#the singing woman from the wood's edge

[seonghwaddict]

stupefied — kang yeosang

in which a small accident leads to something more.

prince!kang yeosang x fem!reader. genre. fluff, domestic fluff, slight crack. warnings. they're super awkward, description and mentions of wounds, a tiny bit of blood, they're super cute. wc. 5.8k.

lilo's notes. hi i'm back :3

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There was nothing that could explain why Prince Kang Yeosang was roaming the woods, other than the fact that he desired a break. He told his servants not to go looking for him because he was on a personal mission, but in reality, he wanted to mindlessly wander around in a disguise that would not attract attention. He set off in his worst garments and a hood above his head. The brief vacation was only supposed to last for a day, but it did not go as he had anticipated.

After winding his way through snow and wood for so long, he fell into a rhythm. His defences were down and his thoughts were building themselves into other things until he heard singing. It was an enchanting melody, but that did not keep him from being wary. Once he brought more focus to his path, he realised that the part of the forest he was in felt unfamiliar. He told himself he was too competent to fall into such a generic trap, so he got off his horse and secured him to a tree. After asking his companion not to make a sound—as if the animal would understand him—he moved further with much caution and hands raised. His fingers twitched as the voice grew louder and his boots pushed quietly onto the earth.

Up ahead, you hummed a sweet melody. However, you faltered for a second when you heard the snap of a twig. It was easy to believe that it was likely one of the many harmless animals that liked to roam about the area in the afternoon, so you continued. Your confidence began to diminish once the sounds of birds twittering faded into silence. It did not look like a storm was coming, so the safest conclusion was already thrown aside along with your composure. By all accounts, if you were so nervous, why did you continue singing?

As Yeosang passed a shrub, he saw you by several bushes filled with various berries. His first thought was not him questioning why a young woman would be by herself in this secluded part of the forest. Instead, he thought of how carefully your fingers skimmed across each fruit to study them. He was close enough to see the way the sun caused a glimmer that beamed off your shoulders and brought a shine to the locks of your hair. If he was closer, he would have seen that your rosy lips were the result of you biting them to strengthen your concentration on berry picking. To his hidden delight, those same lips did not stop singing as minutes passed. The sight before him eased his suspicions significantly, but he was still hesitant about making his presence known. The Prince had planned to turn on his heels and try to forget what he saw, but once he put his guard down, his vigilance followed suit. A larger branch whimpered as it cracked from the weight of his body, and the next thing he could properly process was the girl’s frightened eyes meeting him.

From your perspective, it was after you had noticed that the birds were completely silent that you heard the branch break. You glanced at your surroundings briefly, picking up the largest rock you spotted. Just in case. You were on edge more than usual, so you whipped around to see why the sound was coming from behind you, and what had been causing it. Any other creature was what you expected, but when you saw a man crouched behind a shrub, you instinctively screamed and threw the rock right at him, hitting his head. The basket of freshly picked berries was knocked over as you tried to gather the fabric of your dress. Your shoes carried you to the nearest tree and you hid behind it and held your breath. The anticipation grew up your spine as the silence persisted. Minutes passed without any response from the mysterious man so she peeked. You could see the man’s wavy black hair still peeking out of what he previously hid behind.

You had concluded that ten minutes was not the normal amount of time that someone would pretend to be unconscious, so you approached his still body with your hands stretched out, ready to defend your own life. His face was the first thing she noticed about him. His features were so striking that you felt that if you reached out with your hands, your fingers would have bled. His physical appearance did not match the frayed clothing that he was wearing. Every strand of his hair fell into perfect position even though he had been knocked down on the ground. He was well-groomed in every sense of the word. It was odd. From your speed search, there did not seem to be any weapons on him, which made the situation even stranger.

“Oh, no.” You sank to the ground in shame.

Your fingers warily made their way to his wrist to check for a pulse, then his neck. He was so cold that without the hammering beating of his heart, she would have assumed that he was already dead. The growing red colour on his arm and the thin cut on his temple made the situation even more critical. You needed to get him to your home, but you did not know how to. You scrambled to pick up the man, but the weight you felt when you attempted to lift him by his shoulders was enough to convince you that dragging him back home would not work. Everything seemed pointless until you heard the heavy breaths and cries of a horse not too far from where you were. You thought that if it was not this strange man’s horse, then who else would be around to tie a horse to a tree? After practically begging the horse to lie down, you were finally able to drag the man onto it. That’s when you definitely knew you made the right decision. The majestic, pitch-black creature seemed so comfortable with the heavy man thrown over it like a towel.

“Come along now, sweetie.” You took the horse’s reins and walked it to your cottage.

When Prince Yeosang woke up, the first thing he saw was a cat. It was perched on his chest with no thought about the consent of the stranger. Its mismatched green and blue eyes almost distracted Yeosang from the fact that he was in a room that he was unfamiliar with. Not only that, but he felt something wrapped tightly around his arm and something else sticking against his temple. Before he could panic, he heard someone coming into the room.

“Laura!” You came rushing in. The cat was quickly removed from the prince’s chest, and he felt like he was left completely thoughtless. You tried to cradle Laura, but the cat leapt from your hands and out of the room. “I’m so sorry,” oyu said. The man stayed completely still, as the emotion on his face still remained ambiguous. You took that as your cue to introduce yourself with your first name. You waited to see if he would introduce himself too. When he didn’t, you continued. “You fell on a rock and were out cold when I checked you. Um,” you quickly pointed to the window on your right, “your horse is outside. I fed him… he’s really pretty.”

“Thank you,” he said. At any other time, the prince would be ready to fight his way out of a situation, but he was more focused on the light from the candles in the room gently contouring your face. Your beauty was painfully enchanting. It was a surprise how your features stupefied him the moment you stumbled through the door.

“Your food.” You dashed out of the small room as quickly as you came in. Your dress moved like billowing clouds as you made haste to retrieve his food, your quick footsteps giving the illusion that you were floating. Yeosang felt like he was looking at a person from the very fairy tales he heard as a child.

You came back in carrying a tray with a bowl and utensils in the centre. “Would you like it?”

“Like what?”

“Some food,” you nervously stated. Your idea of bringing the man back to your cabin was as awkward as you expected it to be, you were starting to regret your plan.

“Oh…” he nodded, “yes, please.” It should not have been that easy for a stranger to convince him to ingest anything, but he already had the silverware in his mouth before he was mentally chastising himself for being so easily charmed.

“I’m sorry for the confusion. I think you got cut on a sharp rock because your arm was bleeding really bad,” you said. That is when Yeosang finally stopped eating and looked at his left arm. It was utterly embarrassing that he did not notice it was entirely bandaged until now. He did not want to admit how bad it looked from the few discoloured parts of flesh peeking through. “And… you must’ve hit your head on something. I put some plasters on the little bit, but I think it should be fine by now.”

“Still, I would hate for you to continue your journey with an injured arm,” you added. You kept your attention on his wounded limb, it was jarring to see how dark his eyes were. They intimidated you into looking anywhere but at him and attempting bad conversation. “You can stay here until you feel well enough to return to what you were doing if that’s what she would like.”

“Thank you so much for your kindness.” Yeosang was no longer going to lie to himself. He knew he would rather spend days with the bewitching woman who saved his life than return to his very own prison. He would just hope that you didn’t have any ill intentions because it would be a shame if he would have to take you out himself.

“So,” you got up to mindlessly shuffle some stuff in the room. “What’s your name?” you grinned.

“Yeosang,” he replied without much thought. He wanted to take it back, but it was too late. No one really called him that anymore—but if you didn’t recognise him as the prince of this nation, he would try his best to keep it that way even if he could only experience a form of normality for a few days.

“That’s a lovely name… May I ask where you’re from? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around the nearest town…” You trailed off at the end in hesitation.

He thought for a moment before he said, “Gyeongju.”

“Oh, my—What’s it like? I’ve never been to the capital.” You could not stop your true reaction from escaping.

“It’s…” he let out a sigh, “pleasant.” The conversation died for a moment so you focused on Laura making it to the top of your dresser. It was your excuse for still not looking at him. “Where are you from, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“I was raised here” you replied as you stroked Laura. He nodded. The conservation did not go any further until you chimed in again, “Well, it’s late. It’s such a shame that you just woke up.”

“I’m sure I’ll sleep,” he voiced politely.

“Okay.” You smiled and began to snuff out the candles around the room. “The door’ll be open so if you have any problems, you can just ask.”

The prince mindlessly nodded to your instruction. It would have been easy to ask where you would be if he was not so uncharacteristically timid. Yeosang refused to try to sleep. There was still some hesitance that made him cautious of sinking into the bed with a weak arm. It grew stiffer as the night continued, so he distracted himself with a book that was left on the wooden dresser.

The feeling of a weight on the Prince’s chest woke him up. When his eyes snapped open, they were looking at the sharp eyes of a feline which brought back memories of the afternoon before. His consciousness did not scare away the cat—as he had desired—but he knew picking up Laura would surely bring unpredictable pain. So, he stayed in an undisclosed staring match with her even as he heard small movements outside the room. After a short period, his focus broke once he heard distant calls for the cat. The young Prince looked back at the cat, which was now preparing to fall asleep on his lap until it met his eyes again. Laura stood right back up—he almost expected her to groan—and hopped off of the bed and out of the room. He followed suit, careful not to strain his injuries, and got out of bed. His body ached more than he was used to. It hurt all over, but there was a more pronounced pain in his forehead. Unfortunately, there was not much to do but follow the path Laura had shown to the kitchen.

“Laura—” The cat quickly interrupted you by hopping into your arms as you crouched. “Where did you go?” you petted her. Yeosang walked into the kitchen, but his steps in his shoes were very quiet. You didn’t notice him until Laura turned from staring at absolutely nothing to the towering wounded man. “Did you wake him?” You whispered to her. Laura continued to stare at the towering, pale man. “I apologise,” you muttered. He nodded with the faintest, courteous smile. You took the trace of emotion that you were given and pulled out a dining chair as you gestured him over. His long legs took him over to the dining table without much effort.

“Thank you.” He completed a small bow, and he sat. Instead of going into his meal, he looked around as you were occupied with trying to get Laura to eat. His brief scanning of the house had him see his horse through the window to the right of him.

“He was fed this morning,” you reassured him.

“Thank you.” He felt like an echo in a cave. He still had not said anything besides constantly thanking you for your hospitality. “He appears to be doing much better than I am.” He was satisfied to see how easily you let out a small chuckle.

After making sure Laura had finished eating, you rose and grabbed the handles of a woven picnic basket. “I’ll be back in a few minutes,” you told him as you looked at his nose instead of his eyes because it was easier that way. You turned to Laura and whispered to her ears, “Please, behave, and don’t embarrass me.” As if she would listen if she could. As you went through the door, you looked back for a brief moment. You saw the man’s head whip back to attentively look at the cat on the dining chair. You closed the door and sent a small prayer that if the man tried to take anything or cause any trouble, then your cat would at least try to put up a fight.

Once the door had completely closed and your gentle footsteps grew quieter, he waited three minutes while eating and carrying on the staring match he had with the tabby cat, then got up and let his legs lead him throughout the house. Different varieties of dried flowers spun into circles were gently laid into a bowl. Next to it was the basket of berries he believed he saw yesterday. Plates were lazily leaning against the wall on a shelf while mugs were hanging from hooks. A sweet smell lingered in the kitchen, even though it looked recently cleaned. He couldn’t exactly name the scent but it resembled a mixture of vanilla and something fruity. He did not lose interest in the kitchen but knew his nosy lingering may take longer if he stayed. Yeosang walked to the living room to see two small armchairs next to a well-maintained fireplace. The abundance of shelves on the wall were filled with many books of varying sizes and colours. There was a knitted blanket haphazardly tossed over the chair facing his room.

He continued scanning the room and saw a closed door he never noticed; he had no time to think about the chairs any further. Had he been a guest anywhere else, he would have honoured privacy, but he considered this a unique circumstance. His fingers enveloped the handle and the door whined as he slowly pushed it open. All he did was poke his head in and was met with a clean and very simple room. It was a lot like the one he slept in, except there were different items decorating the tiny dresser. 

Ultimately, Yeosang felt pleased enough with what he glimpsed that he took his snooping to the front door. He held the door latch, peered through the window next to it, and opened the door.

The sun hit his cheeks in small ruptures as its rays tried to twist through the thick trees that blanketed and guarded the cottage. His horse stood without any sign of distress. Yeosang petted the horse while simultaneously giving him some of the berries that Yeosang took off of his plate.

The Prince looked around the exterior of the cottage as his companion leisurely absorbed the sun. The house almost appeared swallowed by bushes, shrubs, flowers, and a few potted plants. His slightly tattered shoes led him around the house. There was a small garden of salad leaves in their pots. With one of his hands brought behind his back, he leaned in to look further at the vegetation.

“You found dinner.” 

Your small voice only tapped his ears, but it startled him into losing his balance. He would have caught himself if she had not assumed he would crush the leaves and attempt to catch him. Your hasty moves caused your steps to be misplaced and she crashed into his hard, warm back. You expected to take him down with you, but he did not budge. Once you realized your face was not meeting the dirt, but rather remained on his back, you erected your spine back up and tried to ignore the wave of embarrassment.

“I’m sorry!” You frantically tried to smoothen the wrinkles on his clothes while avoiding his eyes.

You thought you heard a chuckle come from him. It would have been hard to miss it if his shoulders did not shake when he laughed. “I should be apologizing,” he briefly looks at the plants before switching to look you in the eyes, “I’ve been exploring.”

“That’s fine,” you assured. As he watched you pick up your basket, Yeosang wondered how he got so occupied that he did not notice your return. You walked back to the front of the cottage and inside without checking to see if he was following you. Laura poked her head up upon the opening of the door and right back down when she saw it was you.

“May I?” you heard him say. You turned and saw him, gesturing toward the rows of books you had on display.

“Go ahead,” you said, “there’s not a lot for you to do around here, unfortunately.”

“It’s quite alright, this is enough entertainment.”

“Well, that’s good to hear.” You went back to rummaging through a cabinet for the items you needed to tend to the plants outside.

For Yeosang, the morning went by as quickly as the last chapter of the book had arrived. He noticed that you had gone outside, but not that the sun had already made it to its highest point by the time he closed the story and set it aside. He made an effort to inconspicuously look outside the window leading outside to the front of the house to see if he could spot you and not just a tall black horse. His effort was a failure, but his pride found another alternative. The Prince rose from the chair and walked outside.

As he pretended to walk closer to his companion, he got a much better view of you. Your hands were occupied with tending to the pieces of each plant as your eyes followed them with deep concentration. He saw strands of your hair spilling out of a patterned headscarf you used to protect yourself from the sun. From those same strands came a single bead of sweat that started from your head, down the side of your face, and past your jaw. It continued down your neck and that’s when he refused to keep looking further.

“How was the book?” You looked at him for a moment to see him looking at his horse with too much focus.

He looked over and tried to pretend to have just noticed you. “Good,” he replied. He watched you get up from the ground.

You removed your gloves and walked closer to him. “Could I– um–” She pointed to his bandaged arm.

“Of course,” he replied.

As soon as you were given permission, you took his hand with one hand and lifted his arm with the other. You inched closer in hopes of seeing more without having to move the arm any more than needed. During your inspection, from his height, he was able to see the natural curl of your lashes. The fragments of the sun made the warm glow of your skin more apparent. When you took his hands, it was a moment of cold clarity. He could not remember the last time he was so aware that he was touching another person as it was happening.

“Yeosang?” you looked up at him and were surprised by the lack of space you were giving him. It was easier to pretend that you did not notice.

He hummed in response

“I asked you ‘how much does it hurt?’”

“It aches, not as painful as yesterday, though.”

You nodded, gently placing his hand back down. “And your head?” You gestured at your temple.

“Feels fine to me.”

“Wonderful.”

The rest of the afternoon flew by thanks to the chores she tended to outside and inside, with Yeosang lingering behind you every step of the way. He offered help many times, but you denied his offers and told him not to put stress on his arm. Not wanting to be completely useless, he held a short conversation. It was when dinner was ready and Laura was eating out her plate that you both fell back onto the topic of where he was from.

“Forgive me for asking, but what’s the Palace like?” you asked. He mentioned working there during one of your short conversations.

“Um,” he thought for a moment as he chewed, “clean, I suppose?” You finally heard the sound of laughter not just from yourself, but from him as well as he shrugged. It was nice, and it filled up the house with warmth. “I’ve never had the chance to observe it all,” he said.

“Were you busy?”

“Many duties,” he claimed.

His responses were as short as the time you had known him, but they were getting longer, much to your delight. You wanted to ask him what his job was, but you were not sure if you would be poking too much into his personal business. However, your curiosity about the outside world fueled you to keep going. “Are those duties being neglected right now?”

 “Possibly.”

“I’ll try my best to help speed up your recovery,” you pushed around a piece of asparagus on your plate.

“Much appreciated, but I’m sure they don’t miss me too much.” He quietly appreciated your questions, because as he answered them, the excitement in your eyes never dimmed.

You nodded in response and continued to eat. You pretended not to look at him as he ate, but even in the evening, the dim lighting of the candles scattered around the house made his face look even more enticing. You saw him glance over to check on his horse outside.

“Your horse should be fine outside. Nothing ever comes by here,” you assured.

“It is quite an isolated home,” he realised.

“Yes,” you agreed.

It was quiet for a few more moments until he asked a question of his own. “Have you always lived here?”

“Yes. Can’t really remember living anywhere else.” You tried to pet Laura as she wrapped herself around your foot, but she then began avoiding your hand before skittering under the table to settle at his feet.

“Really? I’ve never come across here,” he said as his brows furrowed, but he nodded before going back to his meal.

The rest of the evening was spent cleaning up the events of the day that passed. The current occupants of the house finished the day with reading. Once it was time to retreat into sleep, you were already fast asleep on the chair with your quilt and a book trapped under it with you.

Yeosang saw how shallow your breaths became and how supple your cheeks were when they were pressed against your shoulder that you used as a pillow. He took it as his cue to go to the bed he was given. He went around and snuffed out each flame in every candle with the tips of his fingers. He pretended to ignore the cat as she followed him into the room and slept beside him. He made the effort to try to rest by telling himself that this would probably be the only real rest he would get for the next decade.

The sun brought in the next day and he never remembered falling asleep or waking up. The stiffness in his back made it clear that he did both of those things. He wished that he was not a little disappointed that Laura did not greet him with her morning stare, but he did not take it personally. He simply put on the same shoes and hoped that he would find someone in the kitchen even though there was no noise coming from any part of the house. He made it into the living room and was met with complete stillness and silence. From the window, he could see his horse grazing. Once he made it outside, the sun was shining much brighter than he expected. He had slept longer than he had intended.

It was relieving to see Laura preoccupied with attacking insects, but one more person was missing. Amid his deep thoughts, he petted his horse and scanned around the house for any sign of you getting a task done.

“I suppose you don’t know where she is,” the Prince playfully said to the cat.

Later, a certain beauty walked back to her cottage with a picnic basket of her clothes in one hand and a large bucket of water in the other. You bid good morning to your cat and his horse on your path back inside the house. It was almost as quiet as you left it, but you did hear some movement coming from inside your old room.

He could already tell it was you who came back just by the gentleness of the sound of the footsteps that came inside. The prince already had a book in his hand, trying not to look flush when he saw your head poke into the room.

“Hi,” she said.

“Hello,” he made the effort to remember to smile instead of just staring.

“I’m here to change your bandage.” You came in with a new set of clothes in your hand and the other necessary items to clean up a wound. The various plasters you stuck onto his right temple were already removed the day before, nothing but a faint bruise was left behind. His arm, however, would take a bit longer to heal. As you took off his bandage, you forced your hands to not tremble, repeatedly reminding yourself to only touch where it was necessary despite how tempting the muscles of his arm looked. Once the fabric was completely off, he got to see the injury that was his excuse to extend his vacation. The deep cut started halfway up his forearm and to his upper arm. It was like a dark red serpent permanently etched on his skin. I suppose that does seem pretty bad…

“I think it might scar,” you said as you gently tried to wipe off areas of dried blood.

“I wouldn’t worry,” you heard him say, “… a scar isn’t too hard to get rid of.”

You nodded in hesitation and pretended you could not feel his deep brown eyes staring at you as you worked. “I brought you some water from the stream so you can bathe. You can wear that shirt over there while I clean this one.”

“Thank you, but I’ll heal just the same without you inconveniencing yourself.” His comment was genuine but had a mixture of disappointment.

“Well, it is my responsibility.” You tried not to seem entranced by his starless eyes as you both stopped for a moment to look at each other.

“Why?” he asked. You shrugged your shoulders in response, ignoring the unspoken truth marinating on your tongue. It’s my fault you got hurt.

The afternoon with him in the cottage was slightly more talkative than the days before. He attempted to play with Laura as he pretended to read, skimming the same line over and over and over again. In the moments when he was not too distracted, he watched you complete some more chores around the property with the occasional insistence to help. You begged him to remain rested and even threatened him to sell his horse if he tried to help, but in exchange he let you continue to ask about the capital. His description of the palace brought shame to the books describing the same place. He was surprised at how willing he was to recount the layout of the place he had come to know well. By then, speaking more openly to you was much less difficult than he had expected it to be.

By the time the sunlight took over the country, he was intrigued by how quickly the days were being eaten by the cooperation of the moon and the sun. On his way to return the books that he took, he watched you begin to blow out each candle until the darkness flooded the cottage. Yeosang took the opportunity to retreat into his temporary room, in which Laura was already sleeping at the foot of the bed.

“Yeosang,” you spoke into the darkness. He turned around. You noticed how well his figure fit into the darkness. His ink hair almost blended into the surrounding shadows. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he smiled.

It was a good night. He allowed his bed to swallow him much easier than the nights before, but you took longer to fall asleep.

The very late afternoon the next day was the perfect time to go searching for food in the forest. It was initially meant to be a solo trip, but the not-so-unfamiliar stranger refused to hear your request to rest his arm, tagged along, and promised to only watch. The walk throughout the woods was filled with the sound of shoes crushing leaves and branches accompanied by a pleasant chat. It was a few minutes into your search that she found what they were looking for.

“They’re beautiful!” You smiled and looked back at the tall man to see if he was just as happy as you were. He returned your smile with his own since he was amused by your child-like giddiness.

Without paying caution, she enthusiastically reached for the berries. He reached for your wrist to stop you from hurting yourself, but it was too late. A particular thorn right above the fruit sliced through your flesh much deeper than it would have if she had noticed it. As the thorn ran through your hand, parting skin from one another like a boulder spilling crashing waves in the ocean, blood began rushing out of her open wound. She knew better than to pull back her hand recklessly, knowing it might make the situation worse. He did it for her instead. He carefully took her hand and tried to cover the wound. 

The wound wasn’t terrible or serious in any way, but neither of you acknowledged that as he cradled your hands a mere five minutes later, the two of you sat on the sofa. His hands, though large and masculine, felt surprisingly soft. He wiped the spilt blood clean and carefully placed a plaster over it. Even after successfully treating your small wound, he kept your hand in both of his, looking down at them and absentmindedly brushing his thumb over your knuckles. You didn’t mind one bit. In fact, you’d been yearning to feel his touch more and more as the days passed.

A comfortable silence passed over the two of you, but minutes later a conversation came by naturally. If someone asked you what this conversation was about, you wouldn’t have been able to answer, for you were so comfortable speaking to him that you let down your guard, words flowing freely without a second thought. At some point, the two of you had moved closer. So close that you had lain down while he stayed sat, your legs thrown over his at some point as his hands tapped and caressed your knees.

You talked well into the night. Naturally, you grew tired, your eyelids drooping as you looked up at him, trying your best not to fall asleep. He caught on quickly, a chuckle escaping him as he gave your knee a brief squeeze.

“You’re tired,” he pointed out, “you should sleep.”

In response, you pouted and shook your head. “No, no. I’m fine. Keep talking to me, please.”

His smile softened at your words and did as you asked. The low baritone of his voice did nothing to keep you awake, soothing you further asleep. Minutes later, he thought you’d agree to go to your bed and sleep, but you only whined in your half-asleep state and pulled him down with you, clutching onto his sleeve but still careful not to hurt him.

And so he found himself laying with you on the couch, the two of you squished together on the narrow furniture yet it was still comfortable. You fell asleep much quicker than he did, already prancing around in dreamland by the time he finished manoeuvring the two of you to lay comfortably. Eventually, your gentle breaths against his neck and soft hand on his arm lulled him into a deep sleep.

networks. @cromernet @blankjournal

taglist. @ad0rechuu @sankatchu @mlink64 @yeosangsbb

#cromernet #bjnet #yeosang x reader #yeosang imagines #yeosang scenarios #yeosang headcanons #yeosang reactions #yeosang fluff #yeosang angst #ateez x reader #ateez angst #ateez imagines #ateez scenarios #ateez reactions #ateez headcanons #yandere ateez #ateez fluff #ateez soft hours #ateez soft thoughts #ateez soft asks #ateez smau #kang yeosan #ateez

[sailoryooons]

King of Tides | KSJ | Drabble

☾ Pairing: Pirate!Seokjin x Sea Demon!Reader 

☾ Summary: Seokjin meets a ghost of his past when he and his crew stop to celebrate for the evening. 

☾ Word Count: 1,969

☾ Genre: Pirate AU, Angst, Lovers to Enemies 

☾ Rating: 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately. 

☾ Warnings: References to smut, explicit language, weapons and mentions of murder, betrayal, vague world building, Seokjin is an Asshole, brief references to childhood trauma, angst. 

☾ Published: Friday, January 5, 2024

☾ A/N: Drabble 2 of the 100 Drabble Challenge is prompt #67, pirates! I had no idea what I was doing with this until I wrote it. It is obviously inspired by Pirate of the Caribbean with the whole Davy Jone’s chest thing, but I very much put my own spin on it. The ring is inspired by Solomon’s Ring, which is a Christian-centric mythology that Solomon had a ring that could summon the forces of Hell. So I did that but like… sea hell hahaha. I hope you enjoy this! I’ts very different for me!

☾ Disclaimer: All members of BTS are faces and name claims for this story. This is entirely a work of fiction and by no means is meant to be a projection, judgment or representation of real-life people. Any scenarios or representations of the people and places mentioned in works are not representative of real-life scenarios.

Main Masterlist ☾ 100 Drabble Masterlist ☾ Ask ☾ Song Inspiration

Seokjin is used to the occasional knife in the dark. As one of the most notorious captains and thieves on the seven seas, he’s even been the knife in the dark himself. 

When he feels the pressure of a blade against his spine tonight, he’s not surprised. His crew is too drunk to see the threat standing behind their captain, and Seokjin has made the ridiculous mistake of letting a pretty woman lure him to a dark table in the corner, away from the noise and celebrating. 

Seokjin immediately feels like a fool for letting his guard down, the worst mistake he could ever make. 

The pretty girl in front of him grins and looks at Seokjin’s assailant before nodding her head and slipping from the chair. He grits his teeth, realizing she is in on it. He clenches his fist as he starts to turn, but the knife digs into his ribs. A hard push would send it right between the two of them and into a lung. It would be a slow, gross death.

The raucous noise of the tavern buzzes in his ear as a hand taps his shoulder, signaling for him to stand. He does so slowly, looking around the tavern to see if there’s anyone he can appeal to for his plight.

No one pays him any mind, hands going up dresses or down pants, wine flowing, and crowd singing. His crew is too busy celebrating. And why shouldn’t they? They’ve just stopped at their favorite port after a successful three years of hunting a timeless piece of treasure. A power that puts Seokjin on edge.

The ring sits heavy in Seokjin’s pocket. Only Yoongi his firstmate and Namjoon his chronicler know of the power in Seokjin’s pocket, too dangerous to be left on the ship with the remainder of the treasure. He doesn’t enjoy hiding the ring from his crew, but he hasn’t quiet yet decided what to do with it. How to explain what it is that it does without scaring the loyal members of his crew.

Slowly, a hand turns Seokjin around and walks him toward the stairs, still at knifepoint. He grins as he goes, leaning his head to the side to see the person who holds him captive. The knife digs harder into his back, a warning that makes him chuckle and turn forward, holding his hands up in defeat.

“If you wanted to lure me to your bed, you just had to ask,” he says, going up the steps. His boots are heavy on the creaking wood as he goes. “I am the most handsome of pirates, but I’m also quite liberal with my affections.”

His captor says nothing as they reach the second landing. Doors line either side of the hall. Seokjin can detect all manner of lovemaking and laughter beyond each closed door. He does not typically favor staying upstairs or renting rooms for whores, preferring the rocking of the ship in the harbor and the canvas of the night sky. It makes him unfamiliar with the second floor, but he counts his steps as they go. 

They turn and go down another hall and stop at the last door of the right. It’s not a far run to get to the stairs and sound the alarm. Once he disarms his captor, he just needs to sprint and scream. He’s pretty quick on his feet and-

The knife prods him and he realizes the door to the room is open. He steps over the threshold into the room, glancing around. It’s simple enough. A single bed stands in the corner with a chest at the foot, a nightstand to the left, and a candle burning, smoke drifting toward the ceiling. 

When the door shuts behind him, Seokjin’s muscles coil. He prepares to spring, hand sliding into the front of his jacket pocket, inching towards the small knife there-

“Don’t bother,” the voice says, knife ever-present. Seokjin’s hand freezes, recognizing the rasp of your voice anywhere. “That’s not the right knife, Captain.” 

You’re right. The knife in his jacket pocket would do nothing against you, but the knife in his boot would. He’d grown lazy, no longer keeping the adamas dagger at his hip or within close reach. Three years haven’t made him feel safe, exactly, but he had started to think that you were still captive in that little home he’d left you in.

Evidently, it’s a mistake that will cost him. 

Now he’s nervous. You push him further into the room with your palm but remove the knife from his back. He doesn’t reach down to the weapon in his boot, stuck between fear and the desire to see you - to talk to you again. 

When he turns, his heart cracks open and starts to bleed. 

The last time Seokjin saw you is fresh in his memory. You’d been chained to the bed you shared in a small island home off the coast of the Americas. He remembers the smell of your skin, like salt and driftwood. The cool touch of your lips against his burning skin. You always felt like the depths of the ocean, every part of you fluid as you’d fucked him last night, your breath sea breeze against his mouth, cries a haunting siren song.

And your eyes. Seokjin sees the inhuman blue-green glow of your eyes every night. 

Now, those same eyes are staring at him, glowing in the dark. You stand so far in the shadows that it’s hard to make out any of your features or expressions, but Seokjin has your face burned into every part of his memory. The bow of your mouth, the slope of your nose, the roundness of your cheeks. It’s all there along with the knowledge that he’d betrayed you. Chained you. Loved you. 

When you step into the light, Seokjin holds his breath. You’re so beautiful. It’s what lured him to you in the first place, a sailor to a siren, but he knows you’re so much more than a pretty face and glowing eyes. You’re also incredibly smart and wicked, a ruthlessness in you as brutal as the sea running in your veins, an unpredictably like a storm destroying the tropics. 

A pirate by trade. Daughter of Leviathan by nature. 

“You must be talented to get out of those cuffs. We should have used them more” Seokjin doesn’t know what else to say. You’re not advancing further into the room, and he’s worried reaching for his knife will startle you. 

Behind him, the candle casts an orange glow on your face. It makes the sneer much more twisted, the furrowed brows as you glower harsher. Your features are sharper than he remembers, your eyes burning with the unnatural glow of a demon of the deep. You are murderous.

“I’m the favorite daughter of Leviathan, King of the Depths, Destroyer of Seas, and Maker of Tides. You think he would leave me to rot?” 

“No, I suppose he doesn’t want that pretty face to wilt.” He tries to appear casual, spinning and tossing himself on the bed. You don’t move, eyes tracking him. “I suppose you’ve been following me all this time, then?”

“I have far more important things to do.”

“Perhaps, but you’d always loved revenge.”

“I loved you.” 

There. You said it.

Seokjin doesn’t say anything for a moment, shocked to silence. Usually, you like to spar with your words, dancing around what you want to say with quick barbs and turns of phrase. Tonight, you cut right to it, leaving all playfulness out of your voice.

It makes his heart squeeze painfully. In the years that you sailed together, he cannot recall a time that you’ve ever been so direct. Even when you loved him most. Even when you were at your most vulnerable. 

Perhaps you are here to kill him after all. 

“So you’re here to win me back over?” he tries, desperate to get on familiar ground. Desperate to goad you. To make you snap back, to throw an insult. “You’ll need more than a knife to do that.”

“Give me the ring.”

“What do you want with it?” 

“The likes of you shouldn’t have the power to summon the demons of the depths.” 

“What if I’m in peril and need to call you?”

“You had me!” You roar, the force of your voice shaking the room, the candle almost guttering, the window panes shaking. He hears the scream downstairs, the entire building rattle with the rage of the ocean in your voice. 

Seokjin drops the act, sitting up and squeezing his fists to fight the nausea of guilt twisting his stomach. He can feel your rage fill up the room like a solid thing, a cold pressure pressing on his skin as the candle on the nightstand flickers. 

“Humans are not made to command Leviathan and his children” you growl, stepping further into the room. Standing closer to the light, Seokjin realizes your eyes are watery. He sucks in a sharp breath. He’s never seen you cry. “You are weak and petty, your lives but a speck of sand in fathomless oceans. You are selfish and greedy and cruel.” 

“Are demons not the same? Do you not fight amongst yourselves for power? Do you not cause chaos among the seas? Do you not hunger for power, lust, and riches?” 

“Those things belong to us.”

Seokjin stands abruptly. “Now they belong to me!” 

“Seokjin.”

“Now I will command the seas. I will have the power to rein in the monster of the depths when he wants to destroy innocent ships. When he wants to send storms against islands. When he wants to swallow the souls on the sea. He will bow to me, now.”

“This is madness.”

“This is fair.” He feels his heart rate speed up. Feels rage pumping through his system. Feels like the little boy clinging to a piece of driftwood as the sea destroys the ship he and his family were sailing on, feels the burn of saltwater in his lungs as the ocean drags him down, feels-

“You’d risk the world for a sense of vengeance for your lost childhood?” your voice is barely audible, a sea breeze. “The infamous Captain Seokjin of the Blue Moon, Scourge of the Seas, so afraid of losing control of the tide that he’d dare assert his dominance over it.”

“Captain Seokjin, King of Tides has a better ring to it.”

You glance at his pocket where you know the ring sits heavy. He can feel the power ebbing from the cool metal as thought it senses you in the room. Like calling to like. A tool to control Leviathan and all of his demonic children of the sea sensing one of those very creatures in front of him.

“The sea will bow to no one.” 

A blade glints in your hand. Seokjin finally realizes why you refuse to jest. Why there are tears in your eyes. You’re not here to negotiate or to let him loose. He truly has fallen out of your favor, and you’re here to take what he used you to steal. 

He slowly bends down, watching you all the while. You let him remove the knife from his boot, kind enough to offer him a fair fight. “The sea loved you, you know?” 

He knows you’re not just talking about the oceans he sails. His throat constricts as he nods. “I love her.” 

You appraise him once more, uncanny eyes flickering. If his admission that there is still warmth flickering for you has an effect, it doesn’t show. 

“Your love means nothing. You betrayed her and now you will meet your death, King of Tides.” 

He grips his knife firmly. The ring is heavy in his pocket. “I welcome the attempt.”  

#seokjin fic #jin fic #kim seokjin fic #jin x you #seokjin x you #jin x reader #seokjin x reader #jin fanfic #jin angst #bts fic #bts x you #bts fanfic #100 drabble challenge #pirate jin

[wackapedia]

The Snow Fairy

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Reader Summary: Rickon finds a snow fairy in the woods and asks his dad to kiss her so she can grant him a wish. Wordcount: 1,976 Warnings: mild injury, cute Rickon and his dad too hehe

Little Rickon walks down the snow-covered path, bunched in his thick fur coat. The caravan had stopped because the men ahead had spotted a horse running against the trail and worried that there were bandits. Fortunately, his father's men had scouted ahead and didn't find any danger. Their band decided to give the horses a little rest.

Rickon's father had put him down from the horse and sternly instructed him to stay put while they pack up to resume the journey back home. But he was a five-year-old. No one was watching him. Of course, he won't stay put.

At the edge of the path was a downhill slope and a shallow river running south. A hopscotch of rocks lay over the river, leading to the other side. Singing himself a little song, Rickon jumps on the rocks, safely avoiding the icy waters of the shallow river, landing on the other side.

---------

You let out a pained groan as you clutch your lower rib, dragging yourself against the snow. It doesn't look like you'll make it. The horse you'd stolen from the last town became too unruly and reared up on its hind legs, dropping you in the forest before galloping away. You were never good with horses anyway. You were forced to part ways with your dragon after you landed in White Harbour. "You can't hide with a dragon, especially if you're hiding from someone with their own dragon..."

So here you were, limping towards a freezing river to refill your flask and wash the mud that concealed the true colour of your hair. If it was the last thing you could do then so be it. You mustered what energy you had left before your vision blacks out and the cold surface of the snowy ground cushions your face.

--------

Cregan catches a messenger raven gracefully on his arm. It was important to stay informed while being on the road. There was a commotion at the back of their caravan as they prepare to leave. The young lord of Winterfell unfurls the message, updating him on the events in the capital.

"King Viserys is dead, they've crowned Prince Aegon. Prince Aemond is traveling south. The Princess y/n is missing."

"Seven hells..." He mutters to himself, shocked at the turn of events. The commotion continues at the back of the convoy. "My lord, young master Rickon is missing!" One of the ladies looking after his boy yelled in panic. Cregan immediately snaps into action.

-------

Little Rickon lets out a gasp as he walks by the river, spotting something that piqued his interest. He crouches next to your unconscious body by the river, eyes filled with wonder as he looks at the silver-white hair on your head, sprawled over the snow. "The Snow Fairy!" He whispers to himself.

------

"Rickon!" His father loudly bellows from the top of the slope. Rickon looks up and excitedly waves at his father, completely innocent of what is happening. The rest of the company lets out a collective sigh of relief seeing the young master.

Rickon jumps excitedly from where he crouched next to you as he sees his father make his way to him. Despite the displeased scowl on Cregan's face, Rickon beckons him to come to the other side of the river. "Father, I found the Snow Fairy! Come quick, you must kiss her so that she can grant us a wish! Quickly, quickly!"

Cregan sighs at his little boy's idea. Perhaps he has been spending too much time reading fairytales. "Come, Rickon. We have to get back home. I have several things to attend to." He balances himself on the rocks, crossing the river to get to his son when he notices what the boy has been talking about.

A woman was laying unconscious by the river. He almost missed it because her hair and her clothes almost match the snow. Her skin was so pale that he feared the worst.

The Lord of Winterfell quickly picks up his son, crouching down to get a better look at the body. "It's the Snow Fairy, Father!" The boy excitedly stomps his feet as he is wrapped in his father's warmth.

Cregan reaches out to sweep your hair aside to reveal your face. The princess y/n Targaryen. Cregan touches your forehead and is relieved to find a little warmth there. He quickly unclasps his coat to drape it over you before effortlessly picking up your limp body. He calls for one of his men to pick up Rickon, and commands another to prepare to resume the travel home.

The trip back to Winterfell was uneventful. The Princess Y/n who was still unconscious, was being attended to by the two ladies who were looking after Rickon, who continued to babble about fairies and granting wishes.

As they reached the large and imposing northern castle, the lord dismissed the welcome party and instead asked to have maesters fetched for the princess.

------ The first thing you felt was warmth. You felt several layers of fur on top of you, and then the crackling fire. It was dark. Oh, your eyes were closed. Ow, your abdomen hurts. And then you recall your last memory. You jolt at the thought, causing your muscles to spasm on your bruised, probably broken rib.

Opening your eyes, you squint at the dull sunlight from behind the glass window. You were in an unfamiliar room, a fireplace roaring to one side of it. To your left there sat a little boy, sulking and crossing his little arms over his chest. His youthful blue-grey gaze notices the movement in your head, and then he lets out a little gasp.

-------

Cregan exits the room along with the ladies and maesters attending to you. He had debated sending a raven to your mother, Queen Alicent, but decided he should speak to you first. It has been two days since you were brought to Winterfell and you still hadn't woken. Cregan almost stumbles in the hallway when his son catches him exiting the guest room, starting again with his fantasy. "Rickon, enough. I don't want to hear you talk about enchanted women-" "fairies! You must kiss her, Father! She will grant us a wish!" The boy interrupts his father. "...and I want you back to your lessons right now. No more excuses." Cregan strictly instructs his son and returns to his study to resume his duties.

Rickon squats at the hallway, scowling at his father's back. He doesn't want to go back to his lessons, he wants to see the Snow Fairy. so he does. The steel doorknob clicks at the wooden jamb as his little hands push the heavy wood. He pushes himself through the tiny gap and sits next to the bed. The Snow Fairy was still sleeping. Why won't his father just kiss her? That way she could wake up and grant him his wish. Rickon faces your sleeping form and then closes his eyes. "Snow Fairy, Snow Fairy, please grant my wish!" he pleads under his breath. "... Snow Fairy, I wish for a mother who would look after me, and read me fairytales whenever father is away. I also want a little sister, but it's alright if I can't have that now. Please Snow Fairy!"

Rickon slowly opens an eye, stealing a peek, and then huffs. You remained asleep. He needs to find someone to kiss you first.

And then, you draw a heavy breath, eyes beginning to move under your lids. Your head moves slightly from side to side. Another pained breath escapes your lips.

Rickon gasps and then yells: "Snow Fairy!" "...what?" You look at the kid sitting on your bedside, your head and your injured side still throbbing. "You're the Snow Fairy! Are you going to grant my wish?!" He jumps from his seat and bounces around the room, almost knocking over a table full of tonics and bandages. Someone, probably this kid's mom, must've come to patch you up. "Hey, little boy, where's your mother?" Your hoarsely spoke, slowly sitting up in bed. "You're supposed to give me one, silly!" The kid giggles. "o..okay?" He was cute but everything was so confusing to you at the moment. "Hey, come here, what's your name?" You beckon the little boy over as you reach for the glass of water on your bedside. "My name is Rickon Stark of Winterfell!" He practically yelled in excitement. Stark? Winterfell?! You didn't make it anywhere near Winterfell when you passed out. Just then, the doors to the chamber you were in opened fully. In comes a young imposing man, ready to scold the child messing about, but he notices you.

"P-Princess y/n!" He stutters. His eyes are deep grey, a little like the Rickon's. "We were starting to worry about you not waking." He smiled gently. He had a beautiful smile. You wanted to keep looking at him but he turns away when he picked up the boy and brought him out of the room. He comes back though, apologizing for his boy's commotion. "I am Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell." he stands next to the bed as maesters and ladies enter the room to check on you. "Do you remember anything, Princess?" He notes the confusion on your face. You knew Lord Stark. His wife had passed away a few years ago, leaving him with a son. Rickon.

"Yes, I... I'm sorry, how long was I out, Lord Stark?" "Two days." Cregan notices the alarm in your lilac eyes. "Don't worry, we didn't inform anyone else of your presence here. I wanted to speak to you first before writing to your mother." Ah, how kind of him. Unless you were being held hostage here. Your demeanour must've changed abruptly, and Cregan notices. "Please focus on getting better, you may ask the maidservants for anything you need. You are welcome to stay here for as long as you need. We can talk about your... predicament, once you're fully healed." He smiles wider this time, and it's making your heart race. You're suddenly worried about how messy you must look right now.

"Just one question, Lord Stark..." You call out to him after he gives you a small bow. "Why did your son call me a... Snow Fairy?" Cregan laughs with his entire chest. It was a marvelous sight and you wanted to make him laugh more. "Please pay him no mind, he's mistaken your beauty for a fairy." He reassures. "Although I wouldn't blame him, you are indeed very beautiful." Cregan grins. You find yourself overwhelmed by the attention, at the same time craving for more of it.

"I hope for your speedy recovery, Princess Y/n." He gives you a low nod and leaves the room. -------------

Days pass and your health is gradually restored, with the help of the maids who took care of you. Rickon rarely visits you in the guest chambers, but you notice him sneaking a peek at the windows or whenever the doors are left open. He must’ve been instructed to not disturb you. Noticing the child’s interest in you, you approach him one afternoon when you were taking a walk.

Compared to the excitement he showed when you first saw him, he is currently very silent and well-behaved. You were expecting a lot of questions but he just looked at you with wonder and curiosity in his eyes.

“I thank you for helping me, young Rickon.” You begin, attempting a conversation.“You’re welcome, Princess Y/n” He answers. He doesn’t call you Snow Fairy anymore, and somehow it made you sad.“Is there anything you’d like to ask me, Rickon?” You ask after a few beats of awkward silence. His beautiful blue-grey eyes are uncertain but decides to go for it:

“Would you like to kiss my Father, Princess Y/n?”

----------------------- a/n: ok so this one has a LOT of sequel potential, right? Part 2 - The Wolf Prince

#cregan stark #cregan stark x reader #hotd x reader #cregan stark x y/n

[shirefantasies]

Hey, babes!

Honestly I have brain rot for the idea of the ‘woman of the group does sexy dance to help mission’ trope and like LOTR boys. I also have brain rot for them hearing her sing ‘I Wanna Make Love To You’ by Etta James.

Anyway can I request the elves reactions to reader do a sexy burlesque/strip style dance? Like they in the audience and how they’d react.

By elves I mean: Elrond, Lindir, Thranduil, Legolas, Haldir and Arwen

OK I’M YELLING (I went ahead n threw our girl Galadriel in there cuz gotta catch em all right? 😁) there’s not really a mission lol but hope this does it justice! My latest D&D session the other night ended with burlesque performance so this feels like the perfect time to post this hehe

The Elves Reacting to F!Reader’s Burlesque Performance

Warnings: suggestive obviously 😆

Thranduil

Sure, he knew you’d all but been dared to set foot upon the stage, but something in your resolute expression and the long robe you wore had Thranduil’s eyebrows raising. Nary did he expect the way your hand shot out, grabbing the pole the moment the lights dimmed, or the way your robe dropped, revealing the lowest-cut, highest-slit dress he’d ever seen you in. Breath hitching, he watched as a long wave of fabric draped between your gorgeous legs, which wrapped around the pole as you climbed it. Eyes darkening as you spun, he could hardly help imagining what, or whom, else they could wind around so, and if he would ever be so blessed to see the confident air overtaking you again…

Legolas

Frowning, Legolas disappeared further into the gathering crowd. Gimli was the one who’d dared him to attend the show, telling him he was sure no pointy-ear could handle it. How could it be so, simply a performance? The crowd looked far too eager for you to be putting them into any sort of- oh. You emerged onto the stage, forearms and down covered with feathers like the wings of a great bird. Your legs were almost entirely bare, skirt minimal and bodice little more than a corset. Twirling and pirouetting into poses the woodland prince could only describe as suggestive, you beamed innocently at the crowd and hid behind your feathers, lashes fluttering. Another performer emerged behind you, hands on your waist and fingers deftly loosening your corset… Gripping the arms of his seat tighter, Legolas leaned in, a yearning in his own fingers readily accepting his friend’s latest challenge.

Haldir

A dancer you were. That was a known fact whispered among those familiar with you, often calling you something of a knife-dancer. Curiosity got the better of Haldir when scandal colored whispers of your performance right outside the woods. Was it dangerous, perhaps? Pride flowed into the little smile of anticipation he wore as fast-paced music filled the room and flames were snuffed, leading you to slide gracefully into the dim. Crouching, you crawled to the edge of the stage with a bloodthirsty grin that sent shivers down Haldir’s spine. Flicks of your wrists revealed your famed blades, which you twirled, tossed, and dragged gently along the length of your tongue. Brows raising, he found himself leaning forward with new interest. What sort of dance was- Coherent thought ceased immediately when you tossed your blades, caught them, and began slicing away at purposefully shoddy seams upon your outfit, revealing more and more until the elf was on the edge of his seat…

Galadriel

Hearing of a new form of entertainment served only to pique Galadriel’s curiosity and draw her from her frequent solitude. After all, if it was making her people happy… She did not expect to see a lone performer upon a platform, elaborately feathered fans covering most of her figure, but there you were. Clad all in white, at least from what she could see near your feet, you slowly closed the fans. The long swaths of fabric that hung near the ground begun only at your hips, the expanse of your legs utterly bare as you extended them, moving gracefully across the stage as your fans accentuated every curve and undulation of your body. Jerking, you rotated, hips swiveling as you happened to face the Lady of Lórien, and watching you through her lashes Galadriel felt a devilish smile rise to her lips. She saw exactly why there had been such a buzz…

Lindir

There had been talk of you giving a performance of some kind, but all Lindir had been able to retrieve on the subject was that he should quite like to be in the audience, so with a light heart he shuffled into the crowd, pleased to be quite close to the stage set up for you. Perhaps you’d learned a new instrument under his nose and wishes to surprise him with a performance! Perhaps- You slunk to the center clad in, oh dear, quite a sheer skirt. Feeling a rush of heat to his face, he tried to focus upon the swell of music, largely successful until you ripped your top off, hips swinging lower as your layers thinned and thinned… You froze momentarily, wearing little more than your corset, and made direct eye contact with Lindir, whose eyes widened and body felt quite faint. Slowly, deliberately, you took up your dance once more, grinning at him as you began unlacing the back of your garment. His hands shot up, half-covering his face, but he couldn’t help himself peeking again and again.

Elrond

Housing a troupe of performers was certainly an unusual set of circumstances, but not in the slightest beyond the reach of the great homely house. Indeed, at encouragement from Lindir to let music fill his halls, Elrond acquiesced to a performance, unknowing of the so-called ‘dancers’ who would emerge after the exuberant wind section. In fact, it wasn’t until they called you out that Elrond’s eyes widened, brows expressive as ever as they flexed in great shock. You were lowered down on ropes, sitting with your legs largely bared and swinging. Garments- quite the loose term- of drapery covered the rest of your form, but as you leaned back in your swing, you began twisting, swiveling, removing one veil after another… Elrond found himself looking this way and that, but his eyes could never leave you for long. Feeling his gaze darken and his hands flex, he wondered what he had gotten himself into…

Arwen

How scandalous could it be? Many a friend or even a family member or two had rolled eyes and whispered harshly about your performances, but Arwen was not afraid. No matter what it was said to be, she would experience it for it to be so in her mind. Thus she found herself in the audience of the very subject of contempt, the somewhat smaller ratio of maids to men not lost upon her. A great fount was all Arwen could see at the center of it all, at least until one bare leg slowly arched from its edge. Blinking, Arwen watched as it was followed by another, each of them kicking some water onto the crowd before your hands gripped the other side, flipping over to render most of your body visible. Hanging from the sides, you swiveled your hips, head innocently rested upon your folded arms as if your…ahem…rear end were not moving so. Sitting up, you let go, dropping back into the water with a splash before emerging again and grinningly tossing water on more patrons. Arwen found herself mirroring your expression, following your every motion with interest and a strange sense of elation.

Taglist: @lokilover476 @fuckyoumakeart @mossthebogwitch @ibabblealot @kilibaggins @stormchaser819 @pirate-lord-of-narnia @datglutengoblin | Reply/Ask/Message to join 🥰

#lord of the rings #the hobbit #lotr imagines #the hobbit imagines #lotr x reader #the hobbit x reader #thranduil #legolas #haldir #galadriel #lindir #elrond #arwen #female reader #ask #fly-on-my-sweet-angel #requested #suggestive #this was a fun one thank you 😌

[roosterbruiser]

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐀𝐍 𝐇𝐎𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐓 𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐀𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐒𝐔𝐑𝐕𝐈𝐕𝐎𝐑𝐒. 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐌𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐀 𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐍--𝐈𝐓 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐈𝐍 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟔.𝟗𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟐𝐍𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

Panting, you stand over his body. He’s alive--his chest is rising and falling, his lashes are fluttering, and his fingers are twitching. Already there’s a violet bruise beginning to blossom in the middle of his forehead, one that will rise and ache. But for now, as you try to catch your breath and stop the ringing in your ears, he’s out cold. 

And for one fleeting moment, as everything around you becomes muffled from the blood cottoning your ears, you’re overcome with envy. Envy that he is lying down, with his eyes closed, and his body at rest. Envy that he can just be. 

What you wouldn’t give to just lie down and be.

His lashes flutter again--Bradley’s lashes. He doesn’t wake, doesn’t really stir. He looks, almost, peaceful. But this thing lying before you, the one wearing the skin of the man that loves you like a sacrilegious coat, does not deserve peace. Bradley does. Wherever he is, if he is alive, if he is dead, if he is asleep, if he is awake…Bradley deserves peace.  

The envy fades just as suddenly as it appears--replaced with an immeasurable, gut-wrenching rage. One that dominates the ache in your muscles and the tired in your bones and the heaviness of your eyelids and the thumping inside of your chest. It burns your fingertips--singes the ends of your hair and makes all the blood come rushing to your face. 

“Fuck you,” you whisper to all this flesh and bone. Your voice does not sound like it’s coming from your mouth--it sounds like it’s coming from the mouth of a woman disturbed, pushed to the brink, close to the edge, enervated, frantic. And with a resounding and overwhelming heave, you realize that all of this is true. “I got you.”

Of course, you’re not talking to Bradley when you say this. You’re only looking at him.

He does not respond. 

Reaching into your pocket, your grip still firm on the shotgun, you finger the casings you have left. Four. You have four bullets left. And for the first time today--for the first time in a few days, really--you feel lucky. Lucky like you’ve just plucked a four-leafed clover beneath a double-rainbow beside a heads-up penny.

Okay, you think. I have to move. 

Coyote is standing at the bus doors, eyes narrowed on the crease as if Bradley is somehow going to slip in when he’s not looking. 

It’s been almost thirty minutes since the two of you left the bus barn and you haven’t come back. Bradley hasn’t come back either, which he’s sure must mean something good. But everyone heard it--the gunshot. It’s been very quiet since then.

His fingers are beginning to tremble as he grips the butcher knife. He keeps repeating it in his head, chewing over it like a mantra: c’mon, Gale. C’mon, Gale. C’mon, Gale. 

Phoenix is huddled up with all the campers at the back of the bus, her eyes wide and her mouth closed tight. She cannot rid herself of this horrified expression--and she hasn’t been able to stop crying since Bob died in her arms. 

Time keeps flitting forward--children keep whispering, Coyote keeps careful watch over the entrance, Bob grows cold at the front of the bus beneath a pile of donated jackets, palms grow sweaty on the grips of knives--and she can do nothing to stop it. The world just keeps moving and she’s staying right where she is; on this bus.

You’re not back yet. And with every aching moment that marches on, she grows more accustomed to the thought of you lying dead in the woods. It is not a comfortability with which she settles into this--but merely a placid acceptance. Something she cannot change. Something she cannot fix. Another one of her friends dead and gone. 

She’s just here on this bus. 

“Anything?” Phoenix asks--her voice is thin and muffled from all the children crowding her, each one elbowing another for a spot beside her and away from the windows. “At all?”

Coyote doesn’t look away from the bus doors. 

“Nothing,” he whispers. 

It’s quiet. A few of the campers are whimpering--Phoenix doesn’t have it in her to comfort them right now. Not when she can’t stop crying herself. Not when this terrible numbness is crawling up her legs like leeches in warm, waist-deep water. 

“Is Miss Nightingale going to come back?” A quiet voice pipes up from the back. Phoenix can’t tell who’s talking--doesn’t even turn her head to attempt to find out. “Or did Mister Rooster do something…do something real bad?” 

“She’ll come back,” Coyote answers, his tone even and serious. He holds onto the handle of his knife harder. C’mon, Gale. “She always does, right?” 

“So far,” Phoenix whispers.

She thinks of you, splayed out on the dirt, not quite fast enough to outrun Bradley. Dying just within the reach of his fingertips, your hair caught in his fists when he lunges forward, your foot slipping on a rock and giving Bradley the opportunity to come forward and take you. One minuscule mistake, one lapse in your stride, one wrong placement of your foot on the earth and you’re gone. Just like that. Just like Bob. 

“C’mon,” Coyote whispers underneath his breath. He’s a few moments away from clasping his hands together and praying out loud--would even drop to his knees right now to see you again. “C’mon, Gale. C’mon, now. Get on back here, girl. C’mon.”

“Should we go looking for her?” Another camper asks. 

“Mister Rooster would get us!” Another returns. 

Coyote can hear it now--the way in which this will all become folklore. Another story to be told around a fire, one inexperienced mouth to another, hands sticky with s’mores as they gesture. Chocolate thick on their tongue when they utter the words he got four of the counselors and the groundskeeper. 

For the first time since you left, he peels his gaze from the door to look at all the wide-eyes staring back at him. Everyone is waiting for him to do something, save everyone. 

“It’s alright,” Coyote says to them. His voice is quivering. “She’s gonna come back.”

He wonders if they’ll remember him saying that. He wonders if they’ll remember anything he said or did. He wonders if they’ll remember the way his voice trembled. 

The younger ones will have faint memories of this, like fingerprints pressed in drying clay--not fully molded, only an impression. The older ones will remember this all, yes, but it will become muddled and fragmented as the years roll forward. They will imagine more blood and less time. They will imagine phantom cuts and bruises and that it was night instead of day. Little details like this--like your hair color and what shoes they were wearing--will change constantly.

But certain parts will be true: they will always remember Nurse Nightingale pointing a gun at Mister Rooster, covered in blood and screaming for him to get away from the bus, from them. They will always remember what Miss Phoenix sounded like when Mister Bob died right there in front of everyone, his body pale and bloody and her wails deafening. They will remember being crowded in the back of the bus, waiting for the other shoe to drop, shoulder-to-shoulder. They will remember the frenzy of lanterns and flashlights as they scrambled from their cabins into the mess hall because there was an emergency. They will always remember Mister Coyote standing at the front of the bus and waiting for you to come back. 

“Are you sure she’s coming back?” One of the children asks Coyote. Just a small little thing, barely tall enough to see over the seat. One of Rooster’s, he’s sure. Two little brown eyes peering into Coyote’s. “Or did she leave--did she leave us?”

“She wouldn’t leave us,” Coyote says instantly. 

He swallows hard, looks back at the doors. You’re still not here. 

“Maybe she ran,” one of the older campers offers, shaking his head as his eyes fill with tears. “Maybe she--maybe she got away!”

“No,” Coyote insists, eyes screwed shut. “She wouldn’t leave us.”

“I hope not,” Phoenix whispers. But she knows, just as well as anyone else, that if you’ve left them behind it is because you are not alive anymore. “I really, really hope not.” 

A gunshot suddenly ripples across camp--so loud that it startles Coyote. 

“Oh, my God,” a camper shrieks. “She shot Mister Rooster!” 

“He probably got the gun!” Another says. 

“Hush,” Phoenix urges. She swallows hard. “Be quiet now.”

And then another gunshot rings out--vibrates the gravel and bounces off the loudspeaker that is still playing a jumbled Kate Bush tape. 

“Fuck,” Coyote whispers, his heart beginning to hammer. “Shit--what does that mean?” 

The third gunshot blasts through the air before anyone can answer. 

“Wait a minute,” Timmy Creighton suddenly says from the very back of the bus. “Wait a minute--that was--wait, that was three gunshots!”

“Miss Nightingale shot Mister Rooster three times!”

“No,” Timmy says, shaking his head. “That means help! Three times--S. O. S.. S.O.S!”

Coyote turns to him, eyebrow perched, hope springing to life in his chest like wildflowers after a rainstorm. 

“How do you know that?” Phoenix asks, brows furrowed. 

“I’m a boy scout,” he answers incredulously. Like, duh. Of course. That’s how. 

“S.O.S.?” Coyote asks. “So, that could be Gale--!” 

“--Or it could be him,” Phoenix interrupts, brows furrowed. “We don’t know.” 

Coyote stares at her. 

“But it could be her.” 

Phoenix swallows hard. 

“We don’t know that it’s her,” she says, shaking her head. 

“We don’t know that it’s not,” Coyote says back. 

They stare at each other for a moment. 

“I’m not leaving the bus,” she says softly. She gestures to the children. “None of us are.” 

Coyote’s brow furrows. He adjusts his grip on the knife, holds it tighter. 

“But Gale is out there,” he says. 

“So is he,” Phoenix returns softly. “And he’s already picked off five of us.”

Now Coyote looks at the ground. Bob’s body is only a few feet away from him. And Jake--God, he can’t even think about Jake right now. He won’t let himself think about him. If he thinks about his best friend dead, bloody, axed--he might just crumble. He might just fold. 

But you. You’re someone he can help. You’re someone that just shot three times. S.O.S.. And what if he were the one that shot three times? You would come running with open arms and wide eyes. He knows it. He does. He can feel it in his soul.

“You stay,” Coyote finally says, glancing back up at Phoenix and the campers. “I’ll go.”

“But Mister Coyote, what if he gets you?” Timmy asks. 

“Yeah,” another camper agrees, nodding earnestly with their brows drawn together. “Then who’s gonna save us?”

Coyote swallows hard, heart thumping. He shrugs, feigning a cool attitude.

“Couldn’t if he tried,” he says. He limply points to his bulging biceps and gives everyone the only smile he can muster--which is a very weak one. “Look at these guns, huh? Who’d wanna tussle with me?”

No one responds. 

“Be careful,” Phoenix says quietly. She won’t allow the fear she’s feeling to spill over and into the air around her--not around the children. “Don’t…don’t die.”

“I won’t,” Coyote says. 

And he means it.

Coyote, simply put, is more frightened than he’s ever been as he begins to tread through the woods. He’s walking as carefully as he can, trying not to snap twigs or kick stones. He’s holding the knife and his breath, glancing out the corner of his eye at every sound that isn’t Kate Bush. 

The sun is high in the sky--he’d guess it’s not even noon yet. The heat pours down over him, holding him in a flannel blanket as he treks carefully. His grip on the knife is harsh--he knows for certain that it’s not going anywhere.

“Gale?” He whispers--he knows you won’t be able to hear him with his voice this low, but he’s too afraid to speak any louder in case Phoenix was right. “Gale?”

You don’t respond. His heart is pounding his chest, his blood is rushing through his ears.

He’s expecting, partly, Bradley to suddenly jump out at him. He must be ducked behind a tree, his ears perked, waiting for the precise moment to collapse Coyote with brute strength. And if he goes down, if Bradley gets the upper hand, Coyote knows that it will end in his own bloodshed. 

The thought makes him dizzy. 

“Gale,” he calls again, a little louder. 

Again, though--nothing. Just the sound of flittering mosquitos and bumbling bees. 

And it’s a few more paces, a few more steps, when he suddenly feels the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end like something is watching him. Like someone is watching him. 

Quickly, his head is on a swivel. And at first, he doesn’t see you. Covered in blood and mud and barefoot, you almost fit in right up against the oak trees and the leaves. But there you are, yards away from him, holding the gun and the ax as you stare at Bradley’s collapsed body on the ground. 

“Gale?” Coyote asks wearily, eyebrows raised. 

At once, you find his eyes. Your face is calm and flat, your hair matted and your clothes thoroughly dyed with blood. But there is a ring of your flesh on your throat that is on total display right now, all flesh and no blood--and he knows it’s from where Bradley tried to strangle you. Kill you. 

“Javy,” you whisper--your voice is ragged and raw. 

He wonders, momentarily, if it will sound like that forever now that you’ve been choked within an inch of your life. 

Neither of you move for a moment as Coyote takes in the scene. There is too much sunlight for such a nasty sight. Too much gore and blood and bugs for the sun to be shining down on you the way it is right now.

“He’s not…dead…is he?”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head. “Just out cold. For now.” 

Coyote nods. 

“Any of that blood yours?” Coyote asks, gesturing to you with the knife. 

Swallowing, you begin to shake your head--but then you remember. Your shoulder. 

“Some,” you whisper to him, sniffling. “Not a lot.”

Coyote takes a deep breath. 

“Whose is it?” 

He’s terrified for you to answer him--but he needs to know.

Your bottom lip wobbles suddenly. You shift all your weight to your left hip and hold the ax closer to you, glancing down at Bradley. Still out. Then you take a deep breath. 

“Jake’s,” you answer. “It’s his.” 

Coyote’s eyes fall to the ground. You can see it written across his face--the grief, the shock. His brows knit and his lips turn down. And then he takes a deep breath. 

“Yeah, I figured as much,” he says. “And Bradley…?”

“It’s not…it’s not him,” you whisper. Sucking in a deep breath, you suddenly choke. You’re not sure what else to say, how else to explain it. “Well, it’s him, but it isn’t. He isn’t--it’s…it’s the maniac.”

You’re worried, for the first time today, that someone will accuse you of losing your everloving mind. That Coyote will scoff at you and try to get far, far away from you and your insanity. 

But when you look at him, he’s just looking back at you in total earnest. 

“And you know that…how?” 

Shaking your head, eyes fluttering closed, you sigh. 

“He told me,” you whisper. Your voice is still so hoarse--and your breaths are ragged. “When he…after he hurt Jake. He told me everything.” 

“The maniac did?” Coyote asks. His fingers are tingling. 

If anyone else were to say this to him, anyone in the world, he’d disbelieve them. But it’s you--and he knows, deep in his heart, that you have been closer to death and gore here than anyone else. And he believes you as firmly as his feet are planted on the earth. 

“Yes,” you answer. “Please believe me. Please, I know how it sounds--!” 

“--I believe you,” Coyote answers, brows furrowed. He looks down at Bradley’s body again. “So…what do we do now?” 

You follow his gaze. The bruise on Bradley’s head is growing into a deep, deep purple now. Purple like the irises that have suddenly sprouted up everywhere. 

“Tie him down,” you whisper. “Don’t let him out again.”

Coyote nods. 

“I can drag ‘im if you can carry the weapons,” Coyote offers. He knows your strength must be waning, knows that you must be fading fast and hard at this point. “Deal?”

“Deal,” you whisper, relieved. 

♀

Phoenix looks between the two of you, tired and scared and in mourning, her eyes heavy-lidded and her lips twisted. 

“So…he’s possessed?” She asks. 

You nod, can’t even muster the strength to utter yes. 

“I know it sounds crazy,” Coyote starts, sucking in a breath. 

“Yeah, it does,” Phoenix agrees. She looks at you. “I want you to tell me what you told him that’s made him so gung-ho on this possession idea. Alright?” 

“She didn’t have to tell me much,” Coyote says, hands on his hips. 

He glances at the nurse’s cabin, where Bradley is tied down to the bed. He still isn’t awake yet--you got him good. A pride swells in Coyote when he thinks about it; you slamming the butt of the shotgun down on Bradley’s head, preserving his life but halting his maliciousness. 

“I don’t get it,” Phoenix says. She sighs in exasperation, pinches the bridge of her nose. “What about…this says possession instead of just Bradley lost his fucking mind?” 

“I mean--look around us, Nix. Does this seem like a normal summer to you? Has Bradley ever so much as killed a fucking bug before this summer? Or the one before? Or the one before that?” Coyote asks, throwing his hands up in the air. Phoenix blinks at him. “The answer is a big, fat no. He hasn’t. He hasn’t done anything except crop his own shirts and-and make goo-goo eyes at Gale. Right? Something isn’t right here.” 

“But why does that mean he’s possessed by the fucking maniac?” Phoenix asks, groaning. “Maybe he…maybe he hid the crazy until this summer.” 

“We’re his best friends,” Coyote says, scoffing. “We would see it before.” 

Phoenix’s lip twitches. 

“Bradley isn’t my best friend,” Phoenix whispers. “Bob was.”

No one speaks for a moment. You take a deep breath--nearly wobbling on your feet.

“He was cut with the ax thirty years to the day of the original murders,” you point out. You think of the newspaper from earlier. July 19th--that was the publication date. But the murders had to have happened before then. “And he told me. Alright? He told me everything.”

“Well, crazy people like to talk,” Phoenix says. Her fingers are tingling. “Why are we believing him? He killed Bob!” 

“We know that,” Coyote snaps. He throws his arms in the air, eyes wide. “He fucking killed Jake, too! And Reuben and Mickey. Fucking--he killed Paul, Phoenix! We know that!” 

Sensing thats things are going to become too heated between Phoenix and Coyote, as her cheeks redden and his eyes grow wider, you put her hand up. 

“Let’s not lose our heads,” you say, voice soft and even but still gravely. “Listen, all I know is that before this summer, Bradley never so much as…he wouldn’t ever hurt anyone.” 

“You mean you?” Phoenix asks--her tone is pointed and frustrated, but you’re not angry with her. 

She softens when you nod, raise your blood-rimmed eyes to hers. 

“Yes,” you whisper. “He would never hurt me.” 

She shifts all her weight to her other hip, sighing deeply. Coyote is still looking at her, arms crossed, waiting for a fight. But then she looks up at you, eyes deep and sorrowful. 

“Tell me what he told you,” she whispers, really meaning it. 

Coyote’s shoulders fall--thank God. Thank fucking God. 

So, you tell her everything. Every bit, every detail, every morsel. Jake’s body on top of yours. Bradley’s quiet and calculated plan. The mask that slipped. The chase through the woods. The blood that was shed. 

And by the end of it, the three of you are standing out in the courtyard, your gazes listless and your guts empty and aching. Phoenix’s brows are blanched and her heart is racing and she can’t believe this is happening to her. Not here, in Maine of all places, at camp at all places. How is this happening to her? To all of you? 

“So, what do we do now?” Coyote asks, voice soft. 

“I don’t know,” you answer, eyes screwed shut. 

“I mean, you guys tied him to the exam table pretty good, right? Will it hold him?” Phoenix asks, glancing up at the two of you. She knows, as soon as she sees both of your faces, that the answer is a resounding no. “Okay…so, what? What do we do?”

“We have to…” Coyote starts. He stops, sighs, shakes his head. “I can’t even say it.” 

“What?” Phoenix asks. 

You clear your throat and swat a mosquito away from your face.

“We aren’t killing him,” you say to Coyote, sad and quiet. There is no anger in your bones when you say it--he’s doing what he can. All of you are. No one knows what to do and you don’t expect anything any of you says to be right or wrong. “We can’t…I can’t do that.” 

Phoenix shakes her head. 

“I mean, he killed everyone…” she whispers. “Wouldn’t it be…I don’t know, just? If we did it.” 

“No,” you answer. Your fingers are trembling--you clasp your hands together and sniffle. “No one else dies.” 

“But--!” 

You look at Phoenix right in the eyes, squinting slightly as the blood clumping your lashes flakes off. Again, you’re not angry. You understand her grief. You understand her desire for justice. You understand where she’s coming from. 

“Please don’t make me kill anyone,” you whisper to her. “I can’t…I can’t do it.” 

All three of you know that you would be the one to do it, because as strong as Coyote is and as vengeful as Phoenix is, you’re the only one that can stomach death. Death and its scent and its touch and its taste. Only you. 

“So, we don’t kill him,” Coyote says. “That leaves us with…what options?” 

“If he’s possessed…” Phoenix starts, scratching her head and wilting beneath the sun like a flower. “Could we get him back? Or is he gone for good?”

The thought of Bradley being gone forever makes a deep, endless pit open up in your belly. You feel like it will swallow you whole--so you bat it away, shake your head. 

“I don’t know,” you whisper. “He said he was…gone.” 

Coyote leans forward. 

“But in…like, in The Exorcist, they say the demon fights psychologically. Maybe that’s--maybe that’s what he’s doing, right? Lying.” 

“Well, if this were The Exorcist, we’d be short a couple priests. All we have is Mable,” Phoenix says. “And I don’t think it’d be the same.”

“Oh, real nice, Nix,” Coyote says, shaking his head. “That’s a great attitude to have.”

The tension between them is beginning to grow warm--only a spark now, but you feel that it will soon be an ember glowing orange on this sunny, blue day. 

Staring at the ground, squinting, trying to remember what happens at the end of The Exorcist, you’re hardly breathing. 

“What happens?” You ask suddenly. “What happens, like, at the end of that movie?”

“The demon moves from one body to another,” Coyote answers, brows drawn together. “And then…the new host kills themselves.” 

It’s quiet for a moment between the three of you--quiet except for the jumbled Kate Bush tape still playing over the loudspeaker. The lot of you have almost entirely tuned it out by now. 

“No,” you whisper. It’s not an option. “What else can we do?” 

No one says anything for a long moment. 

“It was his blood, right?” Coyote asks. “Like, that’s what started the whole possession thing? He cut himself on the ax--well, he cut himself on the ax.” 

“Yes,” you answer. “That’s at least what he--what he told me.”

“What if we burned the ax?” Coyote says. “Like, that’s what happens in The Evil Dead. They burn the book and--!” 

“--Are we just going to keep suggesting things that happens in movies?” Phoenix asks. “Because this isn’t a movie, Javy. People are dead.”

“He knows that,” you say, heart squeezing. “Do you have any better ideas, Nix? Really.” 

She doesn’t say anything. 

“I mean, if blood starts it…blood’s gotta end it, right?” 

“Oh, the Chekov’s gun of it all,” Phoenix grumbles. 

But then her spine prickles--it’s what Bob would say. 

Blood. You think about it as you look down at your hands--they’re covered in the stuff. Vital to life, but so commonly on the outside of flesh. A skinned knee. A bump on the head. A knick while shaving. A papercut. 

“Virgin blood is strong--pure. Untainted. That’s what…that’s what happened last time, you see. Nurse Abbott was waiting until marriage. I picked ‘em off one-by-one until she was alone…”

“We could bleed him out,” Phoenix sighs, not serious. Her tone is sour, bitter. “That oughta show him.” 

“Look,” Coyote starts, glaring at Phoenix. His palms are sweaty. “We all know that you’re aching real bad about Bob, okay? But you’re not the only one who lost someone today. We all lost people today. We all lost Bob today.”

Phoenix, her brows furrowed and her lips twisted, begins to respond before you suddenly stand and interrupt them. 

“We used to use leeches,” you say, eyes wide. 

Phoenix and Coyote blink at you, their eyes heavy and their mouths flat and their brows furrowed. You can see plainly on their faces that they’re wondering if you’re losing it finally--if the exhaustion is finally settling in. 

“What?” Phoenix asks. 

“We used to use leeches--like, whenever someone had a sickness or something, medical doctors would use leeches.” 

Coyote blinks at you. 

“What do you mean?” 

Your fingers are tingling as you wring them together, clearing your throat. There is a film of phlegm there that is making your voice hoarse still. 

“Bloodletting,” you tell them. “It--I mean, it’s been around forever. We’re talking, like, 470 B.C. kinda forever, right? Of course, like, at first everyone had a really simple view of what it did and diseases and everything. But then--God, was it like two or three years ago? Some coat from Harvard attached a leech to a tike’s ear after it’d been bitten off by a dog. It was big news. And, I mean, it’s kind of the same idea as replacement therapy.” 

“Like dialysis?” Coyote asks. “My grandpa does that.”

“Yeah,” you answer. “Just--just like that.”

“Okay,” Phoenix says, trying to digest your ramblings. “And what does that have to do with us?” 

Slowly, you sink back down. They watch you carefully. 

“If it starts with blood, it ends with blood,” you whisper. “We don’t have a lot of other options or ideas, do we?” 

“No,” Phoenix answers. “But where the fuck are we gonna get leeches?” 

“Yeah,” Coyote echoes, scratching the back of his head. 

Shaking your head, you breathe out shakily. 

“I can bleed him out,” you say. “I can do it.” 

With wide eyes, Phoenix sucks in a surprised breath. Her heart is hammering. 

“I was just messing,” she says, shaking her head. “Damn, I wasn’t serious!”

“I don’t think you should go near him,” Coyote says. He’s staring at the naked bit of your throat where your life was almost taken away from you. “I don’t think any of us should, really. It’s not safe. We’ll be dead meat if we do.”

“Look, if we don’t do something, we’re dead,” you say very seriously, looking into both their eyes. “Our friends are already dead. It’s just--it’s just us now, okay? No one is coming to help. Penny and Mav--shit, they’re still a while away from the next supply run. We’ve gotta do something. We can’t just keep running. We can’t just--we can’t just keep sitting here.” 

Phoenix’s tongue is totally dry. She’s watching you very carefully right now--you seem somber and sober. You seem, she realizes, more stable than you have since this all started. A certain calm has come over you, one that wraps you up in its arms and keeps your ragged voice even. 

“We can take shifts,” Coyote offers, his voice soft. “You can teach us how to shoot.” 

You shake your head. 

“No,” you whisper. “You two--you’ve gotta keep those campers alive, alright? That’s your job.” 

“What even is it that you want to do, huh?” Coyote asks. He settles his hands on his hips. “Give us the download.” 

“I’m gonna bleed him out,” you whisper. It all sounds so much crazier out loud--it feels like you’re talking to them from behind a thick fog, one that smells sweet and dampens your hair. “And then I’m gonna--fuck, I’m gonna stitch him up. Give him blood from the blood drive.” 

“Shit,” Coyote hisses. “We don’t know if that’ll work.” 

“No,” Phoenix agrees. “We don’t. And what if he doesn’t wake up? What if the blood isn’t enough?” 

Spine tingling, you chew on your lower lip. The blood you’re tasting isn’t your own. 

“Timmy Creighton,” you whisper. 

“What?” Phoenix asks. “The kid who’s allergic to nuts?” 

“That’s our savior?” Coyote follows. “We’re fucked. The kid tried to eat a Snickers bar last week!”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head. “Epi--it’s adrenaline. It’s what we use at the hospital when we resuscitate.” 

Phoenix furrows her brows. 

“So, it can help like…” 

“Bring him back,” you say. Your stomach turns, but you persist. “If I lose him, I can bring him back.” 

Coyote shifts uncomfortably, the thought of losing another friend today boggling his mind. His temple pulses. 

“So, what do we do?” He asks. “How can we help?” 

Taking a deep, deep breath, you glance at the nurse’s cabin. You know that he’s in there--and he’ll be waking up soon. 

“I need you guys to move the rock and lock me in there with him,” you tell them. Your fingers are numb. “And don’t let us out until it’s over.” 

“Nightingale,” Phoenix says, shaking her head. “I don’t want to do that.” 

“Yeah,” Coyote agrees. “Me neither.” 

“What choice do we have?” You say quietly. “We have to do something. We have to do something.”

Coyote sighs, leaning forward to hold his head in his hands. If he loses you, too--he doesn't know what he’s going to do. He’s so tired, he’s so scared and the thought of you locked in the room with Bradley is turning his stomach sour. 

“Why can’t we do it together?” Phoenix asks. “I mean, really!” 

“You would just get in the way,” you whisper solemnly. “I can do this.” 

“But can you?” Coyote asks, his tone edged but not malicious. He shrugs at you, mouth ajar. “He almost got you, Gale. He almost got you.” 

“But he didn’t,” you whisper, still feeling Bradley’s fingers wrapped around your throat. 

“Because of him,” Phoenix defends. “You shouldn’t do this alone.”

“I have to,” you whisper, shaking your head. Your eyes are wet. “You two…you have to keep the kids safe. Nothing can happen to them, alright?” 

His words ring in your ears.

“And when I’ve finished the kiddos off, I’ll come back for you.”  

“And what if he gets you, huh?” Coyote asks, his tone biting your ears. “Fuck--I mean, Jesus, Gale. What about us?” 

“I’ll kill him if I have to,” you say, though your tongue burns when you say it. “He isn’t getting out--!” 

“--We can’t lose you, too,” Phoenix interrupts. Sincerity drips from her tongue. “Please.” 

Turning away from them, you shut your eyes for a moment. In all the hustle, in all the grief, you completely forgot that the Kate Bush tape is still playing over the loudspeaker. It’s loud enough for you to hear over the cicadas. 

Like the sun coming out

I just know that something good is gonna happen

“Lock me in,” you whisper. You can’t look at their grief-stricken faces. Two tears fall from your cheeks. “Don’t let me out.” 

“Gale…” Coyote whispers. 

Glancing around camp, desolate and quiet, your heart squeezes. Only a few days ago, you were warding off Bradley and Coyote as you took Jake’s blood. Only a few days ago, you’re biggest concern was who you were going to end up with at the end of August. Only a few days ago, Bob and Phoenix were leading a game of Red Rover. Fanboy and Payback hosted finger football at their lunch table. Laughter echoed off the gravel. The lake lapped at the rocky shore. The trees were tall and sweet as they scraped the sky. You were bandaging scraped elbows and pulling out splinters. You were running your fingers through Jake’s hair, the sun warm on your cheeks, the crickets singing you a song. You were singing Joni Mitchell around a fire. You were smoking marijuana with your friends and sinking into the soft grass. You were reading Carrie by lamp-light. Lightning bugs used to land on your shins. Cicadas and owls used to sing you to sleep. Jake used to take you by the hand and dance with you in front of everyone, even if you were too shy, even if you were too embarrassed. Bradley said he loved you. So did Jake. 

But it’s all over now. 

It’s been a cruel, cruel summer. 

“Do it,” you whisper softly. “It ends now. It has to end now.”

“You’re gonna kill him?” Phoenix whispers. 

Nodding, your tongue quivers in your mouth. 

“It doesn’t have to be big and scary,” you mutter. “It doesn’t have to be violent.”

“Death is always violent,” Coyote says, thinking of Jake and Reuben and Mickey and Paul. “There’s nothing peaceful about it.” 

But they’re wrong. You know that they’re wrong. You’ve seen it--you’ve seen it so close that you’ve tasted it. It can be peaceful. It can be as easy as falling asleep. It can be as easy as exhaling. It can be as easy as coughing. You’ll make it easy for Bradley. 

“I’ll make it peaceful,” you whisper. 

It’s more of a promise to Bradley wherever he is. You’ll be gentle. 

“Gale,” Coyote says, shaking his head. “I just…” 

“She has to do it,” Phoenix says now, her tone soft. She looks you in the eyes, hers rimmed with red and tearful. “Bring him back, okay?”

“Okay,” you say. “I will.”

♀

He isn’t awake yet. 

From where you’re standing beside him, your body numb and your eyes stuck on his placid face, you could almost mistake him for sleeping. Eyes fluttered shut, brows unknit, lips flat, body still. Except for the blood splattering his clothing and skin and the welt on his head, maybe anyone could mistake him for sleeping. 

Exhaling, you look over at everything laid out beside you. Swiss army knife. Gauze. Suture kit. Adrenaline injections. Bags of blood--your blood--on ice. Universal donor. Morphine tablets. Everything you need to drain him of this evil and then bring him back. 

It’s sweltering in here--that’s why you usually always keep the door open. But now you’re locked in, the door barricaded and the windows reinforced. The heat seeps in like a wave. 

This will be better if he doesn’t wake up. 

And with that thought, you reach for the latex gloves, slowly slipping your hands into them. No movement from Bradley. It’s not until you shakily hold the Swiss army knife that his brows come together. 

A low groan falls from his lips as you bring the blade out. 

“Birdie…” 

Your belly turns itself inside out. 

When you don’t answer, too petrified to move, too scared to say anything, Bradley’s eyes open. And your chest feels empty when you see those eyes: no flecks of gold in his irises. Just a deeper, darker brown. Void of anything except rage. 

“What’s going on?” He asks, sounding remarkably like Bradley. He looks down, realizes he’s tied to the examination table, then looks back up at you with a pitiful expression of confusion eating his features. “Birdie--what…what’s going on? Why am I tied up?” 

“Stop calling me that,” you whisper to him, shaking your head. 

He brings how brows together, mouth ajar, then sees that you’re holding a knife. And he jerks away--a real show of wide eyes and gasps. 

“What--what are you gonna do with that?” 

“Drop the act,” you whisper, shaking your head. “You’re cornered.” 

“Birdie, please don’t do this!” He says, beginning to wail. The heat is turning his cheeks bright red. “Please, I know this summer hasn’t been stellar, but don’t do this! Birdie, please!” 

“Stop calling me that,” you demand again, your voice louder. You look deep, deep into his eyes and keep your gaze there besides the chill that climbs your spine. “You’re not him.” 

He’s about to argue--about to fight you on it--when it dawns on him that you aren’t scared right now. No, no. He can tell. He can feel it. There is not even an ounce of fear in your being right now--just rage. Blinding, serious rage. 

“Fine,” he says, tone calmer than before. He smiles softly. “What’re you gonna do, dolly? What’s the plan? What’re you gonna do with that?” 

 WIth a firm grip on the red handle of the knife, you breathe deeply. 

“I’m going to cut your radial artery,” you say softly, just like you would to a patient. “It’s in your wrist. I’m gonna bleed you out…let you die. And then I’m going to bring Bradley back.”

He laughs--a big and booming thing. 

“Oh, is that so?” He says tauntingly. “Well, you’ve got it all figured out, then. As if you would be able to do it, dolly. You don’t have the guts.” 

“I do,” you whisper. “I’ve got the guts.” 

“You love him,” he whispers. “You’re weak like that.” 

Swallowing hard, you shake your head. 

“I’m bringing him back,” you say. 

“He’s gone,” he argues, brows knit. He tugs on the restraints--they’re tight. Too tight to get out of right away. “And he’d need a blood transfusion.” 

You point to the few bags of blood on the table, still cold from the ice. 

“I have it,” you whisper. “I’m a universal donor.” 

“But not a virgin,” he answers, smiling still. 

You lean forward, eyes pouring into his. 

“I was when I donated,” you tell him. 

And before he can respond, before he can do anything at all, you bring the blade down on his wrist. It’s sharp--sharp like a scalpel in the operating room. He gasps, warm blood suddenly flooding the bed, but doesn’t have time to respond before you cut the other wrist. 

Writhing, panicking, he looks at you. 

“You fucking whore!” He screams. “God--look what you’ve--you fucking bitch! You’re killing him! You’re killing him!” 

“I’m killing you!” You grunt.

Slamming the knife back down on the tray, you step back and watch for a moment. There is hot, wet blood on your hands again. Vaguely, distantly, you wonder if you’re going to have to scrape all this blood off. It clings to you like a second skin. 

The hair on the back of your neck prickles as Bradley desperately pulls at the retraits, blood dripping from his body in a steady river of red. 

“You fucking bitch,” he seethes. “Do you think I can’t find you again? I’ve been watching you for three summers…I saw what you did with him in the woods. I saw what you did with Jakey-boy in your cabin, you whore. I see everything you do. I’m always here. I live in your nightmares!” 

Saying nothing, steeling yourself against his words, you continue watching. You’re counting to two minutes. 

“Fear is what keeps me alive, dolly,” he grunts, struggling still. “And I will be alive until the world sinks into Hell. I’ll be here, waiting. Watching. Ready to crawl under the skin of another lovesick orphan.”

Shaking your head, you just keep watching. It’s strange watching Bradley bleed out--but it’s not him. It’s not him. It’s Damien. You have to repeat it to yourself over and over again. It’s Damien. It’s Damien. 

And then, suddenly and completely, he goes entirely still. He’s just looking at you as blood covers the exam table and puts metal beneath your nose. He frowns, his eyebrows coming together. His face is beginning to grow pasty. 

“You’re leaving your friends again,” he whispers softly to you. “The ones you abandoned before…they’ve been calling out your name. They’ve been waiting for you. They want you to come to them. They’re all alone. And they’re so scared, dolly…they’re so scared without you there.” 

Lip twitching, you stay completely still. 

“Jake needs you,” he whispers. “And he’s the one you chose all along, right? It’s always been him. Why even bring Bradley back if it’s not him that you love?” 

Saliva gathers beneath your tongue. It’s approaching--you know it is. Can’t be long now. 

“I can’t die,” he whispers. His voice is weak. His eyes are beginning to shut. “You can’t…you can’t…” 

And then his head lulls to the side and he is dead. 

It isn’t Bradley, but a sob rips from your throat anyway. He lies completely still, blood still flowing from his wrists. And without another moment to waste, you jump into action. 

Packing his wrists with gauze with one panicked hand, you reach to feel his jugular with the other. It’s weak--probably just residual blood flow. 

He’s gone. The evil is gone. 

“Hold on,” you whisper to Bradley’s body. “Just hold on, alright?” 

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: OMG WHAT'S GONNA HAPPEN NEXT......

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒:

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#cruel summer #jake hangman x reader #jake hangman seresin #jake seresin x reader #jake seresin #jake x reader #bradley bradshaw #bradley rooster bradshaw #bradley bradshaw x female reader #bradley bradshaw x reader #bradley bradshaw fanfiction #jake seresin x you #Bradley Bradshaw x you #horror au #80s slasher au #nightingale #summer camp au #dagger squad #tgm #tgm au #tgm fanfiction #natasha phoenix trace #javy coyote machado #mickey fanboy garcia #robert bob floyd #reuben payback fitch #Jake Seresin x you x Bradley Bradshaw #hangster love triangle #female reader #cruel summer spoiler alert

[assortedseaglass]

🌟Solstice | Yuletide 🌟

Osferth x Unnamed Female Character

Summary: Osferth celebrates the solstice with the pagans.

Content Warning: The drabbliest of drabbles

🎄Yuletide Masterlist🎄

Shame welled in his heart.

No matter how often he tried to look away, or thought of the Lord, Osferth could not bring himself to leave his sentinel beyond the forest clearing.

How long he’d stood there, he could not say for certain, but the moon had risen beyond the trees to its nocturnal rest. His feet in their leather boots, were numb. His mouth, dry, though whether this was due to leaving the inn so early or because of the sight before him, he too did not know.

The young monk saw the glow first. Through the tunnel of the trees, the honeyed light grew until it seemed the very forest was aflame. Yet the voices he heard were not fearful. Edging closer to the woodland border, he found they were jubilant. Laughter. Singing. Excited chatter.

Onward he walked, into the trees’ dark embrace. Beneath him, branches crackled and snapped with every tentative step. The noise of the party grew nearer. An enemy encampment perhaps? No, they would lie low prior to attack. Travelling goodsman and their crew? Surely they would be at the inn with everyone else in Aureberie.  

The glow led him to the edge of the clearing at which he now stood, and the sight he beheld was like none he had seen, except in dreams.

A pyre of wood was set ablaze at the clearing’s centre, sparks breaking away from the flames and reminding him of barely remembered stories told by his mother long ago.

“Angels flying heavenward, little one.”

Even from where he stood beneath the bare trees, Osferth felt the warmth radiating from the glorious fire. Tendrils of flame violently licked the sky, its great roar growing in strength and drowning out the souls silhouetted against its light.

It was this, that truly mesmerised Osferth.

Dancing around the ring of flame, bodies writhed and twirled, all curve and sinew, flailing arms raised to the heavens with teeth gleaming in the firelight. Garlands of leaves donned their brows; holly and fir on beds of moss. For some, this was all they wore. Though this number was few, men and women alike danced about the pyre as naked as a babe.

Osferth watched, transfixed, as plump flesh and fat rolled, coiled, stretched and swayed.

Shame rushed to his breaches.

Round tummies, tender breasts, plush thighs. The flickering of firelight across the women’s soft flesh dizzied Osferth and, at last, he looked away.

Wolf’s eyes and an enigmatic smile. How long had she been there?

At once, Osferth reached for his sword.

“You are the monk they call Osferth?” The woman stepped forward, hands open in surrender.

“Yes.” His voice was firm. He had seen this woman before, about Aureberie since their arrival. The healer. She hummed at his answer.

“Please, let go of the sword.” Her voice was so gentle, so measured, that he did as she commanded without thinking.

A prickle ran up his spine. If she was the wolf, wily and tactful, surely he was the rabbit. Startled, wide-eyed. “How long have you been there?”

“Longer than you, Christian.”

“That is not what I mea-”

“I know what you meant.”  

She stepped towards him and Osferth straightened, determined not to let her see his shame. To his great relief, her smile softened. “It is the solstice,” she nodded towards the pyre. “We are moving back towards the light.”

“Yes,” Osferth said. “It was the light that drew me in.” He had turned back to watch the gathering party.

“And what was it that made you stay?” The low timbre of her voice made him shiver, and, when Osferth looked at her, he saw she was right beside him.

“I think you know, lady.” He said, watching the flames dance in the reflection of her eyes. She nodded.

“Come, Christian,” she held out her hand in beckoning. Osferth took it, spellbound. And she led him, not towards the celebration, but deeper into the forest.

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#ewan mitchell #osferth #osferth x reader #tlk #the last kingdom #ewan mitchell x reader #hilde's twelve days of christmas

[fictionadventurer]

Little House in the Big Woods is a masterful depiction of the simple joys and mindset of very early childhood. Which, oddly enough, makes the book work better for me as an adult than as a child. As a kid, I saw this as one of the lesser books--there are some fun moments and interesting stories, but nothing really happens. As an adult, that's one of the main draws--nothing happens! Laura gets to see the frost on the windows and play with her cousins and get Christmas presents and look at the pictures in the animal book and play house and nothing goes wrong. It brings back those innocent, simple joys of very early childhood in a way that's much more welcome now that I'm much further away from it.

With an adult's perspective, it's also easier to catch more details about the wider world surrounding that little cabin in the Big Woods. The family ties binding together the adults. The historical context of the 1860s. You catch the fact that they're choosing to live like this--the rest of the world is pretty advanced, but they're living on the very edges of civilization where you have to do things for yourself in a way few other people do.

As a kid, I just saw the historical moment as "pioneer times where they live like this because they haven't invented technology." As an adult, I know that there's a ton of technology already being invented at a faster rate than ever before, and even here on the fringes of society, it's got a huge effect on how they settle the area. They buy machine-made traps to catch animals for a huge fur industry (at least, I don't see a local blacksmith making these). They use a complicated threshing machine. They buy machine-made cloth and cane sugar and have little store-made knickknacks. Their way of life is pretty heavily dependent on a world where railroads and steamships can rapidly transport goods around the world, which is a huge reason that life changed so quickly during Laura's lifetime--the world was already pretty modern, and just had to get out to where she was. It's a perspective that added a lot of depth to my view of the setting.

The book's also better from an adult viewpoint because it's not just the story of early childhood, but it's a woman in her 60s looking back at her early childhood--nostalgic for it in the way a lot of adults are nostalgic for a time when the world seemed simpler and safer--which makes the perspective oddly relatable.

I can still see why it's less exciting than the other books--even apart from the lack of deadly perils, Laura's extremely young age means she's not an active protagonist. She's just watching life while other people go off and do things. Most of the events are things we hear about--Pa telling stories of his childhood or of what he's done during the day. Laura doesn't, for instance, go out to the bee tree--she sees Pa get the wagon and then come back and tell her about it. Even this simple event is something that Laura's not actively watching, which makes her perspective feel a bit disconnected from the world.

But for all the story's flaws and virtues, the very best part of the book is how much love goes into it. Laura is writing this out of love for the family that gave her such a childhood. She'll pause to note Pa's laugh, or talk about how pretty Ma was while making hominy. She loves the landscape, delighting in the details of every season. She loves the daily tasks of farm life. She's not just detailing things like cheese-making or churning because these skills are dying out, but because she's lived her life on a farm and takes genuine joy in the details that go into completing all these tasks. She loved farming so much that she spent years writing a column about farming life, and that absolutely comes out here.

Then, at the very end, we have a line that's my contender for one of the best last lines in all of literature. Laura's watching her family and the firelight as Pa plays his fiddle in the cozy little house, singing about remembering the days of long ago. And this sixty-some-year-old woman, looking back at her childhood, bringing back a vanished world for the children of today, ends with a paragraph that perfectly sums up the bittersweet truths of the story--that childhood thinks it will last forever, that time will pass in the blink of an eye, and that memory and storytelling can, in their imperfect way, make the past immortal.

She was glad that the cosy house, and Pa and Ma and the firelight and the music were now. They could not be forgotten, she thought, because now is now. It can never be a long time ago.

#little house in the big woods #little house #laura ingalls wilder #maybe this should have been a bullet point list but it turns out i got a lot of paragraphs in me

[agent-cupcake]

Flashbang

Chapter 9  Part 1- August Moon

Spotify Playlist / All Chapters / Chapter 1 / Chapter 2 / Chapter 3 / Chapter 4 / Chapter 5 / Chapter 6 /Chapter 7/ Chapter 8 / Chapter 9 pt.1 / Chapter 9 pt.2 / Chapter 10 / Chapter 11 / Chapter 12

Pairing: One Piece Live Action Buggy x f! Reader

Synopsis: Waking up in yet another unfortunate circumstance, your mind strays to thinking of things you would rather forget.

Warnings: Explicit smut, child abuse

Word Count: 8.6k

Notes: This chapter started to get really long really quickly. Rather than postponing again and posting a 20k+ word chapter, there will be a part two. It’s a different format than other chapters, but the show did flashback arcs so why can't I?

“August Moon, laid just for you, steady, ready, smile like his, until it's out of sight. Don't undo the true chance that chooses you Face to face with a new day So simple it seemed, you dare to dream impossibly, risking its rarity of ‘I'll do it now' Black and blissful, tumbling, I wake, I sleep, it feeds me Fate may rule you and heart it fools you to lose your sanity”

xx

It wasn’t the simple process of recalling how you ended up bound on the floor in the dark, or even trying to figure out how to escape the confinement. It was a million memories dancing through your head all at once, an entire lifetime fogged up with anesthetic playing out in your aching head. 

All it took was a little doubt, right? A little confusion. And then you weren’t you, a person who had lived and failed and tried and been hurt over and over. A woman who had done unspeakable things and made unfathomable choices. You were her. A girl too small for her age, a girl whose bones poked out from her pallid skin. Her cheeks weren’t round and rosy, they were hollow and gaunt. She stared solemnly with eyes that seemed too large for her face, as glassy as those of a doll. In stark contrast to the finery of her nursery, she wore dirty pajamas and had unwashed hair. 

That was you. From a life you didn’t want to remember, filled with so many things you couldn’t forget. 

You remembered how cold it always was when Dad was gone. You remembered the feeling of hunger gnawing at your stomach. You were too young to know how to feed yourself or get warmer clothes, you only understood that your tummy hurt and you couldn’t stop shivering and that Mom didn’t want you to leave your room. You remembered sitting on your floor with your doll, quietly playing by yourself. Her name was Peach. She was your sister and your best friend. 

More anything else, more than the fear or the sadness or the longing or the pain, you remembered Mom’s voice. She was singing and you could remember that song so clearly that you dreamed of it years and years and years later. Her melancholic melody floated down the dark, cold hall. The house had been silent since Dad left on a trip. He was a doctor, which meant he had to take care of people. Mom hadn’t been feeling well. She called it morning sickness, even though she seemed to get even sicker at night. She threw up a lot, and she said her head and back hurt. She said she needed to rest, which was why you weren’t allowed to leave your room unless she said. 

But now she was singing.

Thinking about it for a moment, you put your doll Peach into her bed to be comfortable and safe while you were gone, pulling the little blankets up around her chin so she didn’t get cold. The house was always so cold. You left your room, your sock-covered feet making no noise on the wood floors. Mom’s voice was every bit as beautiful as she was, even when it was haunting and sad.

When you peeked around the doorway into the room she and Dad shared, you saw her sitting on the window bench, watching the lifeless gray sky. She was covered in something dark and wet, like she had spilled a drink. It puddled in her lap and coated her hands, dried on the edges but saturated so heavily in the middle that it still glistened like wet ink. You watched as tears slid down the side of her face, dripping from her chin. They kept falling, even as she sang.

“Momma?” you asked softly, suddenly uneasy. “Momma, what happened?”

She stopped singing, looking towards you with hazy eyes. Her face was drained of all color, her cheeks gaunt and hair a mess of flyaways. She held out her hand for you. Whatever was on her lap had dried on her skin, flaking off like rust from her fingers.

Blood. It was blood, you could smell it now. The vile metallic tang nearly choked you.

“Momma, you’re hurt,” you said, crossing the room and taking her hand without a second thought. Dried blood smeared over your hand. Her skin was ice cold.  

Her pale lips parted to say something, her chest swelling with a breath, but nothing came out. She just looked confused, her brow pinching and fresh tears forming in her eyes. 

“Mommy, you’re bleeding,” you insisted, feeling very cold inside. Dad wasn’t home, and you didn’t know who else could help. 

“Why was it you?” she asked, looking lost. “A girl. A daughter. Why are you the only one to make it? If you were a son—if I had a son…” She put her other hand on her stomach. “It was a son, I know it was.”

“Momma?” 

She blinked, her eyes focusing as if only just noticing you. Quick, like you had burned her, she dropped your hand. 

“Draw me a bath,” she said, a sharpness you recognized very well returning to her voice. “I am fine, this is… Fine. Don’t tell your father about this.”

“Yes, mommy.”

There were many things Mom didn’t want dad to know, things about her. Later in life, she told you to hide things about you from him. But that came later. 

From back then, you could remember very clearly that Mom and dad fought a lot. Sometimes it seemed like all they did was fight, and then Dad would leave on a ship, and then it was just you and Mom. When he got home, things would be fine at first, but that peace never lasted very long. 

You could hear them in the den. It was a fight that had been brewing for a while. Mom was shouting in a shrill tone, but Dad only ever talked quietly. His voice came out in a low rumble that demanded absolute attention, like rolling thunder. Just as fearsome too.  

You wanted to go upstairs, but that would mean going through the den and you didn’t dare interrupt them. Instead, you held Peach tight in your arms and covered your ears to block out their voices and waited for the storm to pass. 

She shouted. He spoke. There was thumping. Mom screamed twice. And then a heavy silence fell upon the house. The clock seemed to tick even louder in the absence of their voices.

Did that mean it was over with? You crawled out of your hiding place, softly walking down the hall until you got to the arch leading into the den. Light from the crackling fire within illuminated a little halo into the hall, but there was no warmth to the orange glow.  

Hardly daring to breathe, you peeked inside. Mom laid in a broken heap on the floor. She was bleeding. It gushed out of her nose, pooling on the hardwood. Her eye was already swelling and she cradled her stomach. Her shoulders shivered with little hitching sobs. 

You didn’t see Dad anywhere, so you tentatively entered, walking as softly as you could. 

“Mommy?” you asked, approaching her slowly. 

Dad said your name from the stairs, making you jump. Mom whimpered.

“Leave your mother alone,” he told you as he came down. “It’s time for bed.” 

“But mommy—”

“Now,” he said, his eyes narrowing. 

You knew better than to argue with him when he used that tone of voice. You looked back at Mom, feeling sick. She was in pain, you knew she was. But Dad would help her, wouldn’t he? He was a doctor.

“Goodnight mommy,” you said, petting her head. “I love you.” 

Her only response was a weak sob. 

“Didn’t you hear that, birdie?” Dad said. “Your daughter said goodnight.” 

Mom let out a shaky breath, looking up at you. “Goodnight, baby.” 

“Okay, come on, sweet girl,” Dad said. “It’s late.” 

Nervously, you crossed the room to the stairs where Dad stood. He didn’t look upset anymore, you could almost believe that nothing bad had happened. When you started to pass him, he held out an arm to stop you. 

“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked. 

You looked up at him, confused and anxious. 

“I think I deserve a goodnight kiss from my sweet little girl,” he clarified warmly, leaning down to scoop you up into his arms. You stiffened up, squeezing Peach to your chest. 

“Goodnight, daddy,” you said, kissing his cheek. He smiled, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“Don’t you worry. Things are going to be better from now on,” he told you. “Right, birdie?” 

“Yes,” Mom answered, her voice pained. 

Dad let out a heavy breath, nodding. “I hate that it has to be like this, but it’s for the best. I’ve been too easy on you girls for too long, and it’s my responsibility to take care of it.” He closed his eyes for a second, pressing his face against your neck. You held your breath. 

“My sweet little girl,” he said, pulling back. “I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you both.”

“I love you too, daddy.” 

He kissed your forehead before setting you down, ruffling your hair. 

“Alright, mommy and I have to talk. You better be in bed by the time we’re done, okay? I’ll check.”

“Yes, daddy,” you said. 

As soon as his attention was off of you, you went up the stairs. You remembered being too small to take them properly, it was more of a climb than anything. A tiring climb. And then it was down the cold hall into your room, and straight onto your bed. You pulled the blanket up to cover both you and Peach and held the pillow around your ears to shield them.

You remembered many nights just like that, huddled with your doll in the stifled dark, waiting to fall asleep because it was the only escape you had. 

28 Days Earlier

It was your own upset whine that woke you up to something approximating consciousness, and then you became aware of several things in quick succession. You were in Buggy’s bed, cradled in his arms with your back against his chest, you were both naked, he was touching you, and what was most probably his erection was pressing against your thighs. You squirmed, confused, catching a glimpse of his nose and smile when you twisted your head around, before pressing your face back into the pillow with a soft groan.

Your head hurt. Actually, several things hurt. It took you a few seconds to grasp what was real. Last night, going to the Maison Rouge, getting drunk, the bathroom, having dinner, getting carried back onto the ship, and then everything else.

At least that explained your headache.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Buggy said cheerfully. Fitting that the one morning you wanted to sleep he would be awake and in good spirits.

Your only response was a harsh gasp when he rolled your nipple between his thumb and forefinger just a little too hard. 

“You are awake right?” he asked. 

“Mmmhmm,” you agreed.

“Good. I didn’t want to stick it in while you were still snoozin’.”

You made a confused sound. Most of your functional brain was focused on the way he was touching you, one hand holding you against him while the other shamelessly groped your chest. 

“Cap’mm Buggy, what’re you-” 

“Don’t get all weird about it,” he said, releasing you to sit up. Blinking groggily, you rolled onto your back to watch him grab a bottle he’d wedged between the other pillows. His makeup was all faded and smeared because you hadn’t taken it off last night, the sparkles dusting down his cheeks. “I’m gonna be gentle.”  

“Oil?” you asked, confused as he uncapped it with his teeth and poured some onto his palm.

“Yeah, you were fuckin’ soaking last night, you’re probably all tapped out,” he said with a smile, clarifying some things by tossing off the blanket to stroke his cock, coating it in oil. This was a dream, it had to be. Buggy looked at you, his smile exchanged for a look of impatience. “You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” you said automatically, although you still felt like this had to be a dream. 

Buggy rolled his eyes, stroking his cock one more time for good measure. “Quit gawkin’ and lay down.”

You laid back down, too sleepy to argue. Not that you would. Surprising you somewhat, Buggy laid down too, rolling you onto your side so you were spooning again.

You tried to twist around, confused about what he wanted. You thought you understood, but this was different. New.

“Lift your leg up,” Buggy told you. After a second of trying to understand what he meant, you did and he pulled you down enough for him to get his cock between your legs. 

Oh. 

Your breathing immediately picked up. Excitement? Nerves? You couldn’t tell the difference clearly enough to know. You didn’t fight him, your fingers digging into the sheets as he ran the slick head through your folds back and forth until it caught. The feeling made you shudder, your stomach flipping. 

“See?” Buggy teased. “You loooove this.”

“Don’t we,” you began to say, speaking more because you felt like you needed to say something than because you meant it, “don’t we need to get up and… um…” 

“And what?”

You tried to string together a coherent response, but it got lost as Buggy began to push into you, your argument disintegrating around his cock. The oil made it so smooth, he barely had to work it in, just pushing and pushing until you were full. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said, his voice smug even though it was strained and hoarse. 

If you were going to object in the first place, all of your thoughts disappeared when he moaned right into your ear. The sound was almost as potent as the feeling of him inside of you, you couldn’t help but tighten up around him, letting out a little whimper. Buggy laughed, rolling his hips lazily. 

“We’re on vacation, babydoll. Just relax.” 

When you and Buggy finally got out of bed, it was later than was at all reasonable and you were already worn out. Conversely, Buggy seemed to be full of energy. You got a look at yourself in the mirror, shocked and a little disgusted by the sight. There was only so much that could be done to salvage your appearance. Your hair seemed unable to take any other shape than an utterly disastrous nest, and the smears of makeup didn’t respond to water no matter how hard you scrubbed. Your bandana was on the other ship too. Since you were out a pair of very nice panties and the only clothes you had was last night’s red dress, you borrowed a loose linen shirt of his.

It did absolutely nothing to cover the worst of the damage—the bright red marks covering your neck from ear to collarbones. Some were very clearly bite marks with indents of teeth, others were less distinct splotches of red, and a few were just bruises.  

“Sheesh, you look wrecked,” Buggy said, which was a little unfair. His makeup was smeared and he needed a shave and to tame the wild blue mess of his hair, but he didn’t look sickly the way you did. There was a brightness to his eyes, an energy you didn’t think you ever had. 

“‘s not that bad,” you said, covering your neck with your hair. 

“Come here, let me get a better look,” he said, dropping into his chair. You obeyed with halting steps, coming to a stop where you were more or less at eye level. Buggy didn’t look into your eye though, prying your hands from your neck and pushing your hair back to appreciate the work he’d done. “Some of my finest work, if I do say so myself.” 

You couldn’t look at his face, staring off to the side. You didn’t want to think about what you did last night, the things you said and did and agreed to. You are mine. 

How embarrassing. 

Your reaction made Buggy frown. “What’s that look for?” he asked. “You said I could do anything I wanted.”

“‘s embarrassing,” you muttered. “But that… It’s fine, really. Do you want me to-” You gestured to your chin and neck. 

Buggy ran a hand over his face, sighing. “Fine,” he said. “Makeup first, though. Somebody forgot to take care of that last night.” 

You frowned because that wasn’t your fault which made him laugh, his mood smoothed over just like that. 

Taking off his makeup was a very familiar process by now, as was preparing everything to shave his facial hair. You wished that the fulfillment of whatever twisted desires you had would have cured you of your preoccupation with Buggy’s face and neck, yet you found yourself as interested as ever. At the very least, you got through it without incident before wiping the remaining shaving cream off and applying the aftershave, appreciating his smooth skin. Maybe that was selfish.

“I just realized,” you said as you were cleaning the blade before returning the razor to its case. “I can’t cut you, can I? Because of your… your thing.” 

“My thing?” he repeated, holding up a mirror to see if you had done a good enough job. 

“Your Devil Fruit… thing,” you clarified.  

“You just realized that?” Buggy asked. You couldn’t tell if his tone was amused or derisive. Both, probably.   

“I thought the reason you didn’t let me at first is because you thought I would cut you,” you explained, turning around to put everything away. “Because you didn’t trust me.” 

“Yeah, I didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do a shitty job.” 

“I don’t think people would notice either way,” you said. “They’ll be too distracted by-” 

“By what?” Buggy asked sharply. 

“Your cheekbones and jaw,” you said, hoping it sounded like a normal complement and not creepy. “You know? They’re pretty enough that I don’t think a bit of hair or anything would matter.”

“You were going to say they’d be too distracted by my nose, weren’t you,” he accused. You looked over your shoulder at him, surprised to see his simmering rage. 

“I wasn’t,” you told him, frowning. “You don’t even have hair there, it wouldn’t make sense.”

“What you said doesn’t make any sense either.” 

“I, um,” you stammered, confused. “That’s not what I mean, sir. I swear.” 

“Whatever,” Buggy said, standing up and going into the bathroom. You couldn’t tell how seriously he was upset by the perceived slight. Sometimes Buggy got really angry, but sometimes he seemed to forget it as soon as it happened. 

While he was gone, you finished cleaning up the shaving supplies before stripping the bedding. By the time he emerged, you still hadn’t decided if you were meant to apologize or not.

“Do you want me to go get breakfast?” you asked, fidgeting awkwardly. 

“Ew, no,” Buggy said, wincing as he tied a kerchief around his hair. “Never eat ship food if you can avoid it.” 

“Then… Can I stay here with you?” you asked.

He grabbed his makeup case and sat back in his chair. “I doubt anyone else wants you.” 

You sat on the end of his bed. The morning activities really had worn you out in a way they didn’t seem to for him, and you felt a little gross to be sitting there covered in a film of sexual grime, but it was better than being alone. Much, much better. 

“How long will we stay in Lafitte, Captain Buggy?” you asked, looking out the window. It was another lovely day. 

“Until I say we’re leaving,” he answered, focused on his makeup. He was very good at it, painting on the shapes quickly and efficiently. You felt warm while watching him, like you could relax because you weren’t alone, because he wanted you by him. 

“It’s creepy when you stare at me like that,” Buggy said, bringing your musings to an abrupt halt.  

“I’m sorry, sir,” you said.

He smirked, adding the finishing touches to the blue around his eyes before powdering it like Pippa had with your makeup.  

“Okay, new rules!” Buggy declared when he was done, standing up. “You,” he pointed at you, “do not leave the ship without me. You don't talk to anybody that’s not me. Really, just, only do what I tell you to do. Daddy dearest doesn’t have any proof that we’ve got you yet and I’d like to keep it that way. You’re gonna lay low, keep your head down, and not do anything stupid. Got it?” 

“Yes, sir,” you said, nodding, your stomach tied in knots at the reminder. 

You helped Buggy get dressed, but your mind was preoccupied with thoughts of your dad. He wouldn’t be thrown off that easily, not from getting you back and not from pirates. You weren’t sure why you managed to convince yourself he would be. 

“You’re thinking about him, aren’t you?” Buggy asked with something like bitterness in his voice. “The Surgeon.” 

“I guess.”

“Well don’t. I won’t let that crusty bastard take you back,” Buggy told you, rolling his eyes. “That’d be such a waste, I’ve got your pussy all broken in and everything.” 

Your face scrunched in disgust while Buggy laughed, ruffling your messy hair to make it messier. You wanted to give him a hug before he left, but you couldn’t think of a way to make that seem appropriate. 

“I’ll bring you back something nice to eat, okay, babydoll?” 

“Will you be gone very long?” you asked, hoping you didn’t sound desperate and knowing you did. 

“I’ll be back before you know it. If you’re good and you get all your chores done, I’ll get blondie to dress you up so we can go out.”

Once Buggy left, you went to the berth to find a high necked sweater to cover the marks on your neck and get cleaned up. Although it had only been two days and you hadn’t even been on this ship very long in the first place, you had the sensation of being home. Or, being someplace more homey. Whatever your feelings, it was better.

Although it was late for it, people were still hanging around getting a cold breakfast. You wouldn’t have thought so many people would stick around but, apparently, it was payday. Everybody got a split of what had been plundered from the Dolce and those involved got more for the other ship. 

Mohji handed out the money while Richie watched everybody’s bowls very sharply. You didn’t expect anything, Captain Buggy hadn’t really mentioned payment, but you still got a cut. It was strange to get money from a man who had only recently seen you locked up in the brig and called you hostage, but in the absence of the Chief of Staff, it was up to Mohji.

“You look shocked,” Marty said as everybody dispersed. “He didn’t short you, did he?”  

“No, nothing like that. It’s just… I’ve never had this much money,” you admitted. “What am I supposed to do with it?”

“You’re a pirate,” he said. “You go out and blow it all on booze and hookers.”

“Captain Buggy said I’m not allowed to leave the ship. Also I…” You frowned. “I don’t think I’d do that anyway. Is that what you do?”  

“Before you think too harshly of me, girly,” Marty said. “Don’cha think it’s better to pay a girl who’s clean than to catch something?”

You nodded like you understood. “That’s true. And I would never, ever judge you,” you told him. 

Marty smiled, shaking his head in amusement. 

“By the way, do you, um, do you know where Mr. Cabaji is?” 

“Captain Buggy sent him off on some mission,” Marty said.

“Oh, that’s good then,” you said, more relieved than you should have been. Cabaji was smart and strong and capable, and if something happened to him somebody would have mentioned it.

It looked like Marty was going to ask you something, but he was cut off by a familiar voice. “Did Mr. Mohji pay you?” Pippa asked, making you jump. She had approached from your left blindspot, and you hadn’t been paying enough attention to check. 

“He did. I was just advising her on how best to spend it,” Marty told Pippa. 

“We’re going shopping, obviously,” she said. 

You frowned. “Captain Buggy said I’m not allowed to leave the ship without him.”

“You can’t keep wearing my hand-me-downs. He must know that. If he doesn’t trust me, then Marty will come along to keep us safe.” 

“He will?” Marty asked. 

“If it’s for a good cause,” Pippa said, smiling and batting her eyelashes at him. He clearly wasn’t charmed by her, rolling his eyes. 

“Maybe another day,” you told her. “I’ll ask him later.” 

She sighed. “Fine. There are things I need to get while we’re here anyway.” 

“Do you wanna go get something to eat first?” Marty asked. “I can’t stomach any more salted meat.”

“It’s too early to start drinking,” Pippa said. 

“Start?” Marty asked, pulling a flask out of his pocket. She rolled her eyes. 

“I’ll see you two later then?” you said. 

“Shame you can’t come along. Sorry, girly.” 

“It’s okay,” you said, smiling reassuringly. “I’m fine here.” 

Neither looked like they entirely believed you, but nobody would argue with rules Captain Buggy set out. That was, if nothing else, the strongest unifier among the crew. 

They left, and you focused your attention on getting your chores done. First, however, you stopped by the clinic, but Crina wasn’t there. 

Without anything else to keep you occupied, you tidied up Captain Buggy’s cabin. In your absence, he had made a mess of it. Even though you were not in an entirely different position than you had been yesterday, you felt peaceful while cleaning. Now that you had a taste of his absence, you knew how dire it was that you did whatever you could to stay with him.  

You weren’t sure how you were going to do that, but you were going to figure it out, and you were going to be very, very good at it.  

The way you were tied up was simple. Hands secured behind your back with plain rope, and your ankles bound in the same way. Your head ached painfully, swimming in the thick fog. A drug? It felt like it. That was the only thing that could separate you from reality so thoroughly. 

You remembered the first time you were ever knocked out with a general anesthetic. It was because you broke your arm, but it didn’t heal right because you weren’t strong enough. Your parents told everyone you broke it because you tripped, but you remembered what happened. You wished you didn’t. You wished you remembered running and falling, that would be so much better. 

But that wasn’t what happened.  

Miss Frizzy was the children’s teacher. Barley was too small to need more than a few teachers, and everybody had to learn together with different books. Dad said it was different in places with more people. You wondered if that would be nice, but you liked Miss Frizzy. She had long, dark hair that was very straight and sleek. She was young like Mom, and very pretty like Mom. You liked that she was nice, and that she smelled like vanilla, and that she gave you lunch when Mom forgot to pack yours. Sometimes, in the most secret place of your brain that you would never tell to anybody ever, you wished that Miss Frizzy was your mom. 

School was over, but you had to stay because Miss Frizzy asked your mom to come into the classroom. Since it was an adult conversation, they set you outside the room in the hallway to wait. They thought you didn’t hear them, but you did. Miss Frizzy gave you a book of hidden object pictures, but you had no desire to find quilted stars or a rocking horse. You sat Peach in your lap so she could look at the pictures while you listened to the adult conversation. 

“I am… concerned about your daughter,” Miss Frizzy said. 

“What did she do?” Mom asked sharply in her ‘be careful’ voice, the scary one that let you know she was getting upset, the one that made your spine tingle. 

“She didn’t do anything. I just wanted to discuss her social development. I’ve noticed a few things that are a little worrisome.” 

“Like what?”

“She’s around the age that we’d expect to see more verbal communication. The difficulty with kids her age is usually trying to get them to stop telling you what they’re thinking or feeling, but she’s the opposite.”

“I’m sorry, are you telling me there’s something wrong with my daughter because she’s better behaved than other children?”

“No, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with her. I wanted to ask for your opinion on what I might do to make her more comfortable—what is her behavior like at home?”

“That’s not your business.”

“It’s just that, with kids like her, it’s important to encourage confidence and self expression.”

“She’s not well, you know that, don’t you?” Mom said. “That’s why she’s shy. There’s nothing wrong with that.” 

“No, there’s not. But I would like to help her socialize, especially with the kids in her class. This is a very important time for social development.”

“Well what am I supposed to do?”

There was a beat of silence before Miss Frizzy spoke. “Social behaviors are learned,” she finally said, “I worry she’s not in an environment that makes her feel comfortable or safe to express herself.”

“Safe?” Mom demanded, her voice raising. “What is that supposed mean? You think she’s afraid to express herself because of me? It is not your business to tell me how to raise my daughter. And you know what? You ought to be careful if you’re going to be making these sorts of insinuations. You know who my husband is.” 

“I’m not insinuating anything,” Miss Frizzy said.

“I am her mother. I know what’s best for her.”

It was quiet for a moment. A very long moment. “I’m worried that’s not entirely the case,” Miss Frizzy said softly.

“You should be ashamed of yourself, Ilse Frisby,” Mom said, her voice mean and sharp like a knife. 

Miss Frizzy tried to say more, but Mom emerged from the office.

“We’re leaving,” she told you with the type of look that you knew better than to argue against. You stood up immediately with Peach tucked beneath your arm, accidentally dropping the book. Rather than waiting for you to pick it up, she grabbed your bicep. Too tight. You winced, scrambling along to keep up with her as she dragged you out of the school building. 

When you were out of sight, Mom rounded on you, her expression dark. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing, momma,” you said, out of breath from having to walk so fast, your arm aching from the way she’d been dragging you. 

“You said something to her, I know you did. You told her I’m a bad mother, didn’t you?” 

“No, momma, no, no,” you denied, shaking your head and fighting your tears. You didn’t want to cry, but you couldn’t help the reaction in the face of her rage. You didn’t exactly understand the adult conversation, but you understood it had upset Mom. Really, really upset her. You squeezed Peach against your chest for comfort. 

“You did, you had to have said something. You’re such an ungrateful brat. Do you have any idea how much I sacrifice for you? For you. And then you go to that-that woman and you tell her that I’m a bad mother? You owe me everything, and instead you just…” 

Tears finally welled up in your eyes, you couldn’t fight them anymore. 

“Oh, you’re gonna cry now?” Mom demanded. “Fine, go tell that woman how bad of a mother I am, go cry to her and tell her lies about our family.” 

“No,” you said, your voice getting all stopped up in your swollen throat. “No, I’m sorry, momma, I’m sorry.” 

“No, go. Go tell her all about what a terrible mother I am!” She used her grip on your arm to push you back towards the school building. Peach dropped first, falling into the dirt, and you felt something give out and there was a terrible crunching cracking noise and then you fell onto the ground too, scraping your knees across the dirt and rocks. Blood roared in your ears and you stopped crying because the pain punched everything out of you. It screamed up from your arm, but you couldn’t make a sound.

Tears and snot dripped from your face and darkened little spots in the dirt and you couldn’t breathe and mom was talking more but you couldn’t hear her. She dropped onto the ground beside you and looked at your arm. It looked wrong. It hurt so much you felt sick. 

“Oh, my baby, no, no no no,” she cooed, gently pulling you against her, her voice so soft. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hurt you. You know that, don’t you? I didn’t mean it. I’m so sorry, baby. I love you, I love you so—” 

Your arm had to be set and put in a plaster. The surgery and anesthetic came later.

“Your mother loves you,” Dad told you that night. “She loves you very much. You know she didn’t mean to hurt you.” 

You nodded, holding Peach even tighter with your good arm. When you dropped her earlier, she broke. There was a faint fissure going down her face, right over her pretty glass eye. That hurt almost as bad as your arm.

“She worries about you,” Dad said. “We both do. What you did is not alright. You do not tell people about what happens at home. That is not appropriate. Do you understand?” 

You didn’t think you had, but why else would Miss Frizzy say those things? Why else would Mom get so upset? You made a mistake, and there was only one answer. “Yes, daddy,” you said softly. 

Those words made you feel hollow inside. The last time you said them was when you were trying to convince him to stay because even if you were miserable, you weren’t sure if you wanted to leave him. 

Yes, daddy. 

In a twisted way, that memory wrapped right back around to your first time with Buggy. Most of your life you thought you would probably die a virgin. Sex was dirty, and gross, and made you feel bad about yourself. How old were you when you came to that conclusion? Nine? Ten? You remembered the girl who told you. Her name was Harper.

Harper’s family lived on a small dairy farm on the edge of town. In a town full of fishermen, you thought cows were cooler, but Harper said it wasn’t much different at all. Just like them, she had to wake up long before dawn and work for hours before coming to school. The only difference was that she smelled like the barn while the boys who worked on the boats smelled like fish. 

She was the only one in your school around the same age as you. Around the same age. Harper was six months older. Months that grew longer when you factored in the height difference, which seemed to get more substantial every week. She used those months and inches as the primary reason for why you had to listen to her and do what she told you to do. Mainly that included letting her take your toys, colored pencils, and hair ribbons and only playing games that she liked. It also meant, probably on account of those six months of extra experience, that Harper knew a lot of grown-up things that you didn’t. 

An overcast sky loomed above, a sharp wind churning up the smell of brine and salty sea air below. You and Harper lived in the same direction from the school, so you would walk together to the big fork in the road. Then you went up the hill and she went around. Both of you were sniffling and bundled up tightly. Made worse by the wind, the cold got under your coat and nestled there, an inescapable chill. 

“We should make a get well soon card for Dawn,” you said. You had heard that afternoon that she would be out of school for a few months, she’d come down with something bad. You knew all about that. 

Harper snorted out a laugh. “Dawn isn’t sick.” 

You looked at her, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Harper looked at you with an expression you knew well. A mixture of pity and superiority, like you were stupid, or at the very least woefully naive. “She’s pregnant.” 

Your eyes widened in surprise. “That’s not true.” 

“It is,” Harper insisted testily. “My sister told me. She said that Dawn’s a slut. She’ll do it with any handsome sailor so now she’s pregnant.” 

“Oh,” you said. 

Harper smiled. “You know what that means, don’t you?” 

You mulled that over, trying to divine her meaning from words alone. Slut was bad, you knew that much at least. But the rest, you weren’t so sure. Harper obviously wanted you to ask her. She liked doing that. You always felt so stupid not knowing all of the grown-up things that she did. 

“I guess not,” you finally allowed.

“She had sex. That’s how babies are made,” Harper said imperiously, like she was teaching you a very important lesson. “That’s where they both get naked and a man puts his penis in the lady’s down-there parts. Boys have different bits, they stick out. It’s like this-” She held up her hand in the shape of a circle, slowly putting her finger through it to demonstrate. “And then the girl gets pregnant.”

Your face screwed up with disgust. “No way.” 

“Yes way. That’s how you were made,” Harper said crossly. “Your mom and dad had sex and then you were born. And that’s what Dawn did.” 

“How do you know that?” you asked her, still reluctant to believe something so gross and taboo. 

“My mom told me in case a creepy pervert tries to touch my privates or chest. I’m starting to get breasts, you know. I’ll need to wear a bra soon, and that’s when boys want to have sex.”

Harper said that a lot, talking about how she would need a bra soon, but you didn’t think her chest looked any different. You didn’t tell her that though, because then she said you were jealous because she was taller and looked older than you did. You weren’t jealous. If having a bra made boys pay attention to you, you’d rather not. And the whole idea of sex just seemed gross. Probably Harper was lying, she did that sometimes. And if she wasn’t, that was worse. 

But you didn’t say any of that, you just agreed, and then you told her goodbye at the big fork and made your way up the hill thinking about lots of icky, uncomfortable things you would really rather not. 

24 Days Earlier

For you, clothes had always been somewhat of an afterthought. It wasn’t a matter of money. Dad didn’t like to see you wearing anything especially ostentatious or too flattering, he said that it would attract attention and make you look cheap. That, combined with your propensity to get cold, meant that you wore a lot of the shapeless sweaters Pippa hated so much.

Not anymore. 

After a shockingly quick run through of the first shop, Pippa sent you into the changing room with several outfits at the ready. You were still reeling from the newness of it all. Without her, you never would have been able to pick out anything, there were far too many options. 

Taking in a deep breath, you started with a white buttoned shirt. It had a sweetheart neckline and long, frilly sleeves. It was paired with a pair of pinstriped bloomer shorts, the kind that were meant to be seen rather than hidden beneath a skirt. Unlike everything you had worn previously—except for the red dress—both items were fit for your size. It was a lovely outfit. And then you looked in the mirror, remembering your problem.

“Pippa, I can’t wear this shirt right now,” you said doubtfully.

“What are you talking about?” Pippa asked, opening the curtain. You immediately covered your neck. She looked you up and down, her eyes relentlessly critical. “What’s wrong with it?”

“Nothing,” you said. “Just…” When you didn’t elaborate, trying to think of a way to explain the problem, she grabbed your wrist to pull your hand from your neck, revealing the marks littering your skin. The ones from the other night had only just begun to fade, and Buggy had decided to add more that morning “So you don’t forget.”

Whatever that was supposed to mean.

“Was he trying to eat you?” Pippa asked, her tone so matter-of-fact you almost weren’t sure if she was joking or not.

“I…” You huffed, shaking your head. “Did you get anything with a high neckline?” 

“I doubt Captain Buggy wants you to cover them up.”

“How do you know that?” you asked doubtfully. 

“That’s how men are.” She shook her head, a little amused. “Marking their territory. He doesn’t want anybody else trying to play with his toy.” 

You frowned. “Don’t say it like that.”

“You don’t need to be embarrassed, I’m not judging you for getting in with the captain. If I thought I could get away with it, maybe I’d try the same thing.” 

“With Captain Buggy?” you asked sharply, your voice raised with the higher bend of defensive jealousy. 

“Relax,” Pippa said, looking a little surprised by your reaction. “He’s clearly got a type, and he’s certainly not mine.” 

“Sorry, that’s not what I…” You fumbled on the apology, unsure of what you were apologizing for exactly. “I’m sorry.” 

“You’re getting that outfit, try on the black skirt with suspenders next,” Pippa told you, unruffled, “it should go with that shirt.” 

She left the changing booth, closing the curtain. You couldn’t stifle your embarrassment about your reaction, and then thinking about the other night, caught on the worry that you may have embarrassed yourself even worse while drunk. What worried you, more than anything, was her motivation for helping you so much. Did it really make sense that she would like you when you behaved like that? 

You thought about that as you rifled through the hangers, finding the aforementioned skirt fairly quickly. It was one of the few black pieces among lots of white and red. 

“Pippa,” you asked while you got out of the pinstripe shorts, relying on the safety of hiding behind the curtain to muster the courage to ask. “Are we friends?” 

“What?” she called.  

“Are we friends?” you asked again, more insistent. The skirt was shorter than you expected, you would have to wear something underneath it otherwise your panties definitely would show. “You’re not just doing this because Captain Buggy and I are… you know.” 

“Oh, that,” Pippa said. “I won’t lie, that’s why I helped you at first, but now… I like you. It’s hard to find somebody who’s willing to let me dress them up, especially someone like you. I could never get away with wearing clothes like this.”

You emerged from behind the curtain, awkwardly tugging on the hem of the skirt. Luckily, there weren’t many people in the store to see your bite-covered neck. 

“See? You look adorable. I can’t pull off the cutesy style,” Pippa said with no small amount of wistfulness. “You can wear those lacy bloomers I gave you under that. You’ll need stockings too.” 

“You really don’t think it’s too short?” you asked. 

She gave you a flat look. “Do you know the luxury of being short?” 

“I don’t think there are any.” 

“If you wear that skirt, nobody’s gonna be even a little scandalized. If I wore something that short, it would be a problem. Enjoy it.”

You weren’t sure that was true, but it was a cute outfit.

The other things you tried on weren’t as successful, but Pippa said that was fine. As soon as you paid, she was dragging you into another shop. Things proceeded in pretty much the same way. While you were busy eying up a dress to decide if you liked it or not, Pippa was compiling an armful of clothes for you to try before shuffling you into the changing room. 

“There’s a few plain cotton dresses, you can pair them with the corset tops or sweaters. Try those first, it’ll be good to have a few on hand,”  

You picked through the hangers, looking for white cotton but finding a mass of white tulle and shiny sateen. You pulled it out, realizing that it was a dress. The skirts and sleeves were absurdly voluminous.   

“What’s this white dress?” you asked.

“That’s yours. For the show,” Pippa said. “Isn’t it beautiful?” 

“It is,” you agreed, although your hesitance was plain. “You said it’s for me?” 

“Yep.” 

“You don’t think… I mean, if I wear this, I’ll look like a kid, don’t you think?” 

“I think,” she said, “you’ll look like a doll. You don’t have to try it on right now, I’ll need to alter it anyway. Just try those cotton dresses.”  

“Oh yeah, right,” you said, trying very hard to not think about why she bought you a dress for the show. 

After that, you visited a few other boutiques, ending the spree with a trip to a store that only sold underwear. As embarrassing as you found that one, it was necessary. Pippa said you had to ‘maximize your assets.’ What that really meant was wearing bras that had padding in them. Although they weren’t comfortable, you were a little excited about it. Now more than ever you were aware of how deficient you were. 

It was late afternoon as the two of you made your way back to the ship. Shopping was oddly exhausting, as was carrying all the bags. 

The question occurred to you while you were shopping for underwear, and now it burned on your tongue. You knew you needed to do it. You had to ask, the only other person you could think to ask was Crina but you got the feeling she wouldn’t react as well. And Pippa said she was your friend.

“Pippa… Can I ask you something and you never tell anybody ever?” 

“Is it about sex?” she asked absently. 

You flushed hot, all the way to your ears. “Yes.” 

“Go ahead.” 

“I know what a, um, a blowjob is, but I don’t know… how.”

“What are you asking me?” she asked, her eyes flicking towards you for a moment. 

“I was wondering if you did, and if you could… I don’t know, do you have any advice or anything?” Hearing your own words made them a thousand times worse. You shook your head fast enough to make the twintails swish, grimacing. “Nevermind, I shouldn’t have asked.” 

“No, it’s okay. I just had to make sure,” she told you. “You know how to give a handjob, right?” 

You blinked, freezing up in the face of that question as you realized that maybe you misunderstood what was meant by that last time you used the term. “Um...”

“Stroking his cock with your hand,” she said.

“Oh! Oh, I guess.” You had definitely misunderstood what that term meant last time you used it. 

“That, but you add your mouth. Lick, suck, bob your head on the end while you jerk him off. If you’re having trouble with getting the rhythm, ask him to help you out.”

You nodded, trying to commit that all to memory while avoiding combusting on the spot out of embarrassment. “Okay, and, um… I can’t fit it all the way in my mouth. When he tried to, I choked.” 

“You’d want to practice suppressing your gag reflex,” she explained casually, unconcerned with the subject or the idea that people walking past could hear her. “Some people can do it, some can’t.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You’re overthinking this,” Pippa said. “If you seem like you’re having the time of your life worshiping his cock, it doesn’t matter how deep you can take it.”

“That sounds… really embarrassing,” you admitted, catching sight of Buggy’s ship. That was good, your arms were burning from carrying so many bags.  

“It doesn’t have to be,” Pippa said. “Sex should be fun.” 

“It is!” you said quickly, defensive. “I just… I’m so… I feel disgusting, you know? And I don’t know what to say or do during and then after it makes me want to, I don’t know…” You shook your head, trying to think of a good way to phrase it. “I wanna peel off my skin or something. Do you ever feel that way?” 

“No,” Pippa said, looking at you with a frown.

“Oh, um, I mean…” You forced a laugh. “I think I’m just being silly, I’m sorry.” 

Pippa nodded. Neither of you brought it up again.  

“I’ve got a special move for taking people down,” Buggy said over dinner that night. He brought it back to the ship for you rather than letting you go into town again. You liked that better anyway, when it was just you and Buggy. “I won’t spoil anything, but by the time I’m done, the sorry sucker’s nothin’ but chunks on the road. I’ll show you one day, it’ll blow your mind.” 

You thought about that for a moment, looking at your plate. “Does it, um, does it bother you at all?” you asked. “Killing people.” 

“Why would it?” he asked out of the side of his mouth, talking through a big bite of fish. 

“I… I don’t know. You’re taking away another person’s life. Everything they were, everything they could be, all of that is gone because—because of you.” 

Buggy rolled his eyes. “Babydoll, it’s not that big a deal. If they die, it was their fault for being in my way.”

You nodded. “My dad used to say that he never killed anybody. He only killed pirates.” 

“Funny, I’ve only killed idiots.”

As desperately as you wanted to be able to think like that, you weren’t sure you could ever excuse yourself in that way. You wished you could be strong like Buggy, that you could adopt such an easy point of view. If you could, you would be better.   

“Okay,” Buggy said, dropping his fork onto his empty plate and leaning back to pick his teeth with his knife. “I’m ready for the show.” 

“Show?” you asked.

“You went shopping today, didn’t you? As my little protégé, the way you look represents me. I gotta know you’re meeting certain standards.”

“It’s just like what Pippa was giving me before,” you said, oddly embarrassed by the idea of putting on clothes just to show Buggy, “but now everything fits.”  

“Didja get new undies?” 

Your lips twisted up in an embarrassed smile, a little giggle bubbling out of your mouth. Buggy had seen you in all states of undress, you weren’t sure how you could manage to still feel so shy.

“I mean,” he said, gesturing towards you with the blade of his knife, “it’s a real shame about what happened to the ones from the other night. You gotta be more careful, babydoll.” 

You wanted to point out that it was his fault for ripping them because he wasn’t patient, but you had a feeling he’d just turn that around on you anyway. 

“I did,” you said. “Get new stuff, I mean.”

“Great,” Buggy said, dropping his knife and clapping his hands together. “Let’s start with that.”  

#opla buggy #opla buggy x reader #buggy x reader #one piece live action #buggy the clown #buggy the clown x reader #my writing #flashbang #not sfw #its been a bad week hopefully things will be better for next chapter

[trannyctophiliac]

you're a mean one, mr. grinch.

them being mean to you </3

{TW!!: all of them dom, exhibitionism, degration, overstimulation, a TEENY TINY bit of dacryphilia, throat-fucking, finger-fuck all CONSENSUAL}

characters: diluc, rosaria, and kaeya

diluc loves you. more than you will ever know. however, he loves you even more when his dick is lodged in the back of your throat while he's serving customers. what looks to be just master diluc on the job, giving out drinks, actually seems to be much dirty behind closed doors. when the final customers leave and bid him a goodbye, he can hardly say a farewell back until he's shoving his dick in the back of your throat. your tears only edge him further, his eyes rolling and his knuckles turn white from gripping the table as harshly as he did. although no one will ever know what happens after angels share closes for the night, it's better to keep the beautiful sight of your tear-stained face with cum running down your mouth to himself.

rosaria is, surprisingly, a woman of the church. as much as she couldn't care less for the ameno archon and his beliefs, she does love the events the nuns at the cathedral partake in during the holidays. especially she loves when she can finger you during the caroling at the church. she loves seeing your facade slowly break down from someone so pure and consecrated to someone so lewd and anathematized. trying to keep up the frontage of being calm was one thing, but singing as well? no no no, not singing won't do you good, she'll just finger you even fucking harder to show everyone how much of a slut you are for her. so do yourself a favor and wear something with a lot more... coverage.

kaeya is a cocky bastard. he holds himself in high regard but sometimes you wonder if that regard has limits. surely, it can't have limits? it doesn't seem like it when your being fucked on his oak wood desk while moaning out loud for anyone to hear if they tried hard enough. your legs shaked and spasmed after having the nth orgasm of the day, tears running down the stains your old tears made before. your expression looked blissful, as if you were given the biggest reward of your life. he presses light kisses to your back, pulling you back on his cock and having you supposedly, "warm it up" for him. regardless of how high kaeya thinks of himself, it must be pretty high to have you fully stripped of your clothing and cockwarm him in his unlocked office with all the pretty bruises and bites that cover your skin like a majestic masterpiece.

an: im sorry im a tad bit late, i got busy today

like and comment if you enjoyed

#genshin impact #genshin headcanons #genshin scenarios #genshin x reader #genshin impact x reader #diluc #diluc ragnvindr #genshin diluc #diluc x reader #kaeya #kaeya alberich #genshin kaeya #kaeya x reader #rosaria #rosaria x reader #genshin rosaria #genshin smut #anime smut #genshin impact smut #genshin #gi

[themidnightcrimson]

The Woods. | w. maximoff

summary: in which a hike in the woods costs you your freedom and your innocence.

warnings: dark!wanda, dubcon/non-con, kidnapping, smut, cumstrap, degradation, we can all sign up for therapy together

this post is for 18+ only. minors: do not interact.

masterlist.

Sweat was starting to seep through your thin workout shirt as the sun shone down on your skin. No matter how many times you hiked this mountain, it always seemed harder than the last.

Although it was a cooler day, the sun, mixed with having hiked for hours, was causing you to become overheated. A stubborn little thing, you pressed on, your dirtied tennis shoes stomping over rocks that became sharper and chunkier the deeper you went into the forest around the mountains. You always liked this trail because it was secluded from all the other hikers and more challenging, but it was becoming cumbersome to avoid all these large rocks in your way. The trail was up on the edge of a hill, and to your left side was a deep slope through dense trees. You couldn’t even see the ground below, between all the trees and scattered leaves, but you knew it was far, so you tried to stay alert.

Your legs were begging for rest. They were becoming weak, and your breaths harder to draw from the air. Nonetheless, you pressed on, trying to enjoy the sound of woodland creatures like the birds singing and the deer you occasionally saw scampering through the wood. You were blissfully unaware of another woodland creature in your surroundings.

Sweat dripped over your eyebrow, and as you went to wipe it away from your eye, you didn’t notice that a particularly sharp rock was in your path. All you felt was the sharp stone cut into the heel of your foot through your shoe, throwing off your balance. You slipped.

Your face hit leaves and sticks as your body rolled, and you felt yourself begin to violently tumble downwards. You couldn’t grab hold of anything because gravity was pulling you downwards through trees that smacked your back and sticks and thorns that scratched your arms and face. You tried to shield your head and roll your body to protect yourself or even convince gravity to let up on you, and it seemed like you were tumbling forever until your head smacked into a particularly large tree that did not give way to your weight. With a huff, you finally stopped, finding yourself staring up at the sky that spun above you. There was a pain at the top of your head, one that seized your brain and rendered you unconscious.

+

You heard a soft humming. It was a woman’s voice, humming along to some sort of tune that you couldn’t quite recognize. It was a sort of lullaby, and it eased your brain awake so that you could open your eyes.

The pain in your head was unbearable, and if it weren’t for being concussed, you would have screamed from it. Although you were awake, you weren’t quite conscious, unable to register what kind of ceiling you were staring up at until it seemed you finally snapped to. You couldn’t remember what had happened, but you knew something had happened. Blinking, you could hardly see anything, and you started to panic that you had hit your head so hard you turned blind. As your eyes struggled to focus, you could make out the wooden panels of ceiling ahead of you, and that wherever you were, it was dark.

You tried to move your limbs, groaning at the sore feeling in the process. It felt like you had been in a car crash or something. You met a resistance as you tried to move, and at first, thinking your body was just malfunctioning, you tried harder to move your arms and legs, but then you felt something tied around your wrists and ankles. Slowly turning your pounding head, you saw in the dark that there was rope tied around your wrists, and assumedly around your ankles, too. You noticed they were tied to a headboard, which led to the realization that that you were laying on a bed.

Now more alert, you raised your head and looked at your surroundings. Through the darkness, you could tell that the room was small and made of wood. Through a window straight ahead, you could see moonlight shining upon trees that softly swayed outside. It had been morning when you went on the hike… What happened between morning and night?

It was a cabin—you could tell by the wooden walls and floors. The bed you were laying on was in a small bedroom with a desk sitting under the window. There were books scattered all across the desk, along with random things like crystals and strangely shaped glass containers filled with different colored liquids. A book was lying face open on the edge of the desk, and the chair was crooked as if someone had gotten up without pushing it into the desk.

As your eyes drifted around the room, you noticed strange markings on the walls. They were in some other language, but you noticed odd symbols carved in between, one being an eye and the other a silhouette of a woman. You then realized that you were hearing a voice humming from another room, turning your head towards the closed door.

“Help!” you yelled, yanking on the restraints on your arms and legs and trying to sit up as far as you could. “Help!”

The humming suddenly stopped, and the cabin was completely silent besides the sound of the wind and crickets outside. You waited for whoever was humming to come find you, until you realized just how stupid you were. You were tied up in this bed in this cabin—that person is probably the one who did it.

Sickness filled your stomach as you realized that you had been kidnapped. You, who was always so careful and so watchful, had been abducted. Your mind began to wonder what tortures would be bestowed upon you, and you only wished that they would just kill you.

Then again, you wondered how far you might be from help. You were obviously in the woods, probably somewhere near your hiking trail. Or, you might be miles and miles away—you had apparently been unconscious for several hours—there was no telling how far your captor had taken you.

If you were somewhere near the mountain, which was the best-case scenario, you tried to remember if you knew of any cabin in the woods there. Most of the mountain was public property, considering it had a public walking trail on it, except…

If your hands weren’t tied, you would’ve slapped yourself for having that thought. For your entire life, you had heard all the rumors about a cabin in the woods near that mountain, in the part that was not owned by the state. A witch, as they called it—the witch in the woods.

It was only child talk, campfire stories, Halloween myths. It was all bullshit, and you had always believed that. Whatever cabin you were in was most likely owned by a creepy old man who was probably going to saw your head off and put it in a jar, at best.

After several moments of silence filled with your swirling and concussed thoughts, you heard footfalls. The rope holding your wrists squeaked as you tensed, listening to the footsteps come closer to the room, floorboards squeaking beneath their weight. You listened, the sound echoing in your ears before the door slowly squeaked open.

What you saw frightened you worse than how seeing a creepy old man would have frightened you. A woman stood tall in the doorway, a pair of deadened eyes boring right into yours through the darkness. The pale moonlight illuminated the orange flames of hair curling down her shoulders. There were shadows around her dark eyes, and her hand on the doorknob slowly closing the door shut flaunted unnaturally blackened fingertips. What frightened you the most was what looked like horns coming to sharp points on her head, but as she took a heavy step closer, you could see it was a sort of crown.

“You’re awake,” came a feminine yet husky voice that brought a cold chill within you, as if she had blown the outside autumn breeze through her lips. Adrenaline filling you, you tried to tug on your restraints. “Don’t,” she snapped, her tone so harsh it made you instantly comply.

“Please,” you softly begged, voice akin to a frightened child’s. Your forgetfulness became clear when your innate human urge to escape led you to mindlessly tug on your restraints again.

The woman wafted towards you suddenly, causing you to shriek as she snatched your jaw in her hand, squeezing your face hard. Your eyes were wide as you stared up at her face full of fury. She was slightly pale, as if she were ill, and her hand on your jaw was freezing cold. “What… did I say?” she hissed, leaning close to your face as she seethed through her teeth.

You were trembling from fear yet frozen at the same time, trying to pull your face out of her grip, but she yanked your face until you stilled from the dizziness it caused you.

“You’re just as stupid as you look,” she growled venomously. “Walking alone on a rocky path, and now you can’t even follow simple orders. Pathetic.”

“Help!” you tried to scream, but she slapped her hand over your mouth, nearly pressing her lips against the back of her hand with how close she came to you.

“No one will hear you from here,” she taunted, a sickening grin forming on her lips. “And if you want to stay alive, I suggest you shut—up!” She punctuated her words by aggressively releasing your face and standing straight.

Your face lulled to the side as you winced, the pounding in your head growing fearsome. A pressure blared the inside of your skull, and the woman tilted her head as her gaze changed.

“Poor little thing. Hit your head pretty hard, didn’t you?” she lilted in a patronizing tone. “I can make it go away.”

“Please let me go,” you quietly begged, closing your eyes because even the darkness was still somehow too bright for your pulsing headache.

The woman’s lip twitched as if she was about to yell at you again, but instead she seemed to calm herself. She outstretched a hand, which you flinched away from, and firmly pressed it over your head. Through your squinted eyes, you watched a red flare swirl in her irises. Suddenly, the pressure in your head began to fade until your brain felt completely clear.

You looked bewildered as she took her hand away, and you noticed that although it was cold, it was soft. “What are you?” you whispered as she stared at you blankly.

Taking a small intake of breath, she casually looked away from you and to your athletic shorts. You had attained scratches from your fall, your legs and arms all marked up with long, red streaks. The woman pressed a finger to one on your thigh, to which you winced, and slowly dragged her finger upwards until it was reaching the hem of your shorts.

“What was a girl like you doing walking all alone? In the woods—wearing these del-ect-ably short shorts.” She dragged her finger under the hem of the shorts, slowly dragging them up and exposing more of your thigh. You tried to jerk away from her, but your restraints would not let you.

“It’s true,” you whispered falteringly. “You’re… the witch.”

Her eyes darkly flashed to you as a smirk rounded her lips. “Is that what you think I am?” There was a tone of playfulness in her voice, but you could not decipher what game she was playing.

“I… I don’t know.” Your weak answer only made her crawling smirk widen.

“I’ll show you what I am,” she husked as she flattened her palm over your skin and slid it downwards to cup your inner thigh, pressing her black fingertips into your tender flesh.

“Please don’t hurt me,” you breathily begged, tears forming in your eyes as fear ran rampant in your blood. It seemed as though she could smell it, looking even more pleased to see the glimmer of tears in your eyes.

“So cute when you’re begging,” she said through a sneer as she watched the way her fingers left indents in your thigh. “I’ll have you begging for me to hurt you soon enough.” She moved her hand to your hip, trailing her fingers up your shirt. Her cold fingertips on your stomach made you shiver, and you could distinctly feel them running over every goosebump on your skin. “Do you know why you are here, detka?”

You didn’t answer her, because her fingers were pushing your shirt up your abdomen, and you tried to ignore the flurries of warmth that followed her touch.

“When I saw you this morning, walking alone in the woods like an innocent little deer, I knew you had to be mine. Someone to live here with me, to sleep with me in my bed, to eat meals with me… to touch…” She ghosted her hands over your bra, jutting her lower jaw out hungrily as she felt the form of your breasts through the material. “Someone to be my perfect companion. And you…” Her eyes connected to yours again. “You’re perfect.” Something of a smile grew on her face, a sad and fleeting one before a look of hunger replaced it. Suddenly, she raised her hand in a flash of red light, and your clothes disappeared from your body.

You shrieked at suddenly being naked and cold on that bed, but the witch paid no mind as all her interest was laid upon your nude form.

“You are such a beautiful darling,” she complimented you as she let her eyes take you completely in. You felt so exposed under her gaze, trying to wiggle against the restraints in hope that they would decide to let you loose. Even if you got free, this witch had powers you knew nothing of, and you wouldn’t stand a chance.

The witch suddenly put her knee up on the mattress, crawling onto the bed and over your body. The mattress dipped with her weight as she kneeled between your legs, holding herself up by placing a hand on either side of your head. She was on top of you now, cornering you down on that bed with both her body and her starving gaze.

She took one hand away from the bed and graced it over your cheek, rounding your jaw and trailing up your chin before pressing two fingertips to your lips. You squeezed them shut, and she demanded you with, “Open.” You shook your head, but she forced them past your lips anyway, sliding her fingers into your mouth. You nearly gagged as they slid deeply down your tongue and nearly hit the back of your throat. They were certainly long.

“Your mouth feels heavenly,” she heavily breathed, her pupils dilating at the sight and feel of your warm mouth around her fingers. A thought crossed your mind to try and bite her fingers off, but something in you told you that would do nothing for your case. There was also something else in you, something you could feel rising to the surface, that made your mouth suction around your fingers. Her eyes alighted when she felt this, her eyebrows lowering deviously.

Your cheeks burned bright red as she slowly dragged her fingers out of your mouth and raised them to her own, sliding them inside and sucking them. She held the eye contact that was starting to make you squirm as she took her fingers out of your mouth and then lowered them down between your spread legs, sliding them inside you without warning. Taken by surprise, you cried out, feeling a bit of pain even though her fingers were wet and, admittedly, so were you.

The witch hissed at the feeling of your pussy tightening around her fingers, and you felt a throb of pleasure beat shamefully within you. Her fingers slid deep inside you, pulling halfway out before she jutted them back in harder, causing you to jump and let out a squeak. When she curled them at their deepest point and massaged directly into your sweet spot, the tension in your body started to melt away, and you couldn’t stop a soft moan that strung from your lips.

“Do you like that, detka?” she grunted as she started thrusting her fingers inside you, hitting that spot repeatedly.

You squeezed your eyes shut and squirmed against your restraints, trying to avoid letting yourself feel good about her touch, but your body was feeling hot all over. She smirked and pulled her fingers out, putting them back into her mouth and sucking your juices off them. You were shocked at feeling empty and longing for her fingers inside you, and the sight of her eyes fluttering closed at the taste of you made the fire within you burn even brighter.

Her jade eyes fluttered open again to look directly at you as she pressed the flat of her palms on your stomach and slid them up to your breasts, boldly taking them in both hands and squeezing them.

“So soft,” the witch moaned, her voice seeming to hiss in your ear. Had she put you under a spell? Was she using some sort of dark magic to make your body feel so pleasured by this strange woman’s touch, who had nonetheless abducted you and was holding you hostage in the cabin? The sad truth was that there was no spell, although she was certainly capable of it.

Entranced, you found yourself longing for her to touch you again where you were suddenly desperate for her.

As if hearing your thoughts, she looked at you suddenly with a smirk. “I’m glad you’re getting used to me so quick.” She waved a palm full of crimson magic which made her clothes disappear but equipped her with something that made that fear rise in you again. A scarlet dildo, large and wide, was attached to her and resting on your thigh.

“Don’t look so scared, detka,” she whispered. “If you’re going to be my companion, you need to learn.” She cupped your cheek with her hand, and you could smell yourself on her fingertips. You suddenly were scared again, feeling as if you were snapping out of whatever spell she must have put you under.

“Please, let me go,” you begged, tugging on your restraints. “Let me go, please. I won’t tell anyone.” You were yanking on the ropes now, feeling them cut into your skin. “Please, just��”

A slap to your face made you fall limp against the bed. It had struck you like lightning, leaving you feeling scorched and weakened. Your hair was covering your face that was laid to the side, your head spinning again as if she had slapped the concussion back into you.

A gentle hand softly combed your hair away from your face, fingertips taking your chin and turning you to look up at her. The look on her face was softer now. “Be a good girl. You’ll thank me soon, I promise.”

You felt the tip of her cock pressing against you, and she moved her hips so that it slid through your folds. You could even hear just how wet she had made you, and the feeling of her hand rubbing circles into your clit made you wake up a bit. As much as you did not want to like it, her fingers felt so good on your clit, and her strap teasing your entrance, and her hand that took your nipple between her fingers and rubbed and pinched it… She had managed to work you up so that you were bucking your hips up to her.

“Good, detka,” she grinned for the first time, and you noticed how beautiful she truly was. You took that moment to take her nude form in—she was breathtaking, truly. You had never seen a woman so beautiful, almost as if she were handcrafted to draw you in and take you under her spell.

“Please,” you quietly begged after she continued to tease you for several moments, and her eyebrows rose in surprise.

“I told you I would have you begging,” she huskily whispered before lining herself with your entrance and snapping her hips forward so that she entered you all at once.

The size of her strap stretched you out so that you cried out in pain, back arching off the bed as you felt the ropes slice more into your wrists.

“Oh, God,” the witch moaned, throwing her head back and holding onto your hips with bruising force as she moved herself around deep inside you before slowly dragging out and forcing herself back in, causing you to cry in pain. She noticed your tears, pausing to place a hand upon your cheek and wipe your fallen tears away. “Shhhh, hush now. You’re doing so good, detka. It’s your first time, isn’t it?”

Feeling hot tears stream down your face, you nodded. The witch cooed and leaned forward, keeping herself still inside you, and pressed a kiss to your lips. She let the kiss linger for a moment, and you found yourself strangely calming down.

Keeping her lips on yours, she slowly started to move, hushing you each time you let out a whine and quieting you with a kiss. You were offput by her sudden sweetness, but it quickly began to fade as she grew impatient and hungry.

Her hands returned to your hips to clutch them tightly, moving her lips to your neck and suckling your skin softly, complimenting how sweet you smelled. As the pain started to reside, you felt pleasure blooming inside you. She was so big and so deep that you could feel her in your lower tummy as her thrusts began to quicken.

“You’re a perfect pet,” she growled into your neck, bringing a hand to squeeze your breast. “It’s taking everything in me to not ruin you our first time together… your pretty, perfect little pussy.” Her dirty words made your cheeks hot, and you started to moan from the pleasure she was giving you. Her hips were thrusting hard between your legs, the bed starting to shake against the wall. Her nails were digging into your hips that blood drew from beneath your skin and dripped down to the sheets.

“Oh, fuck,” the witch moaned as her thrusts grew sloppy. She tried to slow herself down for a moment, sucking hard on your neck and leaving dark purple and red marks all over your skin, but she was too far gone to slow herself down. In whatever daze you were in, you felt yourself also coming close.

Groaning, she slipped a hand beneath you to grab at your ass, pulling you closer into her so that she could fuck you even deeper. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head as the sparks of climax reached you, and with a painful bite to your shoulder, she came right after you. Your orgasm was prolonged when you felt hot liquid filling your pussy as the witch moaned into your shoulder and scratched desperately at your ass cheek. You were nearly blind now as you finally started to come down, feeling her fall limp against you with her entire weight over you. Her warm breath came in pants against your neck as she laid still inside you, some of her cum dripping out of you and spilling onto the bed.

Whatever thoughts you had of trying to escape were gone as the witch already had you completely under her spell and filled with her cum. You were hers now, her perfect little pet that she would keep forever to fuck and love. As she leaned up from your neck to look down at you, she smirked, a glint of red swirling in her eyes. You were damned to the woods with her forever.

#wanda maximoff #scarlet witch #wanda maximoff x f!reader #wanda maximoff x y/n #wanda maximoff smut #wanda maximoff x reader #elizabeth olsen #lesbian #lgbt #marvel #smut #nsft #crimsonween #dark!fic #dark!wanda #dark!wanda maximoff

[artficlly]

lady of the ghosts [chapter 8]

After a great plague ravages your city, you are looking to marry to secure safety for your people. With a war finally ending, the nearby kingdoms are looking to celebrate. King James "Bucky" Barnes decides to continue his family's tradition of hosting a courting season. A medieval courting marvel AU.

Pairing: king!bucky x lady!reader

Warnings: FLUFF, sexual tension, some angst, mention of sex work, mention of war, mention of funeral, tiny amount of anxiety/doubt, swearing, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 3.5

A/N: i wanted to make this a smaller chapter before shit hits the fan, very dialogue heavy and fluffy. please let me know what you think and reblog/like! sorry for any typos - enjoy!!

chapter masterlist | main masterlist

It was said that Neume once dwelled in the waters surrounding Faliene. As a guardian of the city, she waited beneath the waves. If she detected malice on the ships that entered her waters, she would rise from the ocean floor, her body hulking and blue with seaweed and barnacles entangled across her flesh. She would seize the ships with an iron grip, the wood splintering and cracking under the strain. She would drag the sailors to the bottom of the dark, sandy sea, where they would either drown or perish in her crushing grip. 

She was a protector in more ways than one; her presence wasn’t only to instill fear in those who ventured into the Falienean waters but also to aid those who worshiped her. They claimed she would herd the fish towards the fishermen who sailed off the coast, easing the giant schools into the hand-woven nets. On quiet, empty nights, some claim you could hear her singing. Her hums were reminiscent of whales, eerie and lonesome as they reached across the vast, vacant waters. Her song would lull the creatures to sleep, and only then could she be at peace. 

According to legend, Nemue's deep sleep, brought on by her own song, is what caused Faliene's misfortunes to start. As her children waited for her to return, disease and evil crept into her beloved city and slowly poisoned those who remained. Faliene held her breath, waiting in anticipation for the return of her song. The north had been stuck in a slumber for too long; it was time for her to come alive once more. 

The breeze was stronger than usual up on the rocky cliff of The Fishhook. The slowly rising sun partially melted the snow and ice below, where the waves pounded mercilessly along the exposed coast.  

James squinted his azure eyes against the whipping wind, his hair tousled, and his cheeks pink. The two of you had decided to hike up the southernmost point of Faliene’s coastline before it turned to mountain and sea. You had taken the daunting and winding path upward to the peak of The Fishook, a large curved outlook that had been creatively named due to its shape. Halfway up the path, Steve and Peggy had left you behind in favor of exploring a tiny, frozen cave. You knew it was so they would have a moment alone to continue their activities from the Pass; it was harder to do so with King Harrison’s ever-watching eye. 

“Do you see it?” The winds hurtling along the coast have left your lungs burning, and words are nearly stolen as your breath is ripped from you.

“You might have to point it out to me.” James’ admits sheepishly, eyes darting as he surveys the blue, glacial waters below. You step closer to him, careful and slow on the icy rock below, as the two of you are close to the dangerous edge. If the plummet didn’t kill you, the freezing waves crashing against the rocks certainly would. 

With a gloved hand, you point at a darker patch of water, where presumably the ocean floor is deeper than the rest of the bay. James ducks his head, his eyeline following along to where you point. Your gaze is on the side of his face, watching each emotion cross while studying every twitch of his eyebrow or jaw. 

“It’s supposed to look like a woman curled up on her side.” You explain, watching as he tilts his head ever-so-slightly, as if trying to see from a different perspective. James had been insistent on his prior promise of falling in love with the ghost city. Unlike the other guests, who mainly remained in the warmth of Fort Faliene, drinking and laughing their days away, James required endless exploration. 

Sometimes you wondered if it was somewhat of a ploy to get you alone, as even if Steve and Peggy came along as ‘escorts’, the two of you frequently found yourselves abandoned by the pair. Steve and Peggy had more interest in each other's mouths and bodies than the sights of Faliene, unlike James, who remained enraptured by every story and sight you showed him. 

You had toured him through the docks, the city, and the surrounding areas. The people of Faliene watched on with knowing smiles; even Brannigan seemed chuffed by your apparent familiarity with the King of Galanta. From what you gathered, the Falieneans were secretly pleased and were growing to forgive you for your lack of engagement. Why pester you about marrying a lord when you were actively seducing a king? 

“I see it.” James speaks up from beside you, his confused expression melting into a grin. “Her head is facing the east.”

Your eyes flickered over the now familiar planes of his face, watching as he rubbed the stumble across his jaw out of habit. A small smile plays across your face, words leaving you despite your attention being nowhere near the shape of Neume in the waters below. “I know it’s silly, that it’s just the shape of the seafloor, but Falienean’s have always said it looks like Neume sleeping on her side.” 

“You know, everyone always talks about how superstitious the north is, but I think it’s simply that we Southerners are too boring.” He replies, his eyes abruptly cutting to yours. There is a small smirk across his features as he notices your stare, and you look away, cheeks pink, now not only because of the cold. 

“I don’t think you’re boring.” You hum quietly, your words nearly stolen by the next gust of wind as you look to your feet. 

“We definitely are.”

You sucked on your teeth for a moment, tilting your head so you could see him through your peripherals. A smile crosses your face as you realize he’s been watching you the entire time, gloved fingers reaching out to brush a loose strand of hair from your face. You finally pluck up the courage to look back at him. “Tell me a story about Galanta, then. I will be the judge of whether it is boring or not.” 

James lets out a long sigh, looking upwards at the horizon in thought. “They are all stories of war and death, I’m surprised I didn’t die of boredom as a child having to listen to all those tales–”

“You know that I like history.” You cut him off, playfully pushing at his chest. Your cheeks warm up more, realizing that the hard muscle beneath doesn't give under your touch. James chuckles, running a hand through his hair as he looks down at you. “Tell me a story about when you were at war then. Maybe that will be more exciting because you were actually fighting–”

“People who tell their own tales are always bragging.” James grumbles with a hard look, which quickly softens as he catches your pleading look. He shakes his head with a sigh, humming as if in thought. His hands mindlessly come to your cloak, gloved fingers twisting through the fur trimming.

“During the war,” He begins. “Steve and I stumbled upon Prince Micheal in a whorehouse. He was so drunk on ale that he could barely see, let alone walk. The girls were sick of him, so we offered to take him back to camp. The trip was short-lived, though… We grew tired of dealing with him, so we left him passed out in a pig pen. He didn’t return to camp until the next day, it was lunch when he stormed in. He was all covered in filth. He didn’t remember a thing, but he knew Steve and I had something to do with it, we could hardly keep a straight face due to the stench.” 

A laugh bubbles in your chest, and you shake your head at the brunet. Steve had often mentioned how he and James tormented the Prince when they could. Those were tales that Steve would whisper to you over dinner, while Michael bragged and boasted about exaggerated stories further down the table. Though this was not a story you had heard before, you quickly learned that Steve was not as open with you about his secrets as you first assumed – his and Peggy’s affair being just one example. You wondered how many tales from the war were lost to you due to Steve's reluctance to share. This story seemed to have a glaringly obvious reason why.

“You and Steve frequented whorehouses?” You ask innocently, and you hear James suck in a sharp breath, his head tilting to look away guiltily. A teasing smile plays across your lips as you lean closer to him. “The good King James and his knight Sir. Rogers getting their cocks wet? How scandalous.” 

You could imagine the girls in the whorehouses would have loved to be visited by James and Steve – rich, handsome war heroes? They would’ve been snatched away before they even put their foot in the door. You didn’t have envy or malice for the whores, unlike some ladies of court who bickered about the ‘filthy harlots roaming the war fronts’. You imagined James and Steve would’ve been a welcome break from the usual soldiers who would’ve wondered their way. 

Beside you, James swallows hard, his adam’s apple bobbing, and he looks back at you with surprise in his guarded eyes. You wondered if he had ever heard you speak in such a vulgar way before — Steve definitely had, especially when he schemed and got you a few drinks in. His hands reach out, gripping your waist to tug you even closer to his body, and you oblige with a satisfied sigh. 

“It’s just the way of things during war.” He says, his voice husky and low as he looks down at you. His words hesitate, his tongue wetting his lower lip as he scans your face. “You’re telling me you didn’t bed a knight or two during the war? While you were all alone in Haiford Castle?”

Your smirk spreads. “You think King Harrison would’ve let me stay if he had any inkling that I wasn’t a virgin?”

“You didn’t answer my question.” 

You allow your eyes to roam over his face as you take your time answering his question. You note the way his pupils have dilated and the subtle strain in his jaw, as if silent worry was clawing behind his cool demeanor. 

“No. I didn’t.” You reply honestly. “You really think I would invite one of your knights into my bed, or even worse, a Haifordian knight?” 

James grins at that, as if secretly pleased by your answer. You could imagine he made assumptions about you, considering your affinity for finding trouble and irritating authority. Even if you often made it your mission to irritate Prince Michael or King Harrison, you had never fallen to the depths of sleeping around with men you despised.

“I must be good then if you’re willing to have me.” He replies, his voice still low and rumbling in his chest.

“And who said you were invited into my bed?” Your eyes flutter upwards as you look at him through your lashes, a coy smile forming in response to his smirk. 

James hums, his hands squeezing tighter as he presses a soft, gentle kiss to one of your exposed collarbones. His grin is cheeky as he raises his head once more, his expression near ravenous as he watches your breath hitch slightly, goosebumps raising across your skin. Everything about his touch and scent is intoxicating, and you nearly forget you are standing on an exposed cliff as you lean heavily into his touch. 

“I am going to speak with King Harrison tonight.”

“About what?” You manage to stutter out. Your mind is hazy and confused as you try to focus on something other than the pattern he is tracing across your ribcage with his thumb.

“Us. Peggy.” James begins, and you stiffen under his touch. “I am going to gift Steve land and make him a lord – maybe a duke or a count. Something high-ranking enough for him to marry Peggy.” 

“I haven’t even agreed to marry you.” You say through narrowed eyes. “Don’t you think this is too early?”

James looks down at you with a frown. “Where else will you go now that the funeral is complete? You can’t return to Haiford… If we settle this issue with King Harrison, you could return to Galanta with me–”

“What if I want to stay here?” You interrupt, and James snaps his mouth shut.

There is a long pause between the two of you, with James sighing slowly through his nose as his grip around your waist eases, his fingers no longer tracing delicate circles.  

“Well…” James begins hesitantly. “Once we are married, you will have to balance your time between Faliene and Galanta, as will I. If you cannot lead Faliene until our marriage, it would be wise that you return to Galanta until the ceremonies–”

“I want to be married in Faliene.” You interrupt once more.

“I thought you said you hadn’t agreed–” He starts with a grin, only for you to cut over him again with a huff.

“Hypothetically. If there were a hypothetical marriage between us, I would want it to be here–”

He is still grinning as he speaks, as if amused. His eyebrows arch as he speaks. “You do realize the Galantaians would riot, right? Robbing them of a wedding celebration–”

“I am only just winning back the trust of my people, they would be insulted if I snubbed them–”

“Well, it is tradition for the wife to be married in the husband's–”

The playful tone that had built through your exchange quickly snaps, and a scowl crosses your face as you take a step back from him. “Please don’t tell me you’re under the assumption that a husband should be the only one in charge simply because he is male–”

“No – Y/N. No.” James gasps, exasperated. His gloved hand raises up, cupping your cheeks as he looks down at you with a frown. “If we are married, Faliene would be run by you and only you. I will sign whatever papers you ask me to, and I will not interfere unless you ask my opinion.”

You blink at him slowly, exhaling sharply out of your nose as you lean into his touch despite the stubborn look across your face. A small part of you is anxious; you have been hesitant and cautious to trust all of your life. What if, like Rumlow, James was trying to fool you into marriage so he could control the seafaring of the continent? 

“Are you telling the truth?” Your voice is quiet, nearly lost to the winds. Thankfully, James doesn’t seem insulted by your wariness.

“Of course I am. I know that if Faliene is to flourish, it can only be under your rule, not mine.” James hums, his thumb gently swiping over the skin of your cheek before he pulls away. “Maybe it is best we leave the talk of weddings until after I deal with King Harrison. Deal?” 

He offers his hand in the small distance between the two of you. You chew on your lip for a moment, nodding your head as the apprehension in your gut eases. You reach out, grasping his forearm near his elbow. The muscle is bulging and swollen in comparison to your small hands. His fingers wrap around your own forearm, engulfing the clothed skin entirely as you both shake hands on this new agreement. 

“Deal.” You mutter back, though you can’t fight back the smile that has formed. 

There is a new feeling growing in your gut. 

Hope.

—

“Does King James always fuck you with his eyes?” Wanda asked from behind you, her nimble hands expertly washing the soap from your hair. Your strands were lazily dangling over the side of the tub, the water trickling off into the bucket below. Your eyes rolled back into your head, a small huff leaving your lips as you leaned harder against the warm metal. 

Once returning from The Fishhook with Steve and Peggy in tow, Wanda managed to sneak you back into your rooms before your presence was requested elsewhere. Tonight there would be one final feast before most of the guests returned home, and it seemed everyone wanted your attention or opinion on the most mundane of subjects. You had been practically assaulted with questions about dining displays and menus, while the Asgardian Princes, Thor and Loki, somehow managed to trick you into showing them the wine cellar. 

As if sensing your rising stress levels, Wanda had pulled you away, declaring she needed to help you bathe and dress for the dinner to follow. 

“You can act all coy, but we’ve all noticed it. Brannigan is biting at the bit to start organizing a wedding.” Wanda continues, and you groan loudly, slipping deeper into the warm water.

“Do not let him organize anything.” You grumble, and the woman chuckles behind you. 

“When you said you knew the Galantian’s well, I didn’t realize it was because you had invited them into your bed–”

“He has not been in my bed.” You protest, sinking even further into the water until it reaches your chin.

“Ah. Matter of time. You can see it on his face that his cock gets hard everytime he looks at you–”

“Wanda.” You cut over her sternly, wrapping your arms across your chest as you turned in the tub to face her with a scowl. The water sloshes around you at your sudden movements, Wanda withdrawing as a small wave departs the tub. “I have already upset King Harrison enough, I can’t upset him more by having rumors spread around.”

“I am sorry.” Wanda sighs, elbows braced against her thighs, as she leans over to look at you. “I am just excited for you.”

You can’t help but let a small smile grace your lips at her words. As much as you wanted to be annoyed, there was always a sincerity and sweetness to Wanda that made you cave. You move forward through the water, your breasts pressed against the metal as you cross your arms over the lip of the tub. 

“I am sorry for keeping secrets… It is just that to keep the peace between Haiford and Galanta, we have to be careful.” You mutter softly. Wanda gives you a sympathetic look, ringing out the damp cloth in her hands. 

“King Harrison is still expecting Princess Peggy to marry King James?” She asks quietly, abandoning the cloth over the lip of the tub. You press your lips together tightly, watching as Wanda fetches you a dry towel. 

“Unfortunately.” You grumble in return, standing. You allow most of the water to cascade off your skin and hair before wrapping yourself in the towel and carefully stepping out of the tub as Wanda readies your dress. 

You quickly dry yourself before the cold sets in, scoffing as Wanda speaks up once more from across the room. “He must be blind if he has not seen the way Princess Peggy and Sir Rogers dance around each other.” 

“I think I may have accidentally helped Peggy by distracting King Harrison.” You admit sheepishly.

Wanda snorts. “He seems to be looking everywhere but at Princess Peggy. Gods, he spends more time enamored with Lord Rumlow than–”

“What do you mean?” You cut over her abruptly.

Wanda arches a brow at you. “King Harrison and Lord Rumlow, they’re always constantly muttering away in the corner, haven’t you noticed?”

“I have.” You say it with a frown. At least you had noticed it more back in Galanta, but these past two weeks between the funeral, James, and organizing, you had barely had time to play spy. It was harder to notice the small things of court when you were now the center of attention rather than a ghost slinking around on the outside of conversation.

“Maybe King Harrison has grown bored of wives – Maeve says that the two of them remain locked up in King Harrison’s rooms most days and nights. She scarcely has time to clean!” Wanda says as she helps you pull on your dress, a thick, dark material with fur trimmings and silver beading around the waist. 

“Does she know what they are doing in there?” You pry cautiously, tugging the sleeves in place and shooing Wanda away as you begin to lace the front. 

“No. They always grow quiet when she knocks, and they send her away. The staff are making bets over what date they’ll announce their affair.”

You don’t reply, instead pondering over this newfound information. Wanda begins muttering about the hairstyle she will craft for you tonight. You are barely listening as you sink into the seat in front of your mother's old vanity. With any hope James’ and King Harrison’s chat goes well tonight, you felt a pit of dread growing in your stomach at the thought of what Rumlow might be scheming.

taglist | @liter4ti @just-someone11 @champagnejoker @scooobies @queerqueenlynn @fanfictionjunkie1112 @themotherof10 @diaries-of-a-hopelessromantic @lady-loki-barnes-djarin @riffstorm

#bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x y/n #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fanfiction #james buchanan barnes #bucky x y/n #bucky barnes series #james bucky barnes #marvel au #marvel fic #marvel #royalty au #medieval au #fantasy au #lady of the ghosts

[after-witch]

Cowslips [Yandere Summer Spirit x Reader]

Title: Cowslips [Yandere Summer Spirit x Reader]

Synopsis: You meet a stranger in the woods in the summer, and keep him a secret. It’s just a summer adventure. What’s the harm in that?

Word Count: 5036

notes: yandere, mentions of fear of sexual assault, that’s about it

The air is hot and steamy. Thick with pollen and wavy with the heat of a high summer afternoon. It is well past those carefree early summer days, when the bright warmth was a novelty, a welcome reprieve from the bitter winter and the chilly breezes that still blew in spring. Laughter and picnics and admonishments to go-enjoy-the-weather were abound, then. 

But not now, so far into the season. Now, the heat draws people inward and away, like curtains drawn thick, desperately seeking relief when the sun is at its strongest.

Women who can afford leisure nap in their homes, maids with frowns and damp clothing fanning them as they rest. Children and dogs alike scamper underneath tables, finding the coolest corners, any spot where they might gain a bit of reprieve. Even businesses in town break, allowing customers and shopkeepers to hurry along home or stretch themselves out in shop basements, sheltering from the heat amidst jars of pickled vegetables.

You are none of these things. You are a young woman with responsibilities. Serious ones. Especially now that you’re older, of marriageable age (a thought that both terrifies and thrills you) and your parents are struggling to keep up with the house, your father’s business, supporting you and your siblings.

Though, admittedly, you are not exactly sticking to those responsibilities today. You were meant to be gathering wild berries for supper, first. your mother and aunt had finally saved enough to gain access to a shared ice box, and the promise of chilled berries as an accompaniment to dessert on such a hot day made your mouth water. Then, once that simple task was done, you were to head into town to pick up boxes of supplies ordered for your father’s business.

And your mother gave you a letter to post to the postman. And you were to stop in at the house of the local pastor and inquire after his sick wife, not only because it was the neighborly thing to do, but because your mother wanted to stay in that woman’s good graces. 

Then you were to come home and tend to all the drudgery of the house. Laundry and cleaning and caring for your siblings. At least the laundry could be dried outside in the summer, and no one had to worry about their clothing being singed by the fire. And so much more besides that, a thousand little tasks that added up, especially in a season which was meant to promise so much freedom from the drudgery of life.

All of that (day in, day out) weighed you down more than you cared to admit. It made you long for childhood, sometimes. Still, you carried on and did what you had to--for the family. For yourself.

But today feels different. Perhaps it’s the heat. Perhaps it’s the silence that comes with it. For you’ve yet to even pick the berries. Instead, you’ve gotten extraordinarily distracted by bursts of wildflowers in the field leading into the forest. 

They were especially colorful, or perhaps that’s just what you told yourself once you decided you wanted to keep some for yourself. They would look lovely on the table, or in your window… a keepsake of summer to brighten your day. They seemed more vivid, especially in this heat. Like a mirage, you might say, if you were being fanciful.

They blossomed almost in a path through the field, leading into the edges of the forest, just enough for the trees to provide a bit of cooling shade from the sun. It was curious and quaint, and only added to the idea that they were something out of a fairy tale. You followed the wild trail, hands brushing against the blossoms now and then, gathering the scent of pollen on your fingers.

Now and then, your mind reminded you that you ought to be going, ought to be getting back to your responsibilities. But what could a little distraction hurt? The flowers swayed in the breeze, seeming to agree with you, and you walked on.

The air around you is thick, and sweat clings to your under linen, but you have nothing but warm thoughts for even this hot summer day. The stillness of being alone, with nothing but nature, has always been something you appreciated.

As you walk through the field, high grass and stalks tickle your wrists. You pick a few of the intriguing flowers, tucking them into your basket, skipping the ones being enjoyed by fat black bees. Sweet and bitter florals sting your nose pleasantly, and you hear nothing but the quiet drone of the summer. Chirping. Bees and crickets all dulled through a sort of warm thickness that settled in your skin.

“Good afternoon.”

A voice jolts you out of your pleasant reverie and if the basket were not hooked around your arm, it would have went flying when your entire body jerked, spasms away from the sudden sound of a voice just a few feet from you. As it is, you lose a few of the flowers, but your heart is racing and you don’t even think to mourn that.

You spin towards the sound of the voice, and it’s your mind that jolts, now.

There is a man standing there. But his face is not familiar, and everything about him is wrong and unpleasant.

His… clothing, for starters. His clothing is indecent, even to someone like you, who is not quite as stuffy as the older generation when it comes to wearing something comfortable on a hot day. But there is a difference between forgoing a formal jacket for dinner inside the home and what this man is wearing.

Or should it be what he is not wearing? For he is hardly dressed at all.

He's wearing some sort of unfinished shirt, thin black cotton that doesn't even cover his arms; as if the sleeves were forgotten on the sewing table. On the shirt is a painted image that makes little sense, all bright garish colors and an exotic tree you saw in a print, once. There's some sort of white cream smeared on his nose. It makes you think of your mother’s vanity table, and how you were once caught slathering dollops of her expensive cream on your face as a child. Your bottom stung for two days straight.

His indecency has made heat rise to your cheeks, a low, deep blushing heat that is so different from how the summer sun warms your skin.

“Hey, you okay?” The man says, tilting his head, sporting a confused, almost childlike grin.

He must be mad, you think. An escapee from an asylum. But there were none near town, nor near here, and he must have come from very far. Or perhaps he was some family’s secret, normally kept hidden and locked away, but the summer heat made them careless…

You take a step back. If he is mad--and he must be, for any man who waltzes up to a woman alone wearing practically nothing is surely not in his right mind--it would be best not to anger him.

“Yes,” you say slowly, with your voice as neutral as can be. “I am just leaving, sir.”

You take another step back, feeling grass scratch at your ankles even through your stockings.

“Why?” he asks. He doesn’t move, which gives you some reassurance. But not much. Not when you’re alone, and there’s no one else in sight, and you’ve wandered so far from your original path.

And then he seems to finally see you staring at him, and he glances down at himself. Something clicks in his gaze, an understanding, perhaps. And he laughs.

The sound is bright and warm, and were it not for his appearance, it might even be reassuring.

“Oh,” he says, voice stuffed with mirth. “I forgot what year it is. That happens sometimes.” His words make no sense, other than to confirm your earlier suspicions about him escaping from some madhouse.

But then he turns around and he’s… not there. For a second, for a blink. And then he’s back and oh, oh, what is happening? Now he looks completely different. As if he turned and some sort of fairy godmother magicked him up a different outfit. He’s wearing a suit now, a formal stiff thing that you ordinarily only see on servants attending to traveling aristocrats passing through your rural town. On his arm is a silver tray with tall clear glasses filled with a sparkling liquid. The delicate sound of ice tinkling joins the buzz of the summer insects.

It’s wrong. It’s wrong that you’re seeing this. It shouldn’t be possible. It can’t be real. But it is. And you’re forced to grapple with this realization in the span of a few terrible slow seconds.

The body reacts before the mind, and you try to run. You try, but you trip on something--a hole, maybe, or your own feet--and you fall to the ground, sprawling backwards. Your heart feels sick, racing wildly. Your mouth sputters nonsensical syllables, an attempt at words.  You expect him to come barreling down on you, perhaps now transformed into some hideous monster.

But he merely stands where he was, head cocked, looking down at you with puzzlement.

“Was this not right?” He asks. “It does fit the year, and it is summer, and you do like lemonade, don’t you?”

You stare up at him with your eyes wide in horror and fear and confusion . Your mouth tries to form words but they refused to come out, stuck in molasses. You shake your head. A bee lands on your arm and your eyes are drawn to it, feeling grounded for the first time in the last horrible moments of your life. It flies away and you find yourself able to speak.

“Who are you?” You ask, voice trembling, child-like. And then, as an afterthought. “What do you want?” For this… this… whatever he is, whoever he is, is surely after something precious. Your soul, or, or something else… your mind aches for the knife on your kitchen counter. A feeble protection in untrained hands, perhaps, but protection nonetheless.

He shrugs, an easy, nonthreatening gesture. He looks around him, above and below, at the sun and the grass and the flowers still swaying now and then with a breeze. Then he looks back at you and you see nothing evil in his eyes, nothing to suggest he’s about to pull out a contract from the Devil himself.

“It’s summer,” he says, as if that should explain everything. “I’m just having fun. That’s all.”

And then he smiles and reaches down with his free arm towards you. “Won’t you have some lemonade with me? I don’t bite. And I like company.”

Beside you, one of the unusual vibrant flowers brushes against your cheek.

Inside, the sensible part of you, the part that wears ugly wool stockings in the winter and never takes second helpings when you know the business isn’t doing well that week, tells you to get away-- to crawl away if you must.

But another voice, a lighter one, a younger one, the one that urged you to follow those flowers and just take a break and think about yourself for once… that voice whispers soft and low and urgent in your ear.

And you slowly, tentatively, accept his hand.

It is summer, after all. Like he said. There’s nothing wrong with a bit of fun.

--

Sometimes you think about telling your mother. Or your father. Or perhaps your aunt or some of your friends. But you have so little for yourself in that house, in your life. Shouldn’t you be able to keep something for yourself? A secret. A summer secret.

And it’s true that your secret is a little more unorthodox than a young woman who hides a whirlwind summer romance developed in a summer cottage by the sea. But is it all that different? Just because the person you’re meeting happens to be something extraordinarily strange and unusual.

Of course he isn’t human. You know that. You’re not stupid. You don’t know what he is, or really who he is, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Especially after the first few afternoons when it becomes easier to forget all of his strangeness. Or at least view it in a new light. It’s exciting, not scary. It’s unusual, not fearsome.

It’s your secret and your friendship and your summer.

He’s different every time. Sometimes he appears again in that strange state of undress, with the exotic tree and dollop of cream on his nose or his cheeks. Once, he appears wearing dusty trousers, smelling of hay and dripping in sweat. Another time, in a wrap made of muslin--an old fashioned fabric, to be sure--that reminded you of fashion plates from ancient Greece. He sheds forms like a snake sheds its skins.

You ask him why he always looks different, once. He shrugs, and when he shrugs he changes yet again. “Summer is about trying something new, isn’t it?”

And it really is, you realize later, setting the table while your siblings run around. Summer is the perfect time to try something new and different and exciting. Like going on a trip to the sea. Like having a whirlwind adventure. Like meeting up with a stranger-turned-friend, a not-a-human-exactly, on the edge of the forest every afternoon, chores delayed and forgotten.  

The time you spend together is always different, always pleasant. Sometimes he tells you stories about people you’ve never met, places you’ve never been, things you don’t quite understand. (He tries, for instance, with hands flying and words spilling, to describe exactly what ‘air conditioning’ is, but you never get it.) He asks about you, what you like, what you do, where you would go in the summer if you could go anywhere. He pouts when you tell him you always stay here, because you don’t have the money to go to the sea or anywhere at all, really.

And every day, he is different. 

Today, he is wild. A few weeks ago perhaps you would have shrunk away from him in fear. But when he strolls up to you today, with damp skin that glimmers blue and green, smelling of salt water and the slight tang of fish, you can only gasp and smile in delight.

“It’s not too much?” He asks, and spins around, like a girl showing off a new dress from the tailor. The outfit is more than indecent--a pair of leather trousers that looks like it was made from a ship’s sail, and nothing for a shirt but woven netting draped over his shoulders.

What would your mother say right now? It’s what you should be asking yourself. But you found that here, with him, underneath the warm sun and surrounded by those fragrant blossoms, you no longer cared.

You cover your mouth and you laugh again. But you shake your head. “Not at all,” you say, voice tinged with wonder and lightheartedness. “It’s beautiful, in a way.” You look him over, feeling serious, seeing him reflect your somber shift in his own eyes. “Really. It suits you.”

He smiles, and today his grin has sharp teeth, like a shark.

“Can I touch them?” Your hand reaches out, childlike, before he even answers.

--

The end of summer always rushes by. No matter how slow the middle of summer is, no matter how much that oppressive heat seems to make everything go molasses thick, the end always feels like a rushing river, hurrying to get to the end of things and make room for autumn.

You’re sitting under a tree, enjoying the slight shade, tilting your head back and waiting for a good breeze. You’re alone, until you’re not. When you blink, he sitting next to you. This no longer phases you.

Today he is a young man, brown hair falling slightly over his face, wearing a white shirt that is only slightly damp from perspiration. Ordinary trousers. He looks like he could work on a farm near your house, or perhaps at the post office in town if he put on some suspenders.  He might have even looked entirely human, except the color of his eyes eyes are such a bright striking green--shimmering, like scales--that no human eye could ever hope to compete.

He looks serious, and he doesn’t smile when you grin and start to greet him. The words die in your mouth and  you sober up, waiting for what he has to say. For it must be important, and it must be serious, for him to look so grave.

"Summer is ending," he says, words coming out slow, as if he’s choosing them with tender care. "I won't be able to visit you after that."

You knew this was coming. Somewhere, deep down.

"Oh,” is all you can say, voice soft.  You get your breeze, but it feels like little consolation.

And yet… yet isn't that the way of the world? Nothing lasts forever. Summer is one of those things. You’ve had your fun, and now back to the work of the fall, preparing for the winter… the endless cycle of life. People returned from summer cottages by the sea and so you, too, must return from your little oasis.

"I'll see you next summer?” you say, as the two of you really met on some ordinary holiday and are making plans to write.

He bites on the end of his lip, chewing on it like a child. And then he takes a slow breath, and the seriousness melts from his face like wax. In its place is a smile, a grin, boyish and hopeful.

"Come with me." His smile is white. No sharp teeth today.

You laugh. You see instantly that the sound hits him like a slap and you regret it instantly.  You didn’t mean it to be cruel--you would never be cruel to him.

"I'm sorry,” You say, forcing the mirth from your voice. “I really don’t understand.”

You feel sweat trickle down the back of your neck. A selfish part of you wishes he'd conjure up some lemonade again.

He places his hand on yours. You shiver, despite the heat. You’ve long since stopped wearing gloves around him and you don’t pull your hand away. This is not the first time he’s displayed no concept of propriety. But it’s a boundary you’ve let him cross, because of the bond you share, because of how special he is and how special he’s made you feel. You can’t begrudge him wanting to hold your hand, strange, slippery summer thing that he is.

"Stay with me,” he says, smile gone, voice earnest.

You see that he’s serious, and something in the air seems to change. The warmth of summer feels heavier, like wet skirts weighing you down. “I can’t,” you say. “I can’t do that. Don’t ask me that.”

He tilts his head in a familiar gesture. He really doesn’t seem to understand why you aren’t saying yes, and something about that lack of understanding scares you.

“Why not? We have fun, don’t we?”

The tree behind you scratches your back as you push yourself against it, standing. The weight of his hand on yours falls as you do. He quickly copies you, standing up, keeping his head quirked to the side as your mind searches for the best way to answer.

“My family,” you say, because that comes first to mind. “My… everything. I have obligations.”  You gesture towards the basket you have left laying on the ground. It’s filled with errands; letters to post and payments to give and a grocery list, among other things. 

“I have to help keep up the house and tend to my siblings and work at my father’s business when I can. What would they do without me?” 

You think of other things too, things your mother tuts at you for putting off. Finding a husband, having children, finding your own home and keeping it; Continuing the cycle of life with babies in your arms. Things you don’t express out loud would have always wanted, even if you’ve wanted it a little later than everyone else.

“You don’t need any of that. It will be boring,” he says, and your heart startles as he begins to recite everything you kept inside, kept secret and safe. “You know it will. That’s why you aren’t married yet, and everyone else your age is. That’s why you don’t have little kids running around at your feet and a house filled with things to dust and a maid to boss around. That’s… That’s for everyone else. Not you.”

He grips your hand just a little too fast, just a little too tight.

“None of that matters out here.” He gestures towards the space that has become your secret sanctuary. The space where the two of you have laughed and talked, where you have tasted drinks and treats he’s conjured from thin air. Cold ices and frozen treats and something rich and decadent called a “Banana split.”

“But it’s not going to be summer forever,” you say. “It was fun, but it... well.” You shrug, though your gesture is tight and stiff compared to his. “It has to end.”

Suddenly, desperately, you wished he’d given you his name. You wished he’d given in, when you asked him questions about his past, his nature, his very existence. You wished these things because, above all, you think they might help you make him understand what you mean.

His lip twitches in a smile, as if you’ve just presented him with a simple puzzle that he can solve.

"Is that it? It can be summer forever.” He shrugs, that easy fluid gesture you’ve seen him do so many times, when you’ve asked him about who he is, really, and why he can do what he does. “It will be. If you stay with me.”

His shimmering eyes gaze over you and they seem to flow and ebb, like the summer tide. You could stay, his eyes seem to say. You could stay and it would be summer and everything will be like this forever.

But do you want it to be? It has been wonderful, to have this summer secret. To take a break and think about yourself and not just the endless things you must do for others. To indulge in the spirit of the summer, the carefree air that so many others get to enjoy. To think about things you normally don’t allow yourself to. 

But you’ve always known it was temporary, haven’t you?

You look at him with something akin to pity. “I’m sorry. It’s been fun, but summer…” It’s over, you think. Soon. The edge of summer, just a few steps, and it will be time to tuck this all away until next year.

You expect him to argue with you. You expect him, perhaps, to grip your hand hard and for him to beg you not to leave. Instead, he produces something in his hand, that appears in a blink like he so often does. It’s a bracelet made from flowers. The same beautiful, unusual flowers that drew you here in the first place all those weeks ago.

“Here,” he says, friendly, casual, as if he didn’t just ask you to stay with him. “Will you wear it?”

And you remember, suddenly, that you never did take any of those flowers home. It slipped your mind after that first afternoon, and since you came here everyday, you saw no need to keep keepsake with you. But this would be a beautiful reminder of the summer you spent with him. Until the flowers withered, anyway, as summer flowers always do.

“Of course.” You smile again, hoping that it’s filled with joy and not pity. He matches yours--and some part of you misses his wild look, today--and slips it on your wrist. Before you glance down to admire it, you catch the edge of his beaming smile. A part of your heart is so glad that you’re able to part as friends--not bitterly, not on unpleasant terms or begging.

“Thank you,” you say, but as you look up to see him again, he disappears. In a blink. As always. And that does hurt, to get no proper farewell. Perhaps he couldn’t give one, strange thing that he is.

It hurts, yes, but it had to end somehow. Better quick and painless, tearing out a root, than something drawn out.

Your time with him is ended, and now, you know, you should return to your ordinary life. You gather the basket you brought with you and begin the trek back to the path that leads into town.

But the path isn’t there. At first, you think you’ve simply gotten turned around. But you’ve walked it so many times, that it seems improbable to get lost now. No matter how far you walk, where you turn, there is no path.

No road. No sign of anything familiar to you at all.

You walk up the hills where you can normally see buildings in the distance, and there is nothing but fields and forests. Trees that were marked by lumberman and travelers are naked, untouched by human hands. There are so many of the vibrant flower now, not just a whimsical path marking the way, but bunches and bushes surrounding you. Sometimes they appear in a blink, like he does, and you wonder if you’re not hallucinating.

You march on, sweating, scared. Your feet ache and you’re surrounded only by the fields and the flowers and the trees. The hot sun presses down above you, the buzzing of the bees and insects feeling wilder and wilder.

The bracelet on your wrist feels heavier as you go. At one point, you decide to try to pull it off. But it won’t budge. It is like there is some force you can’t see, some gravity, that holds it onto your wrist. Your stomach turns to lead. But you refuse to think about what it means.

After hours of walking, you’re dizzy. Hot and lost and sweating and scared. Finally, you collapse in a heap under a tree. There is nowhere to go and nothing to do. Your throat is dry and you wonder if you might pass out from the heat.

And then, footsteps.

Why didn’t he come in a blink? And does it matter that he chose now to walk like some ordinary person? 

You look up, but he’s fuzzy. You’re not sure if it’s your own vision blurring from the heat or if he can’t decide how he wants to look. When he does come into view, he’s muddled. A bit of everything. His skin is damp and shimmery, but human colored. A net drapes over his undressed shirt, which has buttons like an old fashioned servant’s livery. His eyes change as he blinks, going from dark to light to deep and ebbing.

He offers you a glass of cold water, and some reasonable part of you says that you shouldn’t accept anything from him, but your throat is so dry that you can’t resist the ice cold liquid.

“What did you do?” You ask, voice croaking, once you’ve downed the entire glass.

He smiles down at you. Today, he has wild teeth, shark teeth. You don’t get the desire to touch them this time.

“I didn’t do anything. You accepted my gift. So you can stay, now.” He says this like you should have known, like you did this willingly, on purpose. Like he’s explaining something to a silly child.

Perhaps, to him, that is what you are.

Your hands reach for the bracelet and you tug at the blossoms. They should crumple under your hands but they remain as fresh and beautiful as they were that first day. No matter what you do, you cannot take it off.

And it’s so hot.

“I didn’t,” you stammer, still tugging, still reaching. “I didn’t mean to--I didn’t know.”

He reaches down, suddenly, and brushes your cheeks. His hands are cool and refreshing, as if he’s dipped them in ice water. They smell faintly of salt. You lean into his touch without thinking, lean into that coolness, refreshing as a summer breeze.

“Well, that’s all right,” he explains, gently, sweetly. As if he’s forgiving you for something you did. “I don’t mind if you didn’t know.”

Again, you get the sense that he doesn’t understand why you don’t want to stay, why you can’t stay, why this is filling you with dread and horror instead of delight. He simply doesn’t understand.

He reaches out his hand, and you take it, eager for the coolness and terrified that you might just sit here forever in utter exhaustion if you don’t accept his help.

“What… happens now,” you manage, feeling woozy, wishing he’d give you more to drink.

He grins, all teeth, eyes glimmering above. “I don't know! That’s what I love most about the summer, though, don’t you? It’s always an adventure.”

You used to love the idea of a summer adventure. Once. You used to find the idea of summer romantic. The temporary affairs, the change in the weather, the indulgence of treats and things that are kept strictly forbidden during the rest of the year. But now, with a bracelet of summer blossoms on  your wrist that won’t come off and an ever-changing being in front of you, you’re not so sure anymore.

You think to voice that, but then think better of it. The heat is too thick and you’re too exhausted from trekking through that unnatural wilderness. Instead you let him lead you away, hands cool as a breeze, the bitter floral scent of flowers wafting as you wade through the field

And into your mind comes the faint, terrifying thought…

What does one do when summer never ends?

#yandere #yandere seasonal spirits #yandere writing #folklore #afterwitch writes #yandere seasonal spirits is a new tag yes I gotta write one for each season #seasonal spirit #seasonal spirits #original stuffs

[pherelesytsia]

The Sailors Chant

Pairing: Thomas Shelby x female/Reader

Summary: When Y/N's date doesn't show up, she sets off on her own through the dark streets of Birmingham.

Warning: fear, Gun, Wounds, Angst, Fluff,

Word Count: 1.9k

a.n: Please my dear, have mercy on my soul. I had a forced break and my writing is quite rusty✨

Thomas Shelby Masterlist

Dark figures, upright and hunched, singing and chanting, invaded like an army, the once deserted streets bathed in yellow light breaking sparsely through the drawn curtains of the buildings framing the road.

Lanterns bearing lightbulbs swayed back and forth, and the rising gust brushed her left cheek as Y/N stepped outside. The wooden door muffled the sounds of delight, the songs of lost sailors and songs of the Somme resounding again and again throughout the bar. The laughter ceased and Y/N giggled, left the bar and did not turn to face her dear friends seated at the round table in the glow of hundreds of candles.

The heavy smell of wood was lingering in the air and grey smoke curled high above the reddish roofs overgrown by moss and ivy. Y/N inhaled the fresh yet bearable evening air, reminding her of autumn, of lush leaves piling under bare branches and turning to crimson with the days. Fear did not gnaw at her flesh as she realised how late it had become, had intended to return home before nightfall, but the very moment Y/N stepped into the crowded bar oozing with laughter and delight she secretly knew she would not leave until the late hours of the day.

The door closed and opened again, and the words echoed loud and clear across the town, but they made no sense and amused the young woman walking in the glow of the waning moon listened to the stories. Turning west and south, she hoped to see a familiar dark vehicle, but the seemingly endless road was vacant and no light was growing in size indicating a vehicle was coming near, but her mood did not sour like milk caressed by sunlight. Disappointed, Y/N glanced at the clock on her wrist and exhaled again. The young woman was certain her date was not going to show up, but she wondered if she should return and wait to meet the man who caused her heartbeat to accelerate, but she decided to go on. Shivering, Y/N crossed her arms in front of her body in an attempt to shield herself from the stiff gust sweeping along the road and regretted she had decided not to wear a coat or jacket.

The stars shimmered beyond the rolling clouds as Y/N followed the path she walked every day, knew every hole in the ground, every crack mirroring the embroidery of an unskilled woman learning to stitch. The long, flowing material of the dress in the hues of autumn brushed her ankles with every step she took. Resting her hand on her handbag, she focused her thoughts on the voices, breaking the silence of the night like a double-edged blade. Darkness ruled beyond the windows. Suddenly the voices died, and the alleys turned sinister and filthy, reeked and caused an unpleasant feeling to awaken in her chest. Heels clicked against the concrete, doors slammed shut and creaked and lights went out before people fell into their beds to find a moment of peace.

Swiftly, Y/N passed on, marched against the ruthless wind telling her to turn, but the young woman was deaf to the voice trying to warn her from the enemy lingering in the shadows. Winter reigned in her gaze, was untroubled, but the queasy feeling welling inside her heart taught her better. Gulping Y/N ignored the resounding footsteps, following her like a shadow. She dared not to run, to speed up, knowing exactly what would happen if she did, that the mischievous grin would widen, aware she would never be fast enough to escape the firm clutches, hearing from the gait that the man must surely be taller than her, taking long and heavy strides.

Her home was far away and no soul was near. No curse crossed her lips coloured in deep shades of crimson, strolled, searching for a way out, hoping the man was about to turn into another street, that he was on his way home, but the steps quickened perilously fast. Taking a deep breath, she pressed her lips to a fine line and walked upright and slowed down. Y/N clenched her hands into fists, knowing she could not escape and an unknown strength filled every fibre of her form as she realised, she had nothing to fear, remembered what once was forgotten.

Abruptly Y/N halted. No ring adorned her finger, needing no man, and Y/N tried to catch a glimpse of the person approaching her. A cold shiver danced down her spine. She wrinkled her face in distaste, stepped back, witnessed the horrible expression widening across the face of the older man with a hunched belly. Dark stains had eaten into the white wrinkled shirt. The trimmed beard was grey as the pale moon. His face was wicked, bearing evil eyes and sunken features. Y/N remembered the face, had noticed how his insidious green eyes kept gliding towards her, studying her closely, trying to read her lips and Y/N cursed herself for not noticing sooner that the man was waiting for her to leave the bar, hopefully alone. He grinned like a wolf feasting on the sight of the helpless sheep, but Y/N was no sheep.

            "Good evening, if I were you, my lord, I would leave quickly," Y/N greeted the man in an almost friendly manner.

Silver broke through the darkness. Astonished the man stumbled back, unable to believe his eyes, thought a lady like her would never bear a gun. A soft laugh escaped her throat and she knew the man regretted that he had chosen her out of all women, but Y/N was glad, knowing full well that other women would have been helplessly begging for mercy by now.

            "I suppose you wanted to ask what time it is or the way back to the bar. Didn't you?" Y/N teased.

Smoke rose but the weapon in her possession was cold as the heartless night. Squirming, the man went down, sucked in air through clenched teeth, screamed like a banshee and held the deep wound as crimson oozed as if from a spring and soaked through the trousers turning a different shade in the glow of the moon.

Confused, Y/N fixed her gaze over her shoulder and narrowed her eyes. Steps echoed and her heart skipped a beat. Her lips twisted into a slight smile, listened to the hissed letters shaping into a surname everyone in England seemed to know. With a meaningful look, Y/N faced the man and lowered the polished silver pistol her father had given her before he departed for war, needing to know his daughter could defend herself from the cruel world.

            "Mister Shelby, I waited for you, but after three hours, I decided to leave. A lady like me needs her beauty sleep and besides, I would have been fine. I would have dealt with the fool of a man." Y/N hushed.

            "A lady like you carries a gun?" Thomas asked.

The fear melted from his face as he stepped into the light of the street lamp and his keen eyes rested on the gun Y/N held in her dominant hand. A drop of sweat ran down his forehead. His chest was moving unrhythmically, filling his lungs with air as if he had been racing, but Y/N was convinced that Thomas Shelby could not run. Thomas laughed, recalling that Ada had told him that Y/N always carried a gun, but he had assumed she was kidding, trying to sell him a dog. His brows almost touched, frowned but asked no question.

            "Can't a woman ask for privacy, Mister Shelby?", "How many times have I told you darling to call me Thomas? You may be my secretary, but you are almost a part of my family. You almost live with us and when I get up, I hear new news about you. Ada talks about you incessantly," Thomas interjected.

Y/N raised the garment, exposed her leg, and revealed more of her delicate skin. Thomas glanced up, excusing his rude behaviour, but out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of the leather holster to which Y/N attached the deathly weapon. Her fingers brushed over the rough material and grinned broadly, forgetting the man whimpering for mercy, felt the eyes of blue studying her closely, searching for wounds but to his relief, no injury scarred her body.

            "I have heard from Ada that you often talk about me and ask countless questions." Y/N giggled.

He did not answer, tried not to let on how right Y/N was and tucked his gun into the holster and moved closer to the woman his heart was longing for. Nothing eluded his keen eyes. Her lips, incapable of anything but tender speech, had taken on an unhealthy shade and the Shelby felt the need to place his suit jacket on her shoulders, but the enemy's blood clung to the fabric. He balled his hands into fists, wishing to let his hands rest on her form, to dispel the shivering cold, but the fear of rejection was too great, fearing Y/N would step back to escape his touch.

            "Ada didn't suggest me as your secretary for no reason, as she said I am perfect for the job, but I don't want to sound ungrateful, and I am more than grateful that you helped me, Thomas," Y/N added and emphasised his name.

He halted one step away from her and he dared to lose himself in the depths of the eyes he had fallen in love with. A warming sensation flooded his soul, banishing worries into the void, into the far distance, across rivers and the endless ocean, and he felt comfortable in her presence. Suddenly Thomas realised he had not apologised for being many hours late, had not forgotten the date and he knew Y/N was worried about him, saw it in her gaze glued to his body wrapped in the dark suit.

            “May I invite you for a glass of rum, to my place, not the bar?”, “It’s already late. I should.”, “Please. I kept you waiting for hours and after this incident, I can’t leave you alone and my home offers many spare rooms.” Thomas explained, fervently hoping Y/N would accept his offer.

            "I would love to Thomas, but in the early hours of the morning, I have to be on my way. I don't want to upset my chef. I'm sure he will not appreciate it if I am late for work." Y/N grinned, trying to stay serious.

Thomas grinned widely.

            "I will personally see to it that your boss gives you a day off tomorrow.", "My boss is a very determined man," Y/N argued.

            "So am I and I am sure I will put him on the right track. I believe I overheard that your employer will be in London for the weekend and he will certainly need his secretary so you should not make any plans for the upcoming days." Thomas interjected and she nodded in response.

Eyes twinkled as the stars of the firmament. No more words needed to fall. The bitterness was gone and warmth filled the hearts beating in the same rhythm. Thomas offered the young lady his arm and gratefully Y/N accepted the offer and the gentleman led the lady of his heart to his vehicle parked in the glow of the lanterns.

#thomas shelby x y/n #peaky blinders imagine #thomas shelby x you #michael gray x reader #tommy shelby fanfic #tommy shelby one shot #thomas shelby x reader #thomas shelby imagine #thomas shelby #arthur shelby x reader #thomas shelby fluff #cillian murphy imagine #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinder headcanon #tommy shelby fic #tommy shelby x reader #peaky blinders x reader #john shelby x reader #tommy shelby x you #peaky blinder fanfic #peaky fookin blinders #arthur shelby #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine

[shady-tavern]

A Symphony of Song and Music

The music had started a fortnight ago, during one of the darkest nights of the autumn season so far. It hadn't been the songs and tunes of the fae, those you knew well and knew even better to avoid them. That was your job around here, after all, to keep monsters away from your village.

You lived in a small cottage right on the outskirts and you and one other person spent the entire day with ensuring warding plants grew well and no charms had broken. Two people were always chosen, usually those without families and spouses or children, to try and keep everyone safe of the monsters. 

The good part that you and the other warder were usually taken care of by the village in return and you could lead quiet lives away from the hubbub. As long as the two of you went around the village to warn them about impending monster issues, such as the howling of wolves on full moons and when you noticed traces of the fae or others in the woods, all was good.

Towns had more warders than villages, depending on how big they were, though such precautions sadly weren't always enough. You had heard of a maiden disappearing with a faerie knight, the faerie woman taking her during a pale dawn. Another village had lost their shepherd to a kelpie and a traveling merchant had been found torn to pieces on the road two months ago.

It wasn't always easy, but you and everyone else made do and so far you had done a good enough job. Of course there wasn't a way to keep every single creature away, but you knew how to make things unattractive, to ensure the air smelled of plants that they hated. 

Sometimes the villagers gathered, rattling pots and pans and screaming in an impressive threat display to chase of smaller, skittering things that still dared to creep close.

The music, however, the one you heard nearly every night, with exceptions to full moons and when the fae were riding in the mortal world, felt different. It wasn't magical at all, didn't cloud the mind and fuzzy the senses. If anything, it had sounded sad and melancholic at first. 

So sad in fact, that one night you had sung back at it. The music had stopped briefly, before continuing in a cautious but more upbeat tune. It had become a ritual since then, once the villagers had fallen asleep, you would step outside, keeping a coat wrapped around you against the growing cold of late autumn and you sang back. 

Sometimes the tunes were cheerful, more jigs than anything else. Other times they were slower and sweeter, songs you would sing with your fellow neighbors around fires and during festivals. You made sure to sing loud enough that you could be heard and the sound seemed to travel well enough.

You had no idea what exactly was playing out there, only that whatever monster it was, you never saw hide nor hair of it. It seemed more than content to have someone to make music with. Even if you might not have the best singing voice, you were passionate and often made up songs on the spot, some funny and silly and others heartfelt.

You had no intentions of seeking the monster out who played so beautifully, you weren't quite so foolish. Even if they didn't mean you any harm, there were other creatures in forests as big and old as the one bordering your village. 

Your neighbors had, so far, no idea of what you were doing. Your cottage wasn't right beside the other houses, mostly so you could cultivate protective plants properly, and the other villagers hadn't heard the music playing, so if they did hear you sing, they simply thought it an adorable oddity of your person.

People generally tried to stay away from the forest, unless they needed wood or mushrooms and wild berries. Autumn was often your busiest month, creating protective necklaces and filling pouches with herbs and others with salt and iron. Just in case. So far, everyone had come back again.

Until the baker's son didn't at the very end of autmn, straddling the beginning winter. The children had played hide-and-seek at the edge of the village and he had decided to hide among the shrubbery. No one could find him, no matter how everyone searched. The hunter, however, found a trail leading away from home.

The choice, now, was to give up and consider the boy dead, or a group went deeper into the forest, where it was darker and the air felt different, to keep looking. You volunteered to come along after a moment of nervously wringing your hands. You were the one who knew the most about monsters and how to keep them away. That was your whole job after all, even if you personally hadn't actually met a monster face to face before.

So after making sure everyone was as prepared as possible, with an entire satchel filled with warding materials in tow, you stepped past the part of forest the villagers had cultivated for themselves.

You had never quite considered just how creepy the woods could be, beyond the few moments when you wondered what else was out there. What some of the noises you could hear riding on the wind could mean. It was far colder here, where the sun barely fell through the thick canopy and the cold air was saturated with the scent of trees, damp earth and moss. And it was very quiet.

The hunter led the charge and everyone else nervously clutched whatever weaponry they had been able to gather, axes and pitchforks and one even had a slightly rusty, plain dagger, as long as your entire forearm. 

"Shouldn't it be louder?" One of the farmer's whispered nervously. "I mean, shouldn't we hear birds or insects or something?"

"Not when bloodthirsty monsters are around," the hunter answered quietly, her voice grim. You kept glancing around nervously, fingers tight on the flap of your satchel, ready to reach in and pull out whatever could help you.

You were reasonably sure that the werewolf pack lived a little further west and if it had been faeries, you wouldn't have found a track to follow in the first place. That left a plethora of other creatures, however.

The stillness around you suddenly felt like it was holding its breath and all the hairs on your body felt like they were standing straight between one second and the next, a cold sensation dripping down your spine like melting ice.

You barely had the time to open your mouth, before leaves rustled and branches creaked and monsters descended. You had half a second to realize that those creatures, reaching as far up as your elbow, were goblins, before people screamed. Goblins were slim and with massive yellow eyes and sharp, sharp teeth. 

They were armed and worst of all, while you could see the boy being held by another up in the trees, they had no weakness you could take advantage off. Iron didn't burn them, elderberries didn't twist their senses and salt didn't make it impossible for them to come close.

Fighting was all you could do, your heart pounding hard and fear had risen to settle around your throat like a too tight necklace. The cold of the air suddenly felt like a chill from the depth of winter itself.

As you stumbled back to duck behind the hunter, since you had only a kitchen knife to protect yourself with, you frantically wondered just why goblins were here. They usually lived in the caves and since the forest and hills were big and old enough to offer plenty of food and crystals, they didn't attack villages.

Your group was forced to break up, especially when one of the goblins shook the boy with a screeching giggle and the boy cried. His father, who had been to your left nearly the entire time, ran for him while ignoring the hunter's call, followed by two friends and suddenly things were far, far more dangerous for you and everyone else.

"Get back!" the hunter shouted and shoved you out of the way of a jabbing spear. You had no idea how to actually fight, but you could toss things from your satchel at them, distracting the goblins with a fist full of salt, which actually landed in the eyes of one, who howled and wailed horribly.

The rest, however, were now livid. Fumbling to reach into your bag to grab more salt, you began to pelt the goblins with the panicked hope to both distract and keep them at bay long enough that the farmer could finally get his boy back. Those who had brought pitchforks were definitely at an advantage now.

Two more goblins were quick to join and you were forced to back up quick, now also tossing your other prepared warding tools and pouches. Their skin didn't get hurt by nails, but they still didn't like getting pelted by them. Before you realized it, they had thoroughly separated you from the group and this time, when you reached into the bag, your hands found nothing but a few stray salt grains.

There was no way you'd manage to win with your kitchen knife. Not when you had never used it for anything but chopping vegetables.

The goblins paused and when they realized no more things came flying at them, they grinned, wide and toothy and nightmarish. When they jumped forward, all you could do was run.

Nearly stumbling over a root, you raced off into the forest, your heartbeat rushing in your ears and your body felt suddenly both too flight-light and fear-shaky. The goblins called out and then you heard them follow, feet thundering across the forest floor. 

You ran as fast as you could, leaping over fallen branches, tearing through thorn bushes without stopping, barely feeling the sting and scratch along your skin, the tears left in your clothes.

Rationally, you knew that you shouldn't let yourself get separated from your companions. Rationally, theoretically, you knew quite a lot about how to battle monsters, how to twist your body to avoid being stabbed fatally and a number of other things.

Reality was it's own kind of beast and you were not prepared for it. Not at all.

Your breathing was so hard it felt like it was stinging your lungs and throat, eyes glancing around in a panic as you tried to figure out where to run, where to be safe.

You only realized that the goblins had chased you to one of the hills closest to the village when suddenly there was the opening of a massive cave in front of you, silvery spider webs the size of houses spanning between trees larger and older than you had ever seen before.

Stumbling over a rock and crashing against the stone, your knee open and bleeding now, you scrambled to turn around. The goblins, however, were slow and wary now, chattering back and forth before quickly advancing on you. But where they had been nasty and triumphant before, now they carried an air of urgency. This wasn't a chase anymore, but it would be a quick death.

Right up until you sensed a new presence behind you, emerging from the cave entrance and the goblins all froze. You had never seen a monster pale before, but they suddenly looked ready to faint, their hands starting to tremble hard enough that their weapons rattled a bit.

You didn't want to turn around. By the way all five goblins were focused on something above and behind you, a single fixed point, the monster was big. Far bigger than you and so far it had been utterly silent.

The goblins were rambling now, a language you didn't understand as they backed away, looking terrified and nearly scraping the floor they bowed so low. Your heart was racing so hard you felt your pulse pound in your throat, your legs and arms trembling so hard you didn't know if you could stand up again, your body feeling frozen in place.

You didn't want to turn around and face whatever was there. You didn't want to see what had scared goblins so badly they had run without even trying to fight or trying to bargain to at least kill you.

All you heard was your fast breathing, until finally you could make yourself move, feeling like a creaking, rusty hinge as you turned your head to look back. Nothing was there.

Blinking, you shifted to glance around more, but you couldn't see anything, not outside at least. Nothing large trying to hide among the tree tops, no massive footprints leading anywhere. 

Now that panic wasn't trying to gobble up your mind to leave nothing but feral survival instincts behind, you noticed that the cave entrance showed signs to once have belonged to goblins. There was scratchy writing along one outside wall and the remains of what must have been robust, simple huts and buildings along the outside.

Blinking, you suddenly knew why the goblins had acted so unusually. Something had chased them away. It couldn't have been recently either, considering how destroyed and largely removed the remains of the goblin settlement were. You would guess it had been a few weeks since something else had claimed this cave.

Something that, utterly unexpectedly, hadn't killed you. Getting up and limping slightly at the pain in your knee, you slowly backed away, unwilling to strain whatever goodwill ensured your heart remained beating.

"Thank you," you still said, voice a little shaky, because you were grateful and you didn't want to be rude to your invisible savior.

You had no idea how far the goblins had gone, so you warily and with a small limp walked on, clutching your empty satchel like a useless lifeline. You met no monster, to your relief and when you managed to find your way back to the frazzled group of your neighbors, you were glad to see they had gotten the boy back.

They were just as glad to see you return largely unharmed, though in all fairness, your bleeding scratches and bloody, now swollen knee had been a byproduct of your escape. The goblins actually hadn't directly harmed you, thankfully.

Wary and hurriedly you returned back home, where the boy's mother and sister greeted them with cries and tears. You limped back home to treat yourself and sit down.

Even with how glad you were that all had gone well, there remained a subtle tremble in your limbs for hours.

That night you heard the music again, but the tune was entirely new. It was so very soft and had a questioning note to it. At least, you thought so. You only sang a little that night, preferring to just listen and let the music calm you further. You were almost asleep at the end, sitting wrapped in a cozy blanket out on your little porch, leaning against the wall, your eyes slipping closed.

As you went to bed, you decided that you absolutely needed to get better at your job. It didn't feel like enough anymore to just ward off what monsters you comfortably could. Especially when something huge and obviously frightening had unseated an entire goblin settlement so thoroughly they were still terrified of it.

.*.*.

Life returned to normal after that incident. Well, mostly. People were more wary, warning neighboring villages that the goblins might cause more trouble and keeping a closer eye on their children. As snow began to fall outside a mere two days after the goblins kidnapped the boy, you were busy looking through all your notes and the notes of previous warders to see if there was more you could do. 

Slowly however, as snow began to cover the ground thickly and nothing more happened in passing days and weeks, the frantic restlessness and urgency in you calmed a little. 

Winter was always the quietest season, some monsters hibernated and others stayed firmly in their territories to defend them from any roaming creatures. Others again were busy with survival and as long as no village was too close to their territory, they usually didn't bother to attack. 

Of course there were a few incredibly smart ones which knew exactly how hard it was for humans to properly fight back or hunt in deep snow and used that to their advantage.

The music stopped as well, though you kept a window cracked most evenings, allowing a bit of chill to seep inside so you could keep an ear out. Sometimes you still sang, because you had gotten used to it so much and because you really enjoyed it. Even if you missed the music, you still had fun.

As soon as spring arrived and snow began to melt, the music was back. Slow at first, as if its master was still a bit sluggish, but you found yourself smiling widely.

You had missed the music more than you had expected and once or twice you even fell asleep to it, snuggled into your bed with the window wide open. After a particularly passionate song that left you breathless and grinning so wide your cheeks hurt and that got you complaints from neighbors, you truly wanted to know who your mystery musician was.

Previously the knowledge that it must've been some kind of monster to live and survive in the forest had made you too cautious to even consider the idea. But now that the music had brought you so much joy and it felt like someone was waiting for you every night, you wanted to give something back.

The next time, after the music started along with the moon rising above the tree line, you sang once again. At the end of your last song, you added a little line that you would leave a gift and you placed the parcel against a tree, marking it with the first tiny flowers from your garden.

It was gone the next morning and instead a purple crystal the size of your palm was left behind. It was beautiful and someone had clearly taken care to polish it a little and smooth some of the rough edges.

The next night you left freshly baked bread and jam and in return the mystery musician left a necklace, a piece of turquoise hanging from a simple leather cord. You put it on immediately and went through the day with a smile.

It became a sort of ritual after that. You didn't leave gifts for each other every night, but sometimes you woke up to a gift waiting at your tree and sometimes you left something. You never expected to be given something in return, but it still made you happy. It felt like, whoever was out there, enjoyed your time together as much as you did.

And, if you were being honest, someone who might care as much about you as you started to care about the musician.

As spring progressed, you left more flowers and one morning you were delighted to see that the musician had woven them into a flower crown and left them at your gate post. Of course, once you wore it, people began to talk. They had started to wonder at the trinkets you gained overnight, but now that you wore flowers it seemed something had been confirmed in their minds.

"Is someone courting you?" the miller asked with a big grin and you drew up short. Was this courting? Or just friendly appreciation? Did you want to be courted?

Murmuring a platitude, you returned back home and took stock of all the pretty and lovely things you had been given. Many were thoughtful as well and it showed clearly that the musician had paid close attention to what you had been singing, especially the songs you had made up.

Even the flower crown was part of it, you realized. It wasn't just a sweet gesture, but last night you had been gripped by a bit of yearning and had sung about a sweet love gifting you with a crown of spring and dancing below the moonlight.

You could lie in wait for the monster, they definitely knew who you were after all. But...it felt cheap and unfair.

You mulled over things for a few days and decided that, yes, you'd like to meet the monster. So you left a note with your next gift and more flowers. When you woke up, another flower crown made of your flowers was waiting for you, though nothing else.

You felt a little disappointed, but only for a moment. The monster might need just as much time to think about it as you did. Or maybe it didn't wish to meet, maybe it wanted to keep things as they were. You'd be happy to continue like you were and you were willing to hold back your curiosity for, well, it felt like you had made a friend. You'd respect your friend's decision.

You got your answer a few days later, scribbled in a slightly scrawly hand on the back of your note.

'I am rather frightening', the note began. 'But if you wish to meet, I will see you and if you never wish to hear from me again, I will respect that choice.'

You were determined to not let their looks sway your opinion. No matter how monstrous or strange they might be to you, someone who played so wonderfully, someone how so often played for you couldn't have a bad heart. And that was what truly mattered at the end of the day.

So you left another note, telling the monster you'd meet it at the pond near the village. It was far enough in the forest to ensure no one would see you and yet close enough that you didn't feel too worried about other monsters. Well, not quite. You were still nervous whenever you thought about the goblins and how defenseless you had realized you really were after that attack.

You waited patiently, at one point sitting down on a fallen tree, right up until you heard rustling behind you. The sort of sudden rustling that felt very deliberate.

"Maybe don't turn around yet," a melodic voice spoke up, softer and more hesitant than you had expected. He sounded nice, nearly as lovely as his music. "It's nice to properly meet you. I hope you're doing well?"

You only realized you had started to grin wide when you opened your mouth to answer, "Yes, I am. I'm so glad you agreed to meet. Your music is beautiful."

"Thank you." He sounded like he was smiling, a note of genuine joy threading through his voice. "I love your singing. You're so creative and so fun, I love coming up with new music for you to sing to."

You couldn't help yourself, you gripped the tree and leaned back far enough to look at him, your head tipped back. The view was rather upside-down, to be fair, but even like this you could see that he was big. Big and leaning against a tree, his many legs tucked close to be comfortable.

His lower spider half was the size of a draft horse, fuzzy and kind of sandy-gray. His skin was much the same color and his eyes were dark, his long hair moon-white. He looked startled, jerking back a bit and ducking his head as though to hide his many eyes and fangs and curling further into himself.

He was frightening, true, but your heart was still soaring from his lovely compliment and so you grinned wide.

"Thank you. Your music is so beautiful, I couldn't help myself. I love listening to you play." Your grin gentled to a little smile. "I hope you didn't mind me joining in. You just, well, you kind of sounded really sad."

He peeked at you, blinking and there was a baffled, cautiously hopeful expression on his face. "I was very lonely," he answered after a moment. "So it made me really happy to hear a voice answer."

Straightening and swinging around on the log to look at him properly, you gestured for him to sit with you. Or, well, sit if he could. He approached very slowly and you saw the conscious effort on his part to look smaller. He settled down a respectful distance from you.

"What made you want to play?" you asked and with that question you managed to slowly ease him out of his carefulness. 

By the time you parted ways, he stopped looking like he was walking on eggshells around you, ready to retreat at the drop of a hat. And, yeah, he was scary, you could easily admit that, but he was also fun and as sweet and charming as his songs once he relaxed enough to talk freely.

You looked forward to meeting him again.

.*.*.

You met more and more frequently as spring warmed and turned it's flowering blossoms towards summer. Sometimes he visited you after playing music and you met him by the forest, making sure he didn't have to approach the village if he didn't wish to.

You honestly had no idea how your neighbors would react to you being friends with a drider, but not every monster was horrible and they weren't quite so narrow minded as to mindlessly throw hate around.

You exchanged gifts in person now and you were delighted to see him grow flustered and flattered in equal measure. The smile he gave you in return was the sweetest, softest thing, even with his fangs.

"Thank you," he said, his fingertips brushing yours ever so slightly as he accepted the gift, holding it close to his chest as though it was precious.

It was this moment that you realized, oh, you had absolutely fallen in love, hadn't you?

"I, um, I thought of something," he said, fiddling with your gift, which was a satchel you had made yourself and maybe the carvings and decorations on the leather wasn't as perfect as from a professional, but you still liked how it had turned out. "Can I pick you up tomorrow?"

"Of course." You were incredibly curious now. "I look forward to it."

He perked up at your words and you noticed the way he shuffled a little closer, now far less reserved than in the beginning. You had to admit that your hindbrain still startled for a moment when he skittered towards you at top speed when he was excited to see you, but you were too happy to see him be himself than ever let it bother you.

You parted ways and you waited rather impatiently for the next day. You still took your work seriously and ensured everyone was as safe as they could be in the world you lived in, but you regretfully declined an invitation to eat at the tavern. Instead, you waited until no one was watching and slipped away into the woods.

Your drider friend was waiting for you by the pond, looking equally nervous and hopeful-excited.

"This way," he said and you followed him. It didn't even occur to you to be worried and while there was a brief moment of concern about other monsters, knowing you weren't alone settled your nerves near immediately.

"I've been working on this for a while now," he said while leading you through the forest, weaving effortlessly around trees, occasionally using them to lever himself across shrubbery. 

The moment he realized you had a harder time following through the underbrush, he hesitated. "Um, if you'd like, I could help you?" He held out his hands in offer.

Curious and grateful and maybe your treacherous, enamored heart leapt at the idea of being closer, you accepted. The moment you reached back, you found yourself lifted effortlessly and deposited on his lower half. You genuinely had no idea what the specific term for his parts were, but the fuzz was really soft and he twisted his upper body enough to peer back at you.

"Alright?" he asked, soft and hopeful and you reached out to pat his arm.

"I'm perfectly fine."

He smiled, sweet and relieved and when he walked on, he didn't have to slow down for your short human legs to keep up. You could freely admit that it was genuinely quite fun. He was fast and swift and you arrived in no time flat.

To your baffled surprise, he stopped in front of the very cave the goblins had once chased you to.

"I live here," he said, crouching down to make it easy for you to slide down. "I promise it's more comfortable than it looks."

"Wait," you said, reaching out thoughtlessly to grab one of his legs. He stopped immediately, looking back at you questioningly and with a hint of concern. "Last autumn, when goblins chased me here..."

"Oh." His brows furrowed and for the first time he actually looked more monstrous, as anger made him bare his fangs. "You don't have to worry about the goblins anymore, I chased them entirely out of this area." He anger slipped away again as easily as water as he glanced back at you. "I hope you didn't get hurt that day?"

"You saved my life," you answered and gestured for him to come towards you. Curious, his head tilted slightly to the side, he bent down and stilled entirely when you threw your arms around him. "Thank you."

"Oh. Of course." Slowly, almost hesitantly, his arms came up to wrap around you in return. "I'm glad I could help. I should have known they'd cause trouble when they lost the territory fight to me."

You let go after a moment and, feeling brave and glad that the monster from back then had been him all along, you took his hand. On second thought, considering the mass of spider webs, you should have guessed as much.

"So, what did you want to show me?" you asked and your heart leapt with joy when his fingers curled around yours in return. He was always just a little cooler than you, unless he spent enough time in the sun to warm up.

Taking you into the cave, you realized that it was indeed cozier than expected. For one, it was dry inside and sunlight fell through one hole in the back and onto the biggest spider web you had ever seen. There were more holes overall so the place was brighter than expected. There was a next of furs and carved shelves filled with trinkets and things. There was even a mural painted on one wall, showing birds surrounding a griffon in flight.

"It's beautiful," you said and he straightened a bit, looking proud.

"Thank you. Though this wasn't what I wanted to show you." He swiftly clambered up the walls to the thick strands that connected the walls above. "I hope you like it."

When he began to pluck at the strands, you understood how he made his music. It echoed a little within the space, explaining how it had been loud enough for you to hear. Awed, you watched as he played, moving in a sort of dance to reach and pluck and weave his music as swiftly and surely as he must've woven his webs.

You slowly sat down on a nearby, fur covered rock and stared up, your heart beating faster. It was a melody you had never heard from him before, luring and light and utterly enchanting. If you hadn't been in love before, you would have fallen in love right now.

When he finished with a last tune and a flourish, you felt stunned and your heart was nearly aching with how full it felt and you jumped to your feet, clapping and hooting and grinning wide.

His answering grin was just as wide as he skittered back down, dark eyes bright and his hands found yours as soon as you reached out to him.

"This is your song," he said, soft and nearly quiet in the large cavern, the last tune having faded already. "I wanted to have more to offer than words. My dear, would you do me the honor of allowing me to court you?"

"No need for that," you answered. "I already fell in love with you."

The smile you got in return was bright and downright boyish in its joy. "I love you too," he answered, fast and so happy a laugh laced into his voice. "I'll still court you, because you deserve it. Because I want to show you how much I love you."

You gave his hands a squeeze. "Then let me do it as well, this goes both ways."

"Yes." He leaned forward, only to catch himself. "May I kiss you?"

"Oh, absolutely." And you reached up to cup his cheek as he bent down towards you.

His kiss was as sweet as his heart, as captivating as his music and as lovely as what you shared.

#my writing #drider #spider #for those with arachnophobia #this might not be for you #monster boyfriend #long as usual #hi I did a thing and I'm dreadfully nervous #as usual #but I got brain rot and it wouldn't leave me alone #sweet and soft #no warnings I can think of but let me know if I should tag something! #this was honestly a lot of fun to write #hope someone enjoys it! #typos by the way #I'm very sure I overlooked some #this idea kicked down the door in my brain when I read that spiders like to attract mates by plucking bits of their webbing #and because music is beautiful #i once again named no one btw #my utter incapability of naming characters strikes again

[violetsaffron5]

Psychotherapy

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Pairing: Zenin Naoya x f!Reader

Naoya is forced to go see a therapist to help his attitude so he can find a wife.

Words: 4503

Warnings: Smut, Vaginal Sex, Spit Kink, Oral Sex, Rough Sex, Face Slapping, Face-Fucking, Light Bondage, Light Dom/Sub, Edging, Degradation

Early 2017

You’re on a beach in Malaysia; ocean waves crashing playfully against the shore as you sunbathe on the white sandy beach. Palm trees stand tall and proud, providing just enough shade, dancing ever so slightly with the soft breeze coming off the water.

“What man lets their woman have a job? Is there something wrong with your pussy?”

Birds fly overhead, dipping down to the sea to catch their next meal, feathers illuminated by the rays of the sun. Others sing the song of their people as they pass by, on their way to the next stop with the flock.

“There’s only one thing worse than a woman, and that’s a woman who can read.”

Is this son of a bitch the CEO of misogyny? Holy shit.

Whoever told you to meditate to relax when you have a horrible patient is a goddamn liar because when they open their stupid mouths, it’s ruined. You take a deep breath, steadying yourself, finally opening your eyes to find a pair of sharp, cynical brown eyes staring back at you.

If you had realized this session was going to be with Naoya fucking Zen’in, you would have noped your way out of that so fast. This is what you get for not reviewing your case files due to the recent influx of patients.

Be professional. Be professional. Be professional.

“I took many years of-”

“Therapy isn’t a real profession anyway.” The blonde douchebag interrupts, waving you off as he sprawls on the chaise in front of the window in your office.

It took him all of 30 seconds to begin pissing you off. Barging in during your last session with a client demanding his start immediately, all the while using phrases like “do you know who I am?” and “wait until my father hears about this.” You rolled your eyes so hard it’s surprising they aren’t on the floor right now.

The window he’s next to looks out to a beautiful, quiet, wooded scene. If you killed him, nobody would be able to see you bury the body, save for the animals. And they wouldn’t say anything. Most would probably come by to pick at the fleshy parts of his skin, assisting with removing evidence making it harder to identify that it was you who had murdered the heir to the Zen’in clan.

It would be easy. Incredibly so. You’re unsuspecting. There’s nothing stopping you from walking over to him and stabbing your pen right into his eye. People think of you as the quiet shy type, when in reality you choose to keep to yourself to avoid being part of the office gossip, and if you had to admit it, you’re a little tired of all the shit your patients say too, which only adds to the quiet, unsuspecting demeanor.

“I took a psych class once, so I totally understand how to analyze people.”

“It’s not my fault those women are mad. I never agreed to be exclusive.”

“I didn’t kill the men at the fair. My henchmen did.”

If you played your cards right, you could probably talk Satoru Gojo into helping you cover it up. You haven’t seen this yourself, but word around the water cooler is things are so bad between them, that when they’re here for their sessions at the same time (the rare times Gojo actually shows up on time), they have to sit in different waiting rooms.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath and kiss your teeth, choosing to ignore his comment like the goddamn professional you are. You didn’t get your master’s degree to be talked down to by someone with too thick eyeliner and too many piercings looking like a failed alt emo boy.

It’s probably best to ignore his snide remarks and continue with the session. The sooner it gets started, the sooner it can be over, “Naoya, wh-”

“ Master Naoya,” he interjects, clearly annoyed you’re not referring to him the way he deems worthy.

“Right….” There is no way in hell you’re referring to him as ‘Master’ in any lifetime. “Anyway. Whose idea was it for you to be here today?”

You don’t need to review his case file to know why Naoya’s in therapy. Everyone knows. In order to take over as clan head when his father passes, he needs to marry, except he can’t get anyone to agree to it, because he’s literal human trash. Hence the mandatory therapy to try and… remediate some of his issues.

“Isn’t that your “job” to know?” he uses air quotes.

You were hoping if he said it aloud, admitted it, then it would act as a sort of eye opener for him or at least a first step. Looks like that’s not the case, he’s content continuing to be a shitty person.

“This is why women are only good for breeding.” He groans, rolling his eyes.

“Holy shit. What the fuck is your problem?” You ask in disbelief and the words vomit from your lips before you can stop them.

He furrows his brows, turning his head to meet your gaze before eyeing you up and down. He makes a point to stop and stare at your tits and lips, not bothering to meet your eyes again.

“Who do you think you are, speaking to me like that?” He seethes, “a wench like you needs to be put in her place,” he looks you over once again before his lips curl into a wicked smirk. “You’re decent enough looking. I guess I’d be willing to take one for the team to teach you a lesson.”

Fuck professionalism. This guy needs knocked down a peg or ten. “If I wanted a good lay, I’d visit Gojo. Hell, I bet you wouldn’t even measure up to Toji on your best day.”

“I can fuck whores like you ten times better than either of them could,” he spits back.

“I hear Gojo’s a generous lover.” Why bring Gojo into this, specifically? Just to stir the pot. Rile him up and piss him off, just as he’s done to you. Everyone knows the stories of the infamous playboy. Huge cock. Can go all night. Has a strict ladies first policy when it comes to getting off.

“I bet you don’t even know where the clitoris is.” He’s definitely the kind of guy who only cares about only his pleasure; it would come as no surprise if he’s never gotten a woman off before.

He sneers, “every single one of my servants comes crawling back for more.”

“Weird way to say cousins.”

He stares at you, fire burning in his eyes. Anyone else would probably think he looks shocked, and maybe he is, just a little. That a lowly window has the audacity to speak to a sorcerer this way, let alone the next head to one of the big three.

Shit. Are you gonna do this? Are you gonna challenge him so he’ll prove it?

Yes. Yes you are and you can literally feel the feminism ascending out of your body as you make up your mind.

Standing, you unbutton a few buttons from the top of your blouse to accentuate the swells of your breasts and loosen the knot on your ascot, slipping it over your head as you make your way over to Naoya, sliding it down his neck and tightening maybe a little too tight.

Leaning down, warm breath tickling the shell of his ear causing goosebumps to form, you whisper, “prove it.” He wastes no time in grabbing your free hand and placing it on his erection with a pleased smirk.

Of course he’s turned on. Probably thinking you’ll easily submit to him.

As you stroke his clothed cock, he lets out a quiet, satisfied moan as your other hand pulls the ascot a little tighter, no longer worrying if it’s too constricting.

Honestly, if he died, you wouldn’t care. Satisfying for you. Humiliating for him.

“Be a good boy and open wide,” he glares, clenching his jaw in a surprisingly quiet refusal. Letting go of the ascot, you grab him by the hair, forcing his head back until he opens just wide enough for you to gather saliva and spit it in his mouth.

“Swallow.” You demand, his eyes wide with shock. Once he regains his composure, he flips you over, slamming your back against the couch.

“I’m going to fuck your goddamn brains out,” he snaps, “and you’re going to regret spitting in my mouth like a filthy slut.” Naoya grabs one end of the ascot, pulling harshly until it comes untied, tossing it aside and you watch it float to the ground next to the chaise before turning your attention back to him.

There’s tension in the air, as the two of you stare at one another, swallowing thickly before your lips crash together, the sensation immediately sends a jolt between your thighs. The kiss is aggressive and greedy; more tongue and teeth than actual kiss and part of you is still shocked you’re going through with this.

As he pulls away, he sinks his teeth into your bottom lip, hard enough to leave a bruise, still trying to prove his dominance over you. Then in a move that takes you off guard, he trails several nips and kisses down your neck and collarbone. While he does this, you lift your hips and pull your pencil skirt up, so he’s not tempted to rip it off, letting it pool at your hips. At this moment, you’re incredibly thankful you wore your lace bra and panties today, even if he doesn’t deserve to see them.

“Spread your legs,” he snarls, forcing them open on his own and slipping two fingers into your aching cunt, making you whimper and arch your back due to lack of proper preparation. He quickly pumps his fingers while angling them perfectly. You let out a quiet whine when he begins to stroke the spot inside that makes you see stars while his thumb grazes teasingly over your clit.

Guess he does know where the clitoris is after all.

“You try to act tough,” he brushes his lips against your cheek and jaw until he kisses a spot below your ear, “yet here you are, so clearly desperate for my cock like the slut you are,” he whispers before clamping down, biting, and sucking at the spot on your neck. Thrashing below him, you try to nudge his head away with your shoulder to get him to let go.

“No marks! Jesus Christ, I don’t want people to know I fucked you!”

He smirks against you, knowing he’s not going to let up, and bites down on the crook of your neck this time. Gasping, you grab him by the hair and pull him away before smacking him, hard, across the cheek as he lets out a loud moan.

“You fucking liked that?” You furrow your brows and narrow your eyes, surprised by that turn of events.

“Shut the fuck up!” He growls, his lips meeting and moving along yours again in an attempt to keep you quiet. And really, you don’t mind as it gets his misogynistic ass to keep quiet as well.

With your mouths busy, his fingers working their godforsaken magic and your hands in his hair, you’re building up for a crash. A tsunami. An unraveling of the greatest proportions… and then he removes his fingers, pulling away from you completely with a cunning grin spread across his stupidly beautiful face.

“Christ, Naoya, I didn’t even cum. How pathetic .” You spit, knowing he’s edging you on purpose for pissing him off, “you sure you can fuck better than Gojo? Because at this point I’m really doubting your skill.”

“You don-”

“Shut up and get undressed. I’ll show you how it’s done.”

He stops and stares at you incredulously, “You’re the wo-”

“I’m not going to undress you. Do you want your dick sucked or not?”

Finally, finally , he closes his mouth and begins to undress from his kimono, as you take the opportunity to remove your own clothes as well.

Once the two of you are undressed, you push him onto the chair so he’s sitting; before lowering yourself to your knees, you take a moment to admire his body.

He’s leaner than you anticipated, and unbelievably toned – similar to a gymnast. Naoya has a pretty face, there’s no denying that, but having an equally pretty cock is just unfair. Standing painfully hard against his abdomen, the tip flushed red, already leaking precum. He’s average girth, but the length is impressive alone.

Based on his ears, you anticipated some sort of genital piercing, like a Jacob’s Ladder – something he could never pull off. But instead, he has a Prince Albert, which has you practically drooling at the sight.

However, that nice surprise is immediately negated by the intricate tribal tattoos with thick swirl patterns laying along one shoulder and down the left side of his chest. On the other arm lays a single thin barbed wire tattoo in the center of his bicep.

God . How incredibly douchey.

“Look at me.” You command as you sink between his legs, “you think this is where I belong, don’t you?” Grabbing his cock with a firm grip you stroke excruciatingly slow as he emits a loud moan and squirms beneath your grasp, “on my knees, between your legs. But don’t forget,” you give a small kitten lick over his tip, “I’m choosing to do this.”

You move a hand to squeeze his balls as you slide your lips over his tip and hollow your cheeks. As you expected, his hand immediately tangles into your hair, gripping tight. You have just enough time to relax your throat before he slams your head to meet his neatly trimmed groin.

As you gag and sputter with his length at the back of your throat, spit pools and dribble from your mouth, coating the lower half of his dick you’re unable to fit in your mouth. He tightens his grip, so tight, there’s no doubt he will have several ripped off hairs laced between his fingers by the time he finally lets go. He pulls back, just enough to give you a second to catch your breath before slamming you back down, nose to groin, repeatedly. Recklessly.

Tears begin to well in the corner of your eyes as he lifts his hips to meet the back of your throat, where you’re sure he’s bound to leave bruises.

“Fuck, that’s good. This is what you were meant for.” He throws his head back, eyes closed relishing the feeling of taking control of the situation.

There isn’t a lot you can do in this compromising position, so you let your teeth graze his cock in a little act of defiance as he continues to force your head up and down. He lets out a mix of stifled moans and angry grunts at the feeling before pulling your mouth off of him, bringing your gaze to meet him.

“No teeth, bitch!” He spits before slamming your head back down his length, continuing to force you to deepthroat him with every thrust. After a few minutes, his thighs begin to shake and a strained groan leaves his lips as he bucks his hips up, causing you to choke as ropes of cum slide down your throat.

“You better swallow every last drop,” he pants, “a filthy whore like you should be grateful for getting to have Zen’in seed inside you.”

After you swallow around him, to the best of your abilities, he releases your head and you make your way to the surface gasping for air, working to recover quickly. At this point, he owes you several orgasms and you’re determined to get them.

You would lean up and kiss him right now, forcing him back on the sofa so you can ride his face, but he seems like the kind of guy who would relish the taste of his own cum – the taste of his precious Zen’in DNA. Grabbing your panties from the floor, you spit the remaining essence of him into them and toss them back down.

Standing, you place your palms on his shoulders and shove him onto the chaise, throwing one leg over his chest to straddle him.

“Why don’t you shut up, put your mouth to good use for once and try to make me cum this time.”

His eyes are bright and filled with equal parts rage and hunger as he grabs you, forcing you forward over his face. He wastes no time in pulling you down so his lips can connect with your pussy in a lewd, loud, wet kiss before slipping his tongue deep inside.

Naoya forces you down in the most awkward position; one leg folded, next to his face while the other is on the floor, helping balance yourself as you move your hips against his face, softly whining each time his nose gently grazes your clit.

He digs his nails into the fleshy part of your hips, you told him no marks earlier, and this is likely bruise; at least these can be easily hidden. While gripping tighter, he lifts you slightly to adjust himself beneath you to let his tongue trail around your clit. As you shudder, he latches on, focusing all of his attention into that one spot.

He’s not interested in exploring, like a lot of other guys, oh no. He found this spot and he’s going to stay there until you completely come undone for him. You’ll give credit where it’s due – and it is due. He’s a devil with his tongue.

He might be the devil himself, but that’s a note to take away for a different session.

As he obscenely sucks, you let out a series of high-pitched moans and continue to roll your hips on his face, your release fast approaching.

He chuckles at your neediness, the vibrations traveling through you, making your toes curl and the world comes crashing down as you bite your own lip, trying not to yell out profanities as you cum, drenching his mouth with your fluids as he laps around.

Naoya continues to hold onto your hips, preventing you from straying away as your legs shake and squeeze in around him, instinctively trying to suffocate him. He hums appreciatively of everything your body’s offered, likely boosting his already inflated ego, before loosening his grip, allowing you to move back to his chest to recover.

As he licks his lips, determined not to waste any of your essence, you scoot back further, the apex of your thighs resting on his hard dick. Teasing him, you roll your hips several times allowing yourself to grind on his length.

He groans, trying to grab your hips to lift you but you swat him away, set on maintaining your teasing, allowing the tip to brush against your entrance several times.

“Fuck! Just get on my cock already!” It was so nice when he was quiet while you were riding his face. Unfortunately now, his mouth isn’t busy doing the one good thing it could do.

Looking to the ground, you spot your discarded ascot and panties next to each other and get an idea. Leaning down, you grab the ascot first and gather his hands, swiftlet knotting the scarf around his wrists and lifting them over his head. There is an old radiator in your office next to the sofa, so you tie his hands to that.

“You stupid bitch, what the fuck do you think you’re doing?” He scowls.

Realistically, he could easily break out of this restraint if he wanted to, but despite his angry words, he makes no effort to move as you tug on the fabric, making sure it will hold.

“I liked it better when you didn’t talk,” you state calmly, leaning down and grabbing the spit and cum filled panties from the ground.

“You worthless brat! You’re go-” he’s cut off by the crack of your palm meeting his cheek, the sound drowned out by the deep groan he emits. You take the opportunity of his distraction to shove the defiled panties into his mouth. His eyes widen in disbelief once again as the rest of his groan is muffled.

“Much better,” you sigh with relief, knowing you won’t have to listen to him again until you decide to remove the gag. Or if he gets impatient and breaks the restraints, but that’s a thought for if it happens.

Lifting yourself, you grab his cock and place the tip at your entrance, allowing yourself to slowly sink down.

“ Fuuuuuck ,” you whine at the feeling of being stretched and filled until your plush ass meets his hips.

Naoya would probably be saying something right now about how your pussy feels so good, but instead he lets out several loud stifled sounds as his eyes roll to the back of his head. You don’t bother starting off slow, instead you chase the high you were denied from his hands earlier, ruthlessly riding his dick.

“Gonna use you like my own little fuck toy,” you grind your hips further into his, “how’s that make y-you feel, Zen’in? Hm?” You ask breathlessly, riding up and down his length, “does it make you f-feel worthless? Like less of a man?”

Looking him over, his pupils are blown, filled with lust and loathing as you roll your hips, finding the angle that provides you with the most pleasure. His cheeks are pink, extending across his nose to the tips of his ears, and down to the top of his chest. Lips are kiss swollen and black eyeliner smudged around his eye from sweat, hair sticking to his forehead.

Once you find your rhythm you decide to give another resounding slap to his other cheek, so both sides match as he grunts with pleasure. Letting your hands fall to his shoulders, he fucks into you as you drag your nails down his chest with each thrust, hard enough to leave marks, you’re sure.

Trailing your hands up your body to your breasts, you message them as your nipples harden, pinching and rolling them between your fingers. Naoya hums in delight watching intently while your slick coats his length, covering his balls.

As his cock rubs against the sensitive spot on your insides, your breath quickens and legs shake beneath you each time your clit brushes against his groin with every roll of your hips. It doesn’t take long for the waves of pleasure to course through your body.

He thrashes against the radiator forgetting his hands are tied as you cream on his cock for the first time, clamping around him so hard you might as well be trying to milk him for all he’s worth.

Which isn’t a lot, in your opinion.

“How do you like being the bitch for once?” You pant; this spurs him on to adjust his legs and pulls his arms, still connected to the radiator. He bucks his hips up several times eliciting several moans from you as his cock kisses your cervix in the most delicious way.

“Tell me, pretty boy, what is it you really want?” you question, genuinely wanting to know since he treats everyone like they’re beneath him. This is supposed to be a therapy session after all, so might as well see what you can get out of him, right?

He tries to speak, but it’s muted due to the panties so you remove them and toss them aside. He pants, trying to catch his breath as his hips piston hard and deep, punctuating each point.

“Someone to obey,” thrust , “and someone to ruin,” thrust .

You yelp with each of his thrusts, trying to make a mental note to remember his answer for a later session. You continue to erratically bounce on him, meeting each of his steady thrusts with a loud slap, skin on skin, filling your otherwise quiet workspace.

“Don’t cum,” he demands as he feels your pussy gripping around his cock.

“I’ll do whatever the fuck I want,” you shoot back, both hands on his chest as he continues to pump mercilessly into you until the coil in your stomach snaps and breaks, walls pulsating around him, vision blurred white as you cum around him.

The feeling of you clamping down causes him to bite his lip and arch his back; knowing he’s going to be cumming soon too, you quickly remove yourself from him sitting back on his thighs. His eyes widen as he looks at you like you’ve betrayed him – it’s bad enough you’re fucking him, but there’s no way in hell you’ll let him cum inside you.

You’ll never admit it to him, but he was a good fuck, maybe still not as good as Gojo would have been, but still good nonetheless, so you’ll let him cum.

“No way I’m gonna be stuck around you for years,” you explain as you grab his length, stroking vigorously until his eyes roll to the back of his head and he lets out several deep strangled moans, pulling hard on the radiator, as his precious Zen’in seed covers his chest.

After you catch your breath, you remove yourself from his legs and search for your clothes on the floor. Finding the panties that are soaked in both your spit, you toss them into the trash under your desk; you’ll need to remember to empty that before you leave, so nobody accidently sees them.

“If you take anything away from this, it should be that you don’t need to be in charge of everything. You might be surprised just how freeing that can truly be.” You try to explain as you untie his hands; he continues to lay on the chaise, catching his breath rolling out his wrists, “you can use the bathroom over there to clean yourself and get dressed. Be back in five minutes for the rest of your session.”

“Fucking psycho bitch,” he mutters to himself as he begrudgingly stands and stalks off to the bathroom with his clothes while his cum drips from his chest down to his abdomen.

You decide to ignore his comment and choose to take a deep breath instead and get dressed too. After straightening your skirt and slipping your shoes back on, you take your seat across from the chaise once again.

When Naoya returns, seven minutes later, you note, he takes his seat. Looking him over, his cheeks are still tinged pink, hair more romantically tousled than dishevel-

Nope. Good god, get those thoughts out of your brain right now. This is not going to be a thing.

Sighing, you grab the legal pad from the coffee table between the two of you and click the top of the pen, ready to write. His session is over in about 20 minutes. Let’s see how painful we can continue to make this for him.

“So, Naoya, tell me about your mother.”

#Jujutsu Kaisen #Jujutsu Kaisen Naoya #jjk fic #jjk fanfic #zenin naoya x y/n #jjk x reader #jjk x y/n #naoya zenin #zenin naoya #naoya zenin Smut #zenin naoya Smut #jjk naoya #one shot #oneshot #jujutsu naoya #jjk x you #anime and manga #smut #VioletSaffronFic #naoya zenin smut #zenin naoya smut #naoya smut #naoya x y/n #naoya slander

[sunshiline-writes]

PART I: DEVOUR ME

Cannibalism | Sliced | Impaled 

CW: gore, cannbalism, impaled with a branch, creepy lady (idk), monsters, non-human monsters, bleeding out, fear of death, forced autocannbalism, nonconsensual turning into a fellow monster thing let me know if I missed anything

--

A cough is what woke him up. His own, spasming, throbbing cough that ripped through him with such intensity he almost passed out again. The man grabbed the piece of bark that was stuck through his stomach. Blood dripped from it. He groaned, trying to sit up, but was hit with another wave of agony as he moved even a little bit. He screamed and the sound echoed in his ears. It may have echoed in the pit that he had fallen into. But that wasn’t how sound worked. As he looked up at the trees, the stars behind them, everything there was a stillness in the world. Like not even the wind dared to sing. The birds were silent, the leaves didn’t even rustle. He thought about how he got here. There was a noise, a deep growl, and he was running so hard and so fast. Then he was falling. Something ripped straight through his gut and he was sure that he was dead. If he didn’t know any better,  he would have said this was a trap. But the hole wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t dug with a shovel, it was almost like a cavern in the ground. The branches of the tree’s overhead must have fallen between the cracks. Now he had also fallen between the cracks and was stuck on one of those branches. Literally impaled on a stick. 

His roommate would have made a kebab joke by now. That was how he felt. Meat on a stick, too weak to pull himself off. He forced himself to look at the piece of bark coming from his body. The dark red that had started to dry, the red creeping around his shirt. There were pieces of flesh and something else, (he prayed that it was not what he thought it was). They dripped from the dark bark, soaking in his blood, drinking it into the wood. He grabbed the bark again, cringing at the stickiness of it. Again he tried to pull himself off it. Groaning and screaming with pain as he managed to get himself halfway up, feeling the pieces of bark ripping through more layers of skin, organ, muscles, everything. He let go and fell back to the ground with a thud and another scream. 

“Need some help there sugar?” came a voice from on top of the place where he fell. Face barely peeking through over the edge. A woman, face pale and gaunt. She looked more fragile than he felt. 

“Call for help!” he cried out, wincing and coughing again, blood spewing from his lips. Dribbling down his chin. “It went straight through me, I think it's the only thing keeping me together.” A slight laugh went through him, making him wince and spasm around the intrusion. When he looked up again, she was standing over him. 

“What’s your name, sugar?” the thick, nasally accent was right above him, staring him in the face. 

“I-I how did..” 

“You don’t look so well. I have to call the police, but I need your name for that, sugar.” 

“Vinnie.. Vincenceo.” 

“Vinnie,” she said, tasting his name on her tongue. She crouched lower to him. Finger touching the bark covered in blood. The blood came away on her finger tip and she slowly licked it away, eyes closed, savoring it. 

“Oh jesus,” he said, shaking his head and groaning. “No no no, I’ve gotta be hallucinating you did not just do that. Jesus christ. What the fuck.”   

“It’s just a little something to keep me going, something to sustain me. I can help you.. I can, I just need,” there was a chunk of something on the bark, she grabbed it between her index finger and thumb, rolling it around a bit before popping it in her mouth. Like it was a piece of popcorn or a normal snack. 

“Oh god. Oh god. Stop. Stop. Just get me out of here! Get me out. Please help me. Stop it please.” 

She continued to wrap her hands on the tree bark, then licking his blood off her hands. Hungry, ravaging, a personification of gluttony. He watched her in horror as she cleaned the bark so much so that he could see the original grey-brown color it was before he was impaled on it. Whimpering and blubbering for this woman, this thing, to stop. It went on forever and he could hear his own blood dripping onto the ground. The world silent except for the sounds of her licking her lips and chewing greedily on what she could. 

She kneeled beside him. “Would you like a taste?” 

Vinnie clamped his mouth firmly shut and shook his head. The woman laughed and sat down on her knees, carding a hand through his hair. Tangled with sweat, sticking to his forehead. “It’s sweet, you’re a sweet person. I can tell from the way you taste. You didn’t deserve this did you? It’s such a shame you’re already dead.” 

“What?” 

“Mmhmm poor thing. You poor, poor thing.” 

Something about this woman had changed since she’d.. indulged. Her face was less pale and gaunt. As if she had gotten healthier just from the small amount of feeding. Vinnie sobbed softly, eyes screwed tightly shut. 

“You’re already dying, sugar,” she said softly, “I can save you. All you have to do have a taste of something. Do you want to taste, sugar?” 

Vinnie thought about it for a moment, sobbing and agony spread through him again as he threw his head back and screamed. She caught his hand on her wrist, grip ice cold. Actually it was more of the grip, she was cold. It went straight through his wrist. Her grip tightened. The woman grinned and her teeth sharpened, her face elongated and everything seemed to warp around him as she bit into his wrist. Pain, agonizing pain spreading through his arm as he felt her teeth crunch into his skin, into tendons, into the veins and pulling away, taking a chunk of him with her. “GOD PLEASE,” he screamed and blood dripped to the ground as she chewed, everything about her changing as she then let his hand go and bit into her own wrist. She pulled away a chunk of her skin as well and began to chew. Vinnie’s world was fading in and out. Too much blood, he’d lost far too much blood, especially with the new wound on his wrist, dripping unceremoniously on the forest floor. 

“Please. Please. Go away. Go aw-” 

Her mouth closed over his and he gasped and his hands were on her shoulders trying to push her away. A mixture of blood, soggy chewed flesh was pushed into his mouth. His hair was gripped and forced his head back, and he was forced to swallow as she only used her tongue to push the mixture further down his throat. He coughed and fought the wave of nausea as he turned his face to the side when she let him go. Then she grinned down at him, moving to stand over him. She moved her hand’s underneath his shoulders and pulled, releasing him from the bark that had went through him and throwing Vinnie roughly on the ground next to the tree. 

His world went white as he screamed, convulsing and pressing his face deeper into the mud that was mixed with his own blood. 

*** 

He should be dead. Bled out, on the floor. Gone. Dead. Those were the words that should have described him. But instead he was sitting upright, the woman had made a fire in this little cavern with the tree that had impaled him. And he was hungry. 

The woman sat across from him on the other side of the fire. A pot of soup hanging over it. How did that even get here? How was he not only.. Not dead but.. There was not a hole through his stomach, there was not a chunk missing from his wrist. He was… alive, and he was so hungry.  

“The soup is ready, sugar,” she said softly. 

“What’s in it?” Vincent asked. 

He was only met with a smile as she poured him a bowl and handed it to him. Vinnie ignored the way the chunks of meat tasted awfully similar to his earlier encounter. He ignored the eyeball that floated to the top when he mixed it. He ignored the way he was still hungry when he finished. 

“More?” 

“Yes please.” 

-- taglist : @coyotehusk @burntcoffeewhump @whumpbees @just-a-silly-little-whumper @lektricwhump ask if you'd like to be added or removed.

#coyotehusks goretober #goretober 2023 #writeblr #horror writing #cannibalism #forced autocannibalism #non-human people #monsters #bleeding out #fear of death #impaled #nonconsensual turning into a monster #gore #cw: gore