, and it takes several minutes of wading through too many confusing sensations before you know where you are and why everything’s stiff and sore.

The room is dark. Only a crack of light spills under the door. It’s proper country dark outside, too, pressing black against the window.

It’s raining.

No gunfire. No danger. It’s only precipitation battering against the glass. You are as safe as you can be, given the situation, and the men downstairs would be shouting and kicking in the door if something had gone wrong. Bullets would pierce the walls, shatter the window.

Even though you know it’s just the weather, you’re half convinced a dozen soldiers have opened fire on the room.

You try waiting it out.

Maybe it will stop or you’ll remember you aren’t afraid of the rain.

But it doesn’t, and you can’t bear it, so you get up and head for the glow behind the door. Hopefully the rain isn’t so loud downstairs.

The hall light bathes the space yellow in a way your shattered internal clock reads as daylight. Open doors to the bathroom and the second bedroom loom dark in contrast, like caves along a hiking trail, and the stairs will challenge you as much as a mountainside when you work up the nerve to descend. First you take time to wipe the salt track off your face with cool tap water. The pillow should keep those secrets. You don’t need to wear the evidence.

The adrenaline rush fucked off some time ago, and even after the nightmare you’re left with nothing but clinging paranoia. That doesn’t make you calm. Your anxiety feels like breath on the back of your neck, or eyes squinting through hidden peepholes, prickling over your skin with the assurance that something, somewhere is off, and you shouldn’t leave yourself exposed.

Logically, the men downstairs are no threat. Quite the opposite. You don’t feel logical. Your collection of hurts urge you to hide under a bed. In a closet. To stay out of sight as you lick your wounds.

The soldiers have your life in their hands, and that requires inordinate amounts of trust. There’s a gap you can’t cross. You’ve known them for a few hours. They killed people, and then they stopped your bleeding and sent you to bed. That’s too much and not enough for friendship.

You’re also, on a much shallower level, wildly aware that you’re the odd one out. The only woman. The only stranger. The only civilian.

It’s like standing in the cafeteria on the first day at a new school and wondering where the hell you’re supposed to sit.

Studiously avoiding your reflection, you leave the bathroom and begin your hike downstairs. Each step is a mile. You count them, congratulating yourself on your progress as you balance with your hand on the wall. In yesterday’s – today’s? – struggle, you used muscle groups you didn’t know you had and used known muscles in new and interesting ways they disapprove of. Everything is a little harder, and every step a little wobbly, and thankfully no one pops around the corner to see your tremorous pace.

Shadow creep over the lower steps where the hall light can’t quite reach, but a bright puddle spills out from the kitchen, and you follow it like a little moth.

Rain patters against the windows here, too, but the drumming on the roof doesn’t reach through the upper floor.

You’ll take it.

The kitchen opens around you as you step through, and your eyes flick up from your feet as a figure moves in your peripheral.

“You’re up.”

It’s the Scot. He’s divested himself of the tac vest, though a handgun peaks out from a holster under his jacket. It’s a good sign that he’s less armed than this morning, though. It gives you hope. A step towards de-escalation and a normal state of being where locked doors mean something and you get to sleep in your own bed.

The kitchen’s a little chilly, and your arms fold of their own volition. You stuff your hands out of sight, hiding your most obvious injury as you wince out a smile and try not to make things awkward.

“Yeah.”

He doesn’t ask if you slept well. You appreciate it. Instead he fills the electric kettle and pops down the tab before even asking, “Tea?”

Since it’s already too late to say no, you nod, taking a seat at the table to spare your shaky fawn legs. “Thanks.”

The clock over the sink reads 9:07, so it hasn’t been dark for long. You’ve slept away the day, and now you have a long night of worry and stilted conversation ahead. What the fuck are you supposed to talk about with these people? Or are you supposed to converse with them at all beyond basic pleasantries?

Tea might make everything better, or the caffeine may make everything just a little worse. A warm drink does sound nice, though.

A heavy jacket still flush with body heat drops over your shoulders, and you freeze like a cat suddenly trapped under a blanket.

You feel your eyes go big and know you’ve made the moment weird as you peer up at the burly Scot. The fabric’s heavier than it looks, and it smells like the man. Something sweet hidden under whiskey and aftershave. The weighted warmth feels like security made cloth, and the comfort tangles with the acidic terror still hissing in your belly.

The man beams. Chortling, clearly delighted with himself, he rearranges the collar to sit right around your neck without pressing on the bruises.

“Dreich weather,” he says, stepping away to throw a tea bag in a chipped white mug. “Need to keep warm.”

Your fingers lift to the worn seems along the zip, pulling it just a little closer, like folding yourself into a cocoon. He’s given you a hug, you realize, without invading your personal space. It’s shockingly considerate, and you swim through treacle-thick thoughts for the right words of thanks, but they roll back down your throat before you can express yourself as you look back up to an eyeful of distraction.

Without the jacket the soldier’s a walking gun show, and you aren’t thinking about the weapon clipped to his belt. His snug, dun t-shirt showcases his broad shoulders and the sculpted trunks he calls arms without clinging to his tapered waist. His golden tan practically shines against the dull cloth and muted colors of the kitchen. Veiled muscles roll along his back as he reaches into an upper cabinet for a couple more mugs, and you flick your eyes down to the places the varnish has cracked off the table so he doesn’t catch you staring.

It's patently unfair that such an attractive man is paying so much attention to you when you’re too sick with shock and fear to do anything about it.

He slides the tea into your line of sight, and manage to mumble, “Thank you,” without imploding, exploding, or falling into a heap of embarrassed chunks.

“Ye’re welcome.”

He’s added sugar. Did you miss him asking how you took your tea? Doesn’t matter.

You only just notice the soft footsteps approaching from the open doorway leading to the living room before a shadow cuts through the yellow kitchen lights to your left. The captain nods down at you as he heads towards the half-steeped cups waiting by the sink, greeting his sergeant with a rumble. With cup in hand, he turns, propping a hip against the counter as he pulls you into a conversation.

“Was plannin’ on sending Gaz to check on you in another hour, make sure you were alright.” He speaks as he sips his tea, leaving his voice a little muffled, indirect in a way that suggests awareness of things better left half-acknowledged.

Taking your cue from the leader, you hide behind your mug.

“No need now.”

The tea’s very nice, actually. The warmth soothes your aching throat and pairs well with the gentle warmth of Soap’s jacket. A hug inside to complement the hug outside.

The captain lifts his eyebrows, pausing between sips. “And are you?”

Despite his careful tone, the question hits with a sharp edge, slicing between the plates of armor you assembled over the bathroom sink before braving the soldiers’ company. Are you alright? You flinch setting down your mug, and the drink sloshes up to the rim. Just shy of a spill.

Washed face of no, you must look awful. Your eyes always go red and puffy after too much crying, and you can’t banish every trace of your little breakdown, no matter how hard you try.

“I thought I’d spare us all the awkwardness of a bunch of soldiers trying to handle a crying woman.” Make it a joke. Make it light. Maybe it will float away and take those probing questions with it. You desperately need a distraction, something to pull the focus off your welfare and back to things these men are equipped to handle.

“What happens now?” you ask.

Soap scoffs into the third cup. “Try not to die.” The captain swats him over the head, grazing the mohawk, and the Scot chokes, spluttering tea out his nose as he hastily adds, “Of boredom.”

“Laswell called while you were asleep. She has things in hand. In another day or two she’ll have enough free resources to help us handle the cell here without drawing the wrong attention. Until then we sit tight.” He smiles with his eyes and the shape of his face. The mustache hides most of his mouth when he angles his head down to meet your eye, but there’s no mistaking his expression. “Keep you safe.”

He’s as bad as subordinate.

The military issue clothes reveal enough of his shape to spark your interest in any other situation, and he moves with confidence you’d like to reach out and taste. Those smiles of his don’t help.

As you sit stewing in your own flatfooted frustration, your stomach decides you haven’t done enough to humiliate yourself and kicks off with a growl.

You press a hand flat to your gut. Soap laughs as your face heats, and if you weren’t on the verge of starving you might’ve sprinted back up the stairs to hide in the room Gaz said is more or less yours.

“How long since you ate?” the captain asks.

Too long ago. This is a military man, though, and they like specifics. You think back, leaping from abduction to fleeing to the club lights and blood. “More than a day. Day and a half, I think.” That sounds right. The last meal you remember is lunch the day prior.

Huffing, the Scot turns back to the cabinets, rustling through a collection of tins and boxes. Nonperishables. Of course. A safehouse wouldn’t stock anything liable to spoil in the months or years between visits. At least you don’t see any MREs lurking in the depths. The past twenty-four hours have seen enough horrors.

Squinting at the expiration date on a can, Soap asks, “How do you feel about beans?”

#captain price x reader #captain john price x reader #john price x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #john soap mactavish x reader #soap x reader #141 x reader

[ilovehugslikealotalot]

The Knight In Shining Chromium (Series)

WARNING: MINORS DNI, mentions of alcohol consumption, threats, mean!phasma, betrayl, slight angst, flufff?, use of ocs, Phasma being tall yk :)

part two

┌───── •✧✧• ─────┐ The Presence of The Captain

└───── •✧✧• ─────┘

sum: after Hux has taken over y/n’s kingdom it’s up to her to try and save her people from the first order and evade a certain shiny armored Captain

(Not proofread)

Y/n rested in her chambers, sitting and reading in her spot on the window seat. A soft pillow sat in her lap whilst she flipped through the page with her nimble fingers. She was relieved to finally have a moment to herself and not be constantly bombarded with the First Order. If only she had trusted her gut and banished her royal advisor, Iris Firestar, then this situation would’ve never happened.

The Kingdom of Kalisto wasn’t in shambles, unlike other planets the First Order had taken over.

The recent invasion of their home was very much traumatizing, they lost many warriors that tragic day. The war was merciless, though, some were spared. Y/n couldn’t forget the moment they had breached the walls of the great Palace and captured y/n and her remaining family, which was her two sisters.

One older sister, Lanovah, and youngest sister, Danica. Their parents had died a few years ago and everything was well, that was until Iris had got a little power hungry.

Hux had locked y/n in her chambers with no way out, except for a window that dropped at least a couple hundred feet. So, unless she wanted to die a painful death, she couldn’t get out.

Knock. Knock.

“What is it now, Hux?” The Princess huffed, shutting her book with a slam, the door opened revealing the corrupt advisor.

“Oh. You.” She seethed, crossing her arms, not moving an inch, yet Iris moved quick grabbing the girl’s arm and yanking her up, not even saying a word. Her face was expressionless as she dragged her across the Palace, the Young Princess screamed and shouted behind her doing her best to resist her grasp. Throwing the throne rooms’ doors open she pushed her inside, shutting them promptly behind her, “You sick monsters, what do you want from me now? Money?” Troops marched into the throne room with an organized fashion, another one that looked like a trooper walked in behind them. The figure commanded respect, never faltering in their confident movements. She instructed for the troops to disperse around the room, her voice was feminine, they all replied with a ‘Yes, Captain Phasma.’

Hmm. Y/n knew of that name, she could faintly remember her people gossiping about a highly decorated Captain from the first order

“I’m saddened, you think so lowly of me, Princess Y/n” Armitage smirked, his hands secured behind his back, he took a step forward, explaining the situation to the princess, no one in the royal family would be left alone without a trooper with them at all times.

In this case for y/n, Captain.

“I’ve assigned you, Captain Phasma, one of our finest” He stepped aside to let the chrome armored woman stand next him, her aura never fading, it seemed that Hux was being rushed and hastily sent them off to do what ever it is the Princess needed to do.

————

“So, what do you like to do?” Y/n asked, looking up at the tall Captain her armor was perfectly polished, so much so that she could see herself in the reflection. She’d tried to get to know the First Order Captain but it had been a few hours and she hadn’t said a peep. Anytime she’d need to go somewhere Phasma was always a few feet or…inches away.

She didn’t sign up for this! No, this couldn’t be happening her privacy was always something she valued. Now, it was ruined all due to that Armitage and this walking disco ball. She’d abandoned any form of manners, she prayed to the maker that she’d have the strength not to just smack the Captain in the head. Though, she was sure she’d be overpowered.

She opened her window revealing the glorious City surrounding the Palace walls. Her eyes stung with many emotions, she looked out at the city she failed to protect, she had failed her parents, her people, her oath.

She could feel the other woman’s presence in the room standing firm like a statue. She wondered what was under that perfectly polished exterior. Maybe what lay beneath doesn’t resemble the outside.

The princess huffed, throwing the book she was reading before onto a pile of them on the floor. She sniffled as tears began to resurface, Phasma turned her head toward the young woman, her face shielded her from revealing any sort of emotion not that she was going to show them any way. Her just smirked knowing that the princess realized that there was no way out of this. Surely, now that the First Order has the upper hand, this Kingdom will be a base of some sort, who knows what obstacles and difficulties the people of Kalisto will endure. Maybe, the First Order will receive a protest of some sort.

Only time would tell on how this disaster would end up.

———

Pretty short but proud of what I got together in a short amount of time!

#captain phasma #captain phasma x reader #open requests #i love her #star wars #general hux #x female reader #y/n #gwendoline christie

[radarchives]

Maybe stupid question, but where's your avatar from? 👁👄👁

my icon is lucifer's chesticles, cropped from one of my all time favourite bloomed lucifer cards: the merciless pillow war

#answers #this specific artist just gets my vision

[favroitecrime]

As great as the exchange of hostages was, we need to remember a few things:

1. Palestinian prisoners are hostages. A lot of them children. False arrests with pretenses of committing violence backed with such poor evidence it’s a disgrace. Also, most of the ‘confessions’ are through brutal interrogation (cc: torture).

2. They arrested just as quick, if not quicker, than they released. They kidnapped people with no charges so they can force them to be part of the ‘exchange’ so that the hostages who WERE supposed to be part of it stay in jail.

3. The stories coming from freed Palestinians are fucking horrific. No food, no water, stripped, left naked, no blankets or pillows, barely a mattress to sleep on, bloodied, beaten, sexually assaulted, raped, humiliated, and straight up murdered. Some of the kids released are detailing how the IOF killed other hostages in front of them. Yeah.

4. They went around terrorizing the families of the hostages meant to be released threatening them & even beating them as a warning to not celebrate.

5. They shot a teenager for celebrating someone’s freedom. The IOF lady said it like it was a perfectly good reason to end a life.

6. They’ve announced Jenin as part of the war zone now and they’re encroaching on more of the West Bank. Ramallah being one of them. Neither are next to Gaza.

7. They’ve killed several Palestinians during this ‘ceasefire’. November 29, 2023: a teenager and a 9-year-old were killed.

8. They are not honoring the ‘ceasefire’. Dozens of Palestinians in Gaza have either been abducted or killed for attempting to go back North.

Not a single hostage held by Hamas has spoken of any mistreatment. These people are leaving happy, smiling, literally shaking hands, laughing with, & dapping with Hamas soldiers. Zionists are losing their minds trying to push forward the ‘“their loved ones are being held hostage obviously they’re doing it so they won’t get hurt” narrative, but considering the hostages released have been reported to be in good health, that seems extremely doubtful.

Take the time to look up some of those statements. One hostage wrote them a thank you note because her daughter felt like a queen with how well they treated her. They gave the kids candy, they allowed the hostages to see & talk to each other, played with the kids if the kids asked. Compared to the ones being given by Palestinian hostages & then watching more get kidnapped is just… and now merciless bombing across Gaza with threats telling people in Gaza to evacuate even more South. There’s no more South left. Don’t quiet down now, you need to be screaming louder than ever. Free Palestine 🇵🇸

#tag: important #free palestine #gaza #hostage exchange #ceasefire #palestine #anti israel #anti zionist

[basilone]

@shoshiwrites sent me a lovely prompt called "Night" for Ron & Darlene yesterday, thank you! 💚(There was another prompt for somethin' else in the same ask, so I'm holding on to that for a moment.) The minute I saw this one, I knew it was going to be soft and sweet. I can practically feel the butterflies in it! If you, too, want to send me a prompt so I can write you a little fic? Look no further than this post for details!

and these are real things

She sleeps with the light on these days.

Ron remembers a time when she didn’t. Recalls her leaning over him in the dim hours of the morning to switch the light on her bedside table off. He can still picture that room – her scent lingering in the bedlinen, her mints so close to the condoms that he’d misgrabbed at least once that night, her body pressed against his – as clearly now as he has been able to all throughout the war. Doesn’t know how often he woke in some cold foxhole with the memory of her warmth lingering in his body like the last vestiges of a dream.

And this is not a dream. This isn’t him waking from slumber to find himself alone. This is the dark kept at bay with the single light she’d asked him to leave on, casting his bedroom in soft yellow hues that turn orange at the edges of night. This is her, fiery curls fanned out over his pillow, body half-tangled in his sheets, mouth curved into a smile as if she fell asleep laughing. (She might have, because he remembers her smothering her loudest giggles before her breath had evened out.)

He has time for her now. Ron covets these hours with her in which sleep still eludes him, in which he does not need to be there for anyone other than her. He hasn’t been bone-tired since war’s end – not even she can exhaust him the way combat has – and he’ll be damned if he takes up a new hobby of ceiling-staring at this point in his life.

Darlene is a much better sight. He hasn’t even come close to memorizing all the little freckles that smatter her nose and the rest of her face. Thinks he’s mapped out the ones on her shoulder – has pressed his mouth to them enough times to be able to trace their pattern on her skin – and has now moved on to the stray freckles that dot her collarbone. It takes all the power he’s got to not tuck that stray curl behind her ear – she’d undoubtedly wake if he did, light sleeper that she is – and to simply contend himself with the parts of her he can see.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of watching her. Has lost track of the times he spent observing her over his drink back in Aldbourne’s pub, back when her laughter had carried across the room and she’d talked her friends up so loudly that even he had heard every word. Has forgotten how often his eyes strayed toward her in Normandy – too damn often, if the ill-concealed laughter of his sergeants was anything to go by – or how often he’s looked at her since she was injured and brought back to him. Darlene’s called him out on it a few times, sure enough, usually when he’s at her mercy and she thinks teasing him about it is going to unravel him. (It does, she knows this too, when her slightly ragged breath lands warm against his ear and she’s merciless about pushing him over that edge.)

Even now, resting on his side, Ron can’t help but follow the many lines of her body. The light casts her in a pale golden hue, illuminating her slender fingers and the sole birthmark on her right wrist. Beyond the slight stretch of her arms, partially obscured by the bedsheets, is the small curve of her breasts – she’d complained about them exactly once where he could hear, then never again as his hands and mouth had covered them in worship – and the steady rise and fall of her breath that slips the sheets lower as the night wears on. He smiles to himself as he commits the slight dip of her waist and the curve of her hip to memory, spying the hint of fiery red curls at the apex of her thighs while she shifts in slumber.

His mouth burns with the taste of her. He’d spent all of last evening kissing the inside of her thighs, only relenting when she’d commanded him to put his mouth to good use somewhere else or so help her. He can still lick her off his lips – her sweetness mingling with something heady – and he shifts closer to her without even meaning to. If he wanted to wake her, and he knows he could, he would press a hand to the small of her back and pull her close enough to feel her heartbeat against his chest. If he dared, and Ron often does, he would bury his face in her neck and wake her with murmurs of sweet nothings that he never tells her outside of the time they spend alone. He would press kisses to her skin until her hand landed in his hair, until her skin would look flushed even in this lamplight, until she would shake off the last of her daze and topple him onto his back with a laugh.

Ron knows good and well that he’s gone for her – he doesn’t need Easy’s sergeants to snigger about that behind his back to know he is, thank you very much – but he stops shy of telling her just how badly. It’s easier to try and impart it with his gaze, to brush affection against all the parts of her she doesn’t think are perfect enough to love, than it is to find the words that have ruined him for anyone other than her. He watches her until his eyes almost water, until her breath changes.

He’s not fast enough to look away.

“Starin’ at me again, mister?” Her smile is languid, her voice drowsy with sleep, and he can’t very well look away now that she stretches out and pushes the bedsheets down. “A girl would think you’re up to somethin’, way you’re carryin’ on…”

“Can’t sleep, that’s all,” he replies, knowing that she might recognize it for the lie it is.

“Mhmmm”– clearly she is well aware of what’s true –“is the sight of lil ol’ me keepin’ ya up at night, sir?”

“Darlene…”

“Ah know, ah know,” she chuckles, accent softening her words into something lyrical he could listen to all day, “no callin’ ya sir when ya get all maudlin like this.”

Ron huffs out a short, exasperated breath. “I’m not.”

“Uhhuh.” Only Darlene could manage to make that disagreement sound disapproving and giggly all at once. “Sure ya ain’t. Watchin’ me sleep with eyes as soft as that, your hand this close to my belly”– her fingers interlace with his as if she’s proving a point –“and you almost smilin’ at me like that? Yeah, Ron, a girl like me could think you’re gettin’ kinda maudlin about her.”

“Just enjoying the sight,” he tells her, squeezing her hand in a bid to pull her closer. “I like having you here.”

“Oh the things ah could say to that…” Darlene’s grin is the only warning he gets before her body presses against his wholly. He forgets all the counterarguments as soon as he thinks of them. Her voice lands warm and soft against his neck. “Think I’m gonna settle on telling you one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“Love ya too,” she whispers, out into this night that’s not dark enough to obscure how luminous she is in his arms. “Really do.”

He presses a kiss to the top of her head in response.

#ronald speirs #ron x darlene #oc: darlene #basilonefic #band of brothers

[birues]

Pieces of the Past

Short stories from my WoL Tuana's past. Tw: animal death

1557, Sixth Astral Era

Ala Ghiri Village, Gyr Abania

Adelaide is not surprised to find her granddaughter’s one leg dropping out of her kitchen window. Nay, around her mama, little Allana is easy and calm as a karakul. Her mama, however, isn’t here. Nor is her baba. They’re away, you see. In a city that tore itself out and now those bastard Garleans crushed the nation in their steel claws like it’s nothing but a piece of walnut. They’re out there. In the city proper. Trying to keep their heads on their torso.

They’re away, you see. And little Allana, spoiled by her grandma, is prone to mischief. To run away. To explore the village and the beyond with her older brother. Or the other kids in the town. To get herself a wooden sword and trash around, fancying herself a warrior instead of a monk... Never a monk. Mama’s gaze burns even when she tries to throw a punch. She doesn’t understand, turning her hurt yet questioning gaze to her brother. To hide from her mother’s ire… and her father’s apologetic smiles.

She doesn’t understand why she can’t get out now. Adelaide gently tucks her grandchild inside, her chide is a little too harsh that the tears form in the child’s eyes. For the first time, she doesn’t care as she rushes to the other room to hush the babe who wails to the night. They have to be quiet. They have to. They have to stay inside and not even light a candle. In the dark, she doesn’t see the defiant glare of her elder grandchild. The lass who’s gonna sneak out in search of her brother. The lass who’s gonna kill her first Garlean and his blood will poison her years to come. Festering. Always festering.

—-

1564, Sixth Astral Era

Imperial Province of Ala Mhigo, City Proper, Gyr Abania

Allana Reed seldom raises her voice when her mother is concerned. Shaking hands. Teary eyes. Just scream against the pillow what you wanna scream so that she can’t hear. After mother storms out, of course. So her brother can make his way to her room, coaxing her, always a mediator between the two.

But this time he isn’t here, you see.

He’ll never be here.

Just a couple of hours ago City Magistrate Amara Reed ordered his execution, due to his involvement with Ala Mhigan resistance. They say Gaius Van Baelsar commended her resolve. Never say that Magistrate isn’t fair. Never to say she would spare anyone. For whom else would murder her own child with the axe of the enemy?

There are whispers on the streets. The lad was his man’s, right? Not born of her own womb. She was waiting for an opportunity to get rid of him, they reckon. Her husband agrees. Screams go out. A bag hastily packed. Einar Reed only remembers the faces of his daughters after he crossed Thanalan. And that he never said goodbye.

The same night, in the privacy of her own room the Magistrate throws a fit that would rival the mad king and his accursed court. Not thinking the sounds would travel upstairs. Allana tries to calm her sister down while her war hound silently keeps vigil. Her brother’s final gift. Just a pup is he, a pup he brought back from his travels half a year ago. Her soon-to-be best friend in her upcoming isolation.

She makes a silent vow into her sister’s hair as she chokes back the rage.

“I won’t leave you. I promise you Aleit, I won’t leave you.”

Aleit doesn’t understand. She turns her hurt yet questioning gaze to her sister.

Years later she will say mayhaps Allana was too much like their father.

—-

1567, Sixth Astral Era

Imperial Province of Dalmasca

A nameless lass runs.

A patrol on the fringes. She’s too green. Doesn’t know what to say. Doesn’t know what to do. Not just yet. Life as a refugee and adventurer is yet to meld her into instincts and bitterness that will not be so easily shaken. But first, she needs to survive.

First, she needs to get rid of the shrieks of war hounds and merciless soldiers on her tail. To her gratitude, four paws form imprints on the soil beside her.

Hades. Her ever-loyal best friend. The war hound, the noble warrior his brother gifted her.

She doesn’t know why she named him so. Years later, in another world, she will make a nostalgic remark and an Ascian will not know if his heart should break or if he should be furious because… a hound? Really?

First, she needs to escape from the machinations of the empire he created.

So she runs. But there’s a limit to her lungs and her legs and her aether is all but depleted.

Hades turns. Such a vicious attack, such a remarkable last stand.

In the empire Hades created, another Hades dies. The broken husk does not stop to grieve.

#ffxiv #tuana tag #warrior of light #final fantasy xiv #final fantasy 14 #my writing #tw animal death

[unclefungusthegoat]

Illumine

Part 1 - L'obscurité

The Chevalier de Lorraine lies in his sickbed, keeping the first of two promises made. His lover is away at war. Fever wracks his body. Delirium brings dreams of the desperate and drowned. And the allure of laudanum promises to lead him sweetly to his grave.

Yet even after the darkest night, comes the dawn.

And with it rises an unlikely angel.

My take on the Chevalier’s opium withdrawal, and the birth of his friendship with Liselotte. Post S2/Pre S3.

Read at A03 link above or down below! 💙

(2,890 words)

Part One: L'obscurité

He felt as if he had been poisoned.

You have been, Philippe, make no mistake. 

Poisoned by your own damned vices.

The light in the Palace of the Sun King was as merciless and unconquerable as its master. Through the window panes, through the breaks in the curtains. Blinding. Unyielding. Unbearable . The Chevalier de Lorraine writhed feverishly beneath its gaze, beneath Louis’s withering disdain, as he had done for so many years. Though it had never wrung him out so pitifully before… not even as he had begged upon the floor of the Bastille. And yet now, sweat soaked the sheet, leaking from between his fingers and the lines upon his palms. His golden curls, a source of brazen pride, lay matted against the pillow. His nightshirt, stained with things he’d rather not dwell upon, clinging to his breast.

Which prison is this?

Whose bed is this?

Our bed. 

This is our bed.

Mignonette?

Mignonette , make it go away.

It had started with a sweet, motherly hand. An understanding apothecary in a Roman market. Only a sip or two, to relieve his dreams of the roar of the roiling sea, of the mad whisperings of the men crowded into the cells below. The dark belly of the Chateau d’If still digested him, eroded him away every second he was alone to catch himself in memory of the place. A drop of the nectar, and he could sleep. A second, and he could write affirmations to Philippe. Assurances of his health and his 'fidelity'. Of his surely inevitable return to Saint-Cloud.

Another drop and he could bask in the embrace of the Italian summer, in the perfume of citrus trees, and delectable, sun-kissed Stefano… or Antonio… or whatever his name had been.

Now it burned, deep in his stomach. His gut, cramping into the early hours. His heart pounded and his head followed suit, and in the ringing between the thunder, he could hear Thomas’s wheedling voice. Beguiling, nonsensical verses with ugly rhymes, underscored with a gargling from his lead punctured lung. In his dreams, (at least when he thought he’d slept), he’d seen the man’s beady eyes and toothy smirk risen from the grave. 

But of all the torturous sensations overwhelming the Chevalier, guilt was not one of them. No, he was not haunted. He would have killed the bastard a thousandfold for laying a hand on that exquisite face.

No, the poet had come, quill in hand, to chronicle another humiliation for the ledgers of the Devil:

A prince of Lorraine,

Not content on his knees,

And for the love of Monsieur,

Took to tinctures with ease;

A self-induced sickness,

On a poppy flower moor;

No better than a drunkard 

Or a drugged up whore.

It wasn’t like he cared much what the world thought of him (so long as the King’s grace and Philippe’s love secured his position). But wasn’t that all he was in society’s eyes? A superfluous leech? A parasite, dropping his breeches for all the wine and powders the prince’s fortune could get him? The spectre of Thomas would no doubt find a thousand metaphors by which to elucidate upon such a self-fulfilling prophecy. And perhaps brother dear’s words would comprise the prologue to the poet’s new work:

“You bring disgrace upon our family, Philippe. You invite contempt upon the House of Guise. Your salacious talk, your perversions , your favour for excess… it will be the death of you. And I pray every day God will show you mercy.”

The room span. The light, crushing him.

And oh God, the pain.

Though sympathy for her had always eluded him, somehow he knew this was how Henriette had felt at the end. Her insides in agony, tearing themselves apart, as her sins paraded themselves before her. As she wondered what the angels would say about mothering her brother in law’s child. 

If she had found her way to hell for it, no doubt Louis would blame him for that too. After all, he was the demon who had seduced the duc d’Orleans. Finally driven Henriette into Louis’s arms. He had corrupted the devout image of the royal family. Never mind that that honour had gone to the Duke of Nevers, never mind Mazarin and the Queen Mother’s… encouragement. No, it was Philippe de Lorraine who was vicious, and without moral or merit. So wicked, it had crossed every mind in court that he had borne the poison upon poor, saintly, doe-eyed Minette.

At least Philippe had been there to hold her hand. The Chevalier’s hand was clammy. Cold and empty. He didn’t want to die without him at his side, because oh God, surely he would die from this pain, or the thirst that kissed his lips. But Philippe was in Holland. Far away. Muddy, blood stained, and soaked in sweat and glory. Philippe had left with nothing but a kiss and a promise. Gone to crush the Dutch, grip tight upon a blade.

Or on some pretty young soldier’s cock.

Turning to the side, the Chevalier vomited with a violent shudder.

He half expected to have soiled the sheets, or the floor which felt so very far away, and so very fragile beneath him. Another mark of his fall from grace. But a steel basin was waiting, held firmly in place by soft hands. In the silver reflection, he could see ringlets, fit for Raphael’s cherubs.

The very same colour as his.

For a moment, he thought Armande had fled her convent.

“Sister?” His voice was thin, with none of its usual smile beneath.

He had not seen Armande in so long. Would he know her, if he saw her? Surely it would not be so - an abbess, abandoning the needy and worthy and devout, to attend to her renegade, opium-riddled, sodomite younger brother? Surely it was not so?

“Sister?” He wheezed again.

Only the face that met him was rounder. Fuller in the cheeks and warmer in complexion, rosy apples of blush pink that carried none of the haughty Guise arrogance. She was no stranger, though he had never really looked at her before. Not properly. Her portrait had perhaps been unflattering . Unfair. Perhaps, as have I , he begrudgingly conceded. She may not have had the vulpine beauty of Montespan, or been a waifish English rose like Henriette, but as he lay under her sympathetic touch, he found himself thankful that she was nothing like either of them.

She opened her mouth, as if wanting to correct him, but thought better of it, and instead, smoothed a stray curl away from his brow.

“If you need me to be.” She murmured with a kind smile.

Of all the things he probably deserved, kindness was not one of them.

The bile tasted sour in his mouth, but beneath it, the bitter laudanum was as sumptuous as if he had scraped honey straight from the comb.

"Water-" he commanded hoarsely, as if he were not speaking to Madame. He needed to wash the memory of the drug away. A reflexive surge of satisfaction rushed through him when she obliged, turning to a nearby porcelain jug. Henriette would never. Not unless others were there, to witness her generosity. Though his victory was short lived, for his gag reflex spasmed again, and he found himself clinging to the basin for dear life.

He allowed Liselotte to wet his lips, and tip a little water into his throat.

“How long…?” Gasping between words, he tried to ignore the storm raging throughout his innards, the shake of his hands against the cool metal.

“Three days. You’re doing remarkably well.”

He couldn’t fathom what she was imagining by comparison. The smell of the contents of his already empty stomach was proving unbearable, but he didn’t trust his body to take the basin away just yet. But somehow she seemed to have far more faith. There she sat, in a plain gown more suited to the palace’s washerwomen (though still of silk, he noted - a pretty silver shade, yet it did not quite capture the moonlight as when Philippe wore such a colour.) Her sleeves were pinned back to the elbow, but he could see stains upon the seams. For Christ’s sake, there even sat an apron upon her lap.

With a gentle, but firm tug, she removed the bowl from his arms, and helped him to lie back into the pillows again.

Here in Louis’s Palace of Dreams, we all play our roles, he mused aimlessly. I, the dashing scoundrel, the unabashed vulgarian. She, apron adorned, plays at the lowly ‘bonne’. A guardian angel, tending to the ones God has forsaken.

Thoughts of Mademoiselle Masson, with her laughably transparent disguise, came and went.

Whatever had happened to her ?

The Chevalier let his weight sink into the plush bedding, trying to ignore the disgusting damp patch where his sweat had chilled in the night air. He’d had easier times speaking in the confession box. Now, his tongue felt swollen in his mouth, and his mind struggled to find the words, as if he hadn’t spoken French every single day of his life.

“You’ve been here ? …For three days… ?” 

“Yes.”

He couldn’t help but feel slightly alarmed. Scandal and rumour over gambling and sodomy were one thing… allegations of impropriety with an improperly dressed duchesse d’Orleans were quite another. And Louis, his court, and certainly his fanatical chief of police, had quite the imagination between them.

“ Alone ?”

“Heavens, no. Monsieur Fortin is a godsend.” Liselotte’s hands tucked the blankets loosely around him, “Though I had to command him not to bleed you. He was rather overeager to pull out his lancet. Apparently it’ll even cure a broken heart.” She paused, “I'm not certain how much you remember?"

"Philippe. Gone."

"And after?"

It was all a haze. The sight of Philippe's back, flanked by two guards. An awkward afternoon spent playing cards with her , to ease their shared grief. Waiting in vain for Louis to change his mind, and summon his brother home. A silent walk in the gardens. Behind his eyes, there’d been a throbbing; in his throat, a longing , a thirst . His laudanum phial… would the flowers in the garden feel the ecstasy he had, as the residue soaked the soil? And then… then…

Seeing him frown in thought, she took his silence as her answer.

"You were mostly lucid at the beginning, complaining for all of France and the Holy Roman Empire, I daresay, about a headache. But you developed a fever during the first night, and so I sent for more practised hands. Don’t worry - Monsieur Fortin says the sickness will last a week, at most.” She smiled, “Then you'll be free to debauch and scandalise to your heart's content.”

The sheets and blankets in place, she withdrew her hands to re-arrange his hair, and he realised that at some point, she’d tied it neatly out of his way with a ribbon.

What a wonderful mother she would make.

Will make, he reminded himself with another twist in his gut. Soon her belly would start to obviously swell. The marriage would be officially legitimised across Europe as a successful, fruitful union. And where would he be? All the promises in the world from Philippe… it wouldn’t change the fact that he could never solidify his position with the one indispensable offering Liselotte could make.

"Let's try and ease this fever, shall we?"

He watched her collect a clean, wet rag from across the room. The light through the windows was no longer the fresh glow of early morning, but a far more potent, blinding midday beam. Surely the ladies of court would be strolling under parasols, or wielding their croquet mallets by now. The gentlemen, pursuing dull conversation by the fountain side. Lovers would meet within the orangery. All so far away, in the radiance at the centre of the world.

It was too much to bear, and he could not help but screw his eyes shut against it. An audible groan slipped from his throat.

The rag was cool against his skin.

He squirmed beneath it, like a child, but the soothing pressure soon stilled him. Across his brow. His cheekbones. Down the sides of his neck. He’d never been a sickly child, and couldn’t remember anyone doing this for him before. It was odd. Tender. Intimate.

Which begged a question.

He met her gaze, so full of empathy and care, with his own - too weary to be suspicious, too weak to be infused with his usual, biting wit.

“... Why?”

Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly at the question, as if the very reason for her being there were obvious.

“Why not?”

“I have been… I was…” To apologise was not in his nature. It was not unheard of. But to find such scarce humility, and to voice it with anything approaching articulation, with the heat of a hellfire searing beneath his skin? An impossibility . He swallowed heavily. 

"Boorish? Callow? Rude?” She supplied, with a smirk.

Oh, how he had come to notice, to almost enjoy , her sharp tongue. Henriette could rarely keep up, but now, it seemed he was doomed to be outpaced at his own game.

“... I was going to say… unwelcoming… ” He felt his face relax under the cool water, though every muscle still ached.

“Oh, yes?”

“Hmm.” The ceiling was fascinating as he searched through the fog for the words, the wallpaper as red as his flushing cheeks, “One could say… unkind . If one has a… a predilection for… making… assumptions.”

He couldn’t quite tell if he’d managed to make his point.

“Assumptions on?”

Evidently not.

 “…On how a man should welcome his… his friend’s new wife… so soon after finally being rid of the last.”

To use the word lover had always felt wrong . Lover implied nothing more than sex.

And Philippe was so much more.

"Is that so?"

"Hmmm," He said again, pressing his lips together, aware of the saliva gathering at the back of his throat.

She arched an eyebrow, amused.

"Is this an apology?"

Ah, the crux of it. He mustered all the dignity he could find within himself - lifted his chin and, through the pale pallor, sunken eyes and the plum bruise that had not yet faded, pantomimed his usual nonchalant façade. But as he spoke, it came out as nothing more than a sickly, broken whisper:

"... Perhaps."

She couldn’t quite return his gaze now, but her voice held true, her smile remained soft, and her hand kept steadily pressing the rag to his brow.

"Well, you've nothing to apologise for."

Such an obvious falsity took the wind from him twofold - a scoff, followed by a dry cough that hurt every inch of his throat. He required the use of the basin once more, then obediently took another sip of water from her.

"I mean it.” She repeated, “Nothing I haven’t already forgiven."

"But-" 

"And certainly nothing that needs confessing to now. I can see you’re still not quite yourself, and you might say something silly, or, Heaven forbid, sentimental. Something you’ll come to regret."

No. No. He was determined not to let her make a coward of him, to give him a way out, an excuse to never broach the subject again, not when he had so gallantly set upon it. He had rejected the offer of truce once before… and yet here she sat. It seemed only fitting that he, in turn, should extend the hand of tolerance.

Especially if this…

… if this was it .

“Your…” He coughed again, “Your Highness, I- I must-”

“Hush.”

“But-”

She caught him with a gentle shush.

“ Rest , Philippe. There’s a long road ahead of you yet.”

The use of his Christian name startled him. No one, no one , called him Philippe… no one except those who had the misfortune of being related to him, and, of course, mignonette in moments of passion. For years, he'd been 'Armagnac's brother', or 'the troublesome one', eventually making his mark as 'The Chevalier', as if there weren't a thousand of those at court. And that title was an insult in itself, as if he were so lowly, and not a prince etranger in his own right. He'd been a 'dearest friend' and 'His Highness' companion '. He'd been 'bastard' and 'bugger' and 'whore' and 'cad'. Hell, he’d been a ‘conspirator’ and ‘traitor’ and lived to tell the tale. 

But never, never Philippe.

Tears collected upon his lashes, much to his chagrin. He had wept in front of Philippe before. It was a symbol of their trust, to lay himself bare, to strip back the peacock feathers and be vulnerable . To cry in front of her ? Bathed in the light of her charity ? How utterly humiliating . How exhausting it all felt. 

The shame writhing within him brought forth a new wave of agony. The grief he held for the confident scoundrel he had so carefully crafted added more lead to his lungs… and a painful sob wracked through his feeble frame. And those tears … he wept for how frail he felt, for the cold hand of death that reached for him, in despair and in hopelessness and in fear.

But Liselotte wiped them away without any trace of mockery or derision.

She sat back, to hold his hand, as he fitfully cried himself back into a feverish sleep.

#versailles #chevalier de lorraine #liselotte #monchevy #versailles fanfic #part one of three of my very self indulgent versailles fic #link to A03 at the top #or you can read below #hope the character voices are ok #I sometimes struggle lmao

[solomons-poison]

Lucifer being dramatic and then kissing us while hiding behind the pillows. He can be such a romantic dork and almost like a horny teenager sometimes lol. He's such a tease ugh I love him 💕

From his SSR card "The Merciless Pillow War"

#obey me lucifer #obey me shall we date #obey me screencap #hes a grown ass man but worried about mc getting hit by a pillow #finally got this card im so happy

[rowan-sins]

𝖒𝖆𝖙𝖈𝖍𝖚𝖕 𝖋𝖔𝖗 𝖒𝖞 𝖉𝖊𝖆𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖙 𝖋𝖗𝖎𝖊𝖓𝖉 @theluckychemist​

𝔱𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔦𝔰 𝔰𝔩𝔬𝔱 (2) 𝔬𝔣 (10). 𝔱𝔥𝔢𝔯𝔢 𝔞𝔯𝔢 (8) 𝔰𝔩𝔬𝔱𝔰 𝔩𝔢𝔣𝔱

You are so bright and excitable, and Persospero finds himself wishing to cherish and nurture your spontaneousness and protect you from it at the same time. He adores you though. You’re soft, you’re sweet, you’re like a taffy that makes your saliva sickeningly sweet before you swallow.

He’s a cuddle bug through and through. Loves sitting you on his lap while he works, he loves feeding you sweets (he eyes the way your lips wrap around a jaw breaker before it pops into your mouth), and he loves having you close. Sometimes he just drops by to visit on your lunch while you work. (He obviously brings you food… sweets).

He’s a great listener too! He loves listening to you talk about whatever; it helps keep his mind off of the things stressing him out. Even if you’re just ranting about your coworker who steals your pens, he never, ever makes you or your problems feel small. If you need support, he’s there, if you need solutions, he’s bringing out a whiteboard on wheels and you’ll both find a solution to it. He’s too stubborn to leave you hanging. “I think giving him fake candy pens was still the best idea, my love.” “I’m considering it, I truly am, but I need to look into lab safety protocols before we resort to something so… drastic.”

Sometimes, you’ll need to drag him away from his work and his duties. Luckily he’s not too hard to distract when you know how to do it right. He’s very physically affectionate once he gets the chance so trailing your fingers up his arm gets him itching to hug you. “Come to bed darling… it’s late.” “Just a few more minutes, my love.” “We both know I can’t sleep unless you’re holding me.” And then you’re off to be cuddled.

He’s not too much of a gift giver, but if you tell him you’re in need of something it’s in your hands before you can go off to buy it. That new graphics card? In your computer before you order it. That new plushie you’ve been eyeing? It’s on your bed, against the pillow when you go to your room to change into your pajamas. He does randomly give you candy though. He quickly figures out your favorite flavor too. Your dentist hates him.

He's so proud to have you as a lover too. He’s not afraid to show you off and he openly brags about you. You two are the power couple of the Charlotte family. She was iffy about you at first but as she saw how you made her son stronger, happier, more determined; she knew you were here to stay and not only made peace with it but would make war with your absence.

A determined woman for a determined person. She’s the kind of person that paved her own way in the world and is proud of the path she made for those to follow. She’s as kind as she is merciless, as nurturing as she is apathetic, and as powerful as she is vulnerable. She’s follow of contradictions that make sense only with her, and you hold her together.

Late nights in her chambers, the steam from her bath between the two of you, she would share her most secret thoughts, and listen as you share yours. She lives for your softer moments, when your eyes light up and your smile spreads from ears to ears. She can’t help but be drawn to your excitement, to your passion.

She’s scared to touch you at first. Like this thing you have with her is made of glass, like one mis-step will shatter her whole reality with you. That she’ll be left on her throne with only her purpose, and nobody to share it with her. Nobody to share herself with.

You love how bold she is. Demanding even. As soon as she knows it’s safe too, she’s quick to take the reigns of your relationship, giving in to your whims, no matter how small. She views herself as a provider in a sense. A shelter for you. You’re worth protecting, just like everything else she fought to have.

When she wraps her arm around you, the world loses its mind. The most beautiful woman in the world is finally in love. But how could she not when you saw her for the person she existed as beyond her looks and title. You saw her heart, beating and begging to be known but also afraid. You held it in your hands and loved it with a warmth that rivaled the sun.

How could I not pair an evil scientist with my friend who could be an evil scientist if they really wanted to. Caesar Clown towers over you in more ways than one: height, power, intelligence. But he finds you cute, endearing even. Sharing a laboratory with you isn’t as obnoxious as having any other of his numerous assistants around.

And so, a reluctant friendship blooms into a full-blown obsession. One day he wakes up and you’re all he can think about. The way you walk, the way you talk with your hands. It consumes him wholeheartedly like a kerosene fire.

Give him a chance. Look past the fact that the flowers he grew for you himself look like they’re breathing. Look past how disastrous the first date was. Because listen, he’s going to put effort into this. Because he cares. A lot. He let you braid his hair into pig-tails once! He truly does.

His main love languages are acts of service and words of affirmation. Tell him how much he means to you. Give him a shoulder rub. Pack his lunch. You already have him whipped. Just give him a reason to throw it all away and he will. Or don’t, because helping him in the lab is so much fun. Especially when he rewards you for your hard work.

Either way you guys are QUITE the couple. For the history books even. This man will make you evil!madame curie.

#matchup #one piece #persepero #boa hancock #caeser clown #thanks for the tip btw ily!

[sebstan2020]

The Rise of Hydra

Chapter 9

Pairings: Bucky Barnes X Original Female Character

Warnings: Violence, Dom/Sub, Kidnapping, Hostage, Gun Violence, Corruption Kink, Forced Behaviour, Manipulation, Light Bondage, Captive

Summary: Being the President’s daughter hasn’t always been easy. Constantly having someone over your shoulder, rarely getting a minutes privacy except for being in bedroom and it wasn’t any different for Violet. Not to mention working as a junior doctor which was stressful enough. But things were about to turn more difficult for her. With Hydra rising once again, planning to take over the country and rule it the way they wanted it to be, Violet finds herself caught between the war and a hostage to their secret weapon, the Winter Soldier.

Violet had finished her lunch. A bowl of chicken noodle soup was what she was given along with a piece of bread and a cup of water. It wasn’t much but anything was good at the point. She ate it quickly, filling her hunger and downed the water. After she had finished her lunch, she sat at the desk for a while, pondering on her various options.

She needed to find a way out of here. Hydra were dangerous and merciless. They could decide to hurt her or kill her at any time if they wanted and that scared Violet to death. Her captor was no easy story either. Obviously, a dangerous assassin, he had the upper hand in this situation and her vs him was a definite win for him. The number of weapons on his body alone meant he was in control. he obviously had the job of keeping an eye on her, keeping her locked in this room until further orders and she doubted that he would tell her what was happening with Hydra and her father.

Violet needed a way to communicate with her family…or even the avengers. If she could contact them, give them some sort of information as to where she was, they could find her. Violet imagined her dad was stressing about all of this. First Nicky Fury’s death and now her kidnapping, it was not what he needed right now.

And unknown to Violet, Hydra were playing dirty, hoping the president would fall right into their hands so they could gain control of the country. They already conquered S.H.I.E.L.D but they weren’t stopping there. They were after everyone. The avengers, the military, CIA, FBI, the whole lot. As long as they were under Hydra’s power, there was no hope for anyone.

If what Bucky was saying was true, that she was miles away from Washington, it wasn’t going to be as simple as escaping and running back home. She could be in another state or another country for that matter.

What she needed was more information but was she going to get it?

She didn’t even have a window in her room so she couldn’t tell what time it was.

Time passed and Violet had been running over scenarios in her head of plans to get home. One plan she had conjured up with was knocking him out and escaping, locking him in this room but she knew what would be tricky. For starters, he was much bigger than her and therefore harder to take down. Second, what was she going to knock him out with. Her eyes flickered to the bowl on the table. It was made from fine China. That could easily break over his head, smashing to a million pieces and hopefully giving him a hard enough knock so he would remain unconscious.

Her next idea was to find a phone in this place. The only way to do that would be to escape from this room but it was heavily locked, judging by the amount of locks clicking as Bucky came and that would also involve knocking him out to bide her some time. She did run across the idea that she could ask to take a shower but she already had a bathroom in this room so it wouldn’t work. He’d know straight away something wasn’t right.

Violet sighed and let her head drop into the pillow behind her head. She didn’t have many options but there was no way she was going to just sit in here and let Hydra win.

The familiar sound of Bucky’s footsteps came down the hallway outside her room and the door opened abruptly, revealing the super soldier. Violet sat in the bed, fiddling with a loose piece of thread on her top, threading it through her fingers to pass time. She stared at Bucky as he walked in, carrying another dinner tray, this time with a plate.

“Dinner” he said, holding it up and moved to place it on the desk to retrieve the old one. Violet’s head snapped to the open door, and she debated whether to make a quick run for it now, but she knew herself she wouldn’t stand a chance. He was right there and could easily catch her. She needed him immobilised to be able to run.

“What is Hydra planning to do?” she asked softly, catching him off guard and he froze as he picked up the other tray. He turned to her, eyes slightly narrowed and placed the tray back down, giving her his full attention.

“Does it matter to you” he raised a brow and Violet sunk back a little but cleared her throat before speaking.

“Well seeing as I’m here being held captive then yeah it does” she fought back and Bucky smirked, scoffing a little.

“Planning to do with you or with your father?” he asked, stepping a little closer to her. she could smell his intoxicating musk from where she was sat, and she tried to ignore it.

“Both” she squeaked.

“Well like I told you, you are just bait really. As long as your father does what we want then you’ll be free to go. Hydra believes the world should have order, should be controlled. With Hydra in power, nothing will stop them. But if you father doesn’t comply… then he’ll never see you again”.

Violet sucked in a breath, her eyes widening at his words. Did that mean Hydra would kill her, dispose of her body like a sack of potatoes, wiped off the face of the earth. Or did that mean they’d kill her father. Whatever he meant, she couldn’t sit back and let that happen. Yes, she had no power, she had no strength compared to the soldier standing in front of her, she had no weapons but what she did have was a brain and charm.

“People are going to be looking for me. Hydra may be in control but there are people who will bring them down” she tried to sound threatening, but it was no use. Bucky chuckled, shaking his head.

“Who… the avengers. Thanks to you, Hydra know they are working with your father, and they are already working on eliminating them” Violet had almost forgotten. She had given them that information, the night he broke into her room and forced it out of her. That night when he placed his hand just between her legs and made her feel something she knew she shouldn’t.

“Only because you were going to hurt me if I didn’t” she growled back and Bucky smirked, walking over to her. Violet scurried away from him, getting as far into the wall behind her as she could but she was stuck. She pressed her back into the hard plaster, pain running through her bones.

Bucky leaned over, still towering over her, his long hair falling slightly. Violet was hit was a whiff of his cologne, the scent almost knocking her out because it was so strong. His face was very close to hers, his nose almost touching, and his eyes glided over hers and then to her lips. He pushed his tongue out, licking his bottom lip and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.

“You liked that though, didn’t you? You liked the fact that a dangerous man, broke into your bedroom, waited for you to come, forced you against the wall, my hand around your neck” he whispered, and Violet shook her head fast.

“No, no I didn’t” Bucky shook his head back at her slowly, the action condescending and he raised his flesh hand, cupping her jaw, his thumb tracing over her lips.

“Yes, you did, I remember, you got all hot and bothered and then you gave into me, not because I forced you but because you wanted to”. Violet breathed deeply as he dragged her lip downwards, baring her teeth and he grinned, his teeth gleaming. He slowly dragged his head to her side, his nose brushing her hair away from her ear as he whispered softly.

“You’re doing it right now, getting all shy and flustered” his lips grazed her ear and she shuddered, a tingle running down her body, but she flinched to get away. Bucky pulled back, staring down at her and laughed under his breath.

“I’ll be back later… be a good girl and eat your dinner” he ordered gently before walking out the room, shutting the door and locking it, leaving Violet as he said, flustered.

Hey so I hope you liked this chapter, what do you think will happen next, don’t forget to like, comment and reblog 

Chapter 10

#sebastian stan #sebastian stan fanfiction #bucky barnes #Bucky Barnes dom #Bucky Barnes fanficiton #Bucky Barnes x female character #the winter soldier #Captain America the winter soldier #james bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #marvel

[goodwilltemptation]

Tamed by Miltown, we lie on Mother's bed;

the rising sun in war paint dyes us red;

in broad daylight her gilded bed-posts shine,

abandoned, almost Dionysian.

At last the trees are green on Marlborough Street,

blossoms on our magnolia ignite

the morning with their murderous five days' white.

All night I've held your hand,

as if you had

a fourth time faced the kingdom of the mad—

its hackneyed speech, its homicidal eye—

and dragged me home alive. . . .Oh my Petite,

clearest of all God's creatures, still all air and nerve:

you were in your twenties, and I, once hand on glass,

heart in mouth,

Outdrank the Rahvs in the heat of Greenwich Village, fainting at your feet—

too boiled and shy

and poker-faced to make a pass,

while the shrill verve

of your invective scorched the traditional South.

Now twelve years later, you turn your back.

Sleepless, you hold

your pillow to your hollows like a child;

your old-fashioned tirade—

loving, rapid, merciless—

breaks like the Atlantic Ocean on my head.

-Robert Lowell, Man and Wife

#poem #poetry #literature #robert lowell

[desicowgirl]

A Family Documentary

My father has chronic neck and back pain. Always being hunched over in his office. FIngers tirelessly racing against his keyboard day and night. Relentless and time consuming work, always on the clock. Tonight he takes us out to dinner and spoils us with dessert too. Afterwards, we will reach home and cross through the threshold laughing with our bellies full and while the rest of us make our way upstairs to our warm beds, he will remain downstairs. He bids us goodnight and closes the door to his office. The next morning I will wake up for school and he will already be long gone, but there is a note waiting for me outside my room. “It is cold outside today” it reads, and sitting beside the note is my coat and a pack of hand warmers. He will then return that night from work and we will all sip on tea in our living room listening to his stories of war and love. He will smile ever so brightly and fondly at us and the light will dance upon his face dimming the deep bags under his eyes.

My mother is always in need of a bandaid. She had nicked her finger again with the sharp and merciless knife as she prepared a plate of fruit for me. She cuts through meat, fruits, grains, vegetables, and her own flesh. However, I take too long to get up from the couch and she is now frustrated. A shouting match breaks out between us, bouncing between the walls, making the room feel much smaller than it really is. I grab the bandaid and slam it on the counter leaving the kitchen in a flurry of anger. Yet despite this, she dresses her wounds and continues on cutting. Once she is done she will let out a soft knock on my door. I let her in and she will lay down a white flag: a plate of mangos that she washed with gentle hands, cut with precision, plated with softness, and handled with love just like her own mother did before her.

My eldest sister is not surprised to see the door to her bedroom creak upon, light from the dimly lit hallway slowly floods into her room, and the figure of a young girl manifests. She rolls over and lifts the cover without saying a word while I slither and climb in, my snot smearing on her pristine pillows. The next morning we both sit at the breakfast table sneezing and sniffling while my mom fetches for flu and cold relievers for the both of us. Ten years pass and the bedrooms of our youth now takes the form of her home. I now ring the doorbell to the house of her new family and she lets me in, telling me to stay however long I need, feeding me, and allowing me into her sanctuary. But little does she know the true sanctuary she is giving me is her heart. Her heart that is a deeply rooted tree, forever growing amidst the chopping of wood, always producing warm delicacies for those around her, constantly giving while others take, and she does so unwaveringly.

My older sister just sent me a message. It is a screenshot of something so inherently niche to who I am as a person. I grin from ear to ear as I heart the message. She wraps gifts for me on my birthday of things that bring me to tears. It’s as if she procured them by reaching into my soul and grabbing my wants and needs. We both are talkers and despite the friction and anger it caused as we grew up, now it’s something I treasure so dearly: for my sister talks and talks and talks, ripping her words open, gutting them out, cleaning the remains, filling them with care and warmth, and delicately stitches them whole. She talks and talks and talks about me. My sister talks about me, my accomplishments, my victories, my dreams, my smile, my tendencies, my potential, my beauty, and she does so with such fondness in her eyes that they bring upon me so much warmth and life. So much so rhat they rival the sun herself.

My older brother is a soft gush of wind, existing ever so quietly but always there: moving around me. This wind finds me on cold and desolate winter days where my mind is stuck in the slush of the snow, taking on the form of warm and earthy heat. This wind finds me on summer days where I am confronted with mindless boredom but this time the wind is cool and refreshing on the brow of my forehead. Some days the wind is behind my back keeping me upright in the face of grief and pain. Others, the wind is above me keeping me rooted in the ground as life tries to topple me over. The wind keeps me going like the push to my sails, giving me the momentum to reach my destinations. The wind is everywhere and all around, encompassing me in a compassionate embrace without saying a word.

#a family documentary #I wrote this for a class assignment but ended up never turning it in #a little incoherent and half baked as are most of my writing #but I love my family #beyond belief #so yeah #I’ll admit this is extremely long lmfao #one day I’ll proofread it and edit it maybe and turn it into something good #for now it will exisit here #m’s mind #biography blogging

[lucifers-favorite-pen]

YOU GUYS

MY LAST DEMON VOUCHER

MY VERY LAST ONE

AND I GOT HIM

I DID IT

THIS IS THE BEST DAY OF MY LIFE

I HAVE NEVER HAD SO MUCH SEROTONIN

OMFG

#obey me #obey me Lucifer #obey me event #obey me cards #the merciless pillow war