#where someone is tracing letters on your back and you have to figure out the words

[jinwoosungs]

{ 149 }

wingmen.

megumi fushiguro x fem.reader

no curses | high school au

warnings: slight crack, but mostly fluff.

dedicated to @xbarrjallenx

to my beloved girl,

you are all that i can think of. from your bright eyes, to the way your hair seems to shine from beneath the sunlight-

you drive me crazy.

i am madly in love with you.

please say that you’ll be mine someday?

-yours truly,

your admirer.

{ … }

your lips were parted with absolute shock in response to reading the love letter that was left within your locker. your mind was in a haze as you kept reading the neat script over and over again.

in fact, you were still in shock because you didn’t think that something so sweet could even happen to you!

you recall waking up this morning feeling stressed and nervous about your upcoming trigonometry exam. even with your best friend’s meticulous and detailed notes, you ended up goofing off with nobara and yuji and didn't do much studying (much to megumi's chagrin!)

you had plans of going over your notes with megumi during homeroom, but after receiving such a sweet love letter, your desires to study went down the drain. your eyes kept trailing over each written word, but couldn't seem to recognize the style of writing at all.

as your fingertips trace at the written words, you suddenly had a epiphany-

perhaps your friends could help you figure out just who this secret admirer was!

with your eye practically glimmering with hope, you slam your locker shut before making a mad dash to your classroom, almost too eager to see megumi, yuji, and nobara again.

{ ... }

megumi was simply looking over his notes when he sees you bursting into the classroom. your features appear flustered, and he could see the way your strands of hair fell across your face.

he feels his lips twitch in a slight smile, but successfully fights back those happy emotions because it just wasn't in his style to be anything but cool, calm, and collected while in the presence of his friends-

(even if he did have the tiniest crush on you-)

but he digresses.

while yuji and nobara were talking about some new music video that was dropped by their favorite band, you take quick strides to them while holding up what looked like a letter from within your hands.

"guys look! someone sent me a love letter!"

upon hearing your outburst, yuji and nobara stopped talking about the new music release and turn their attention to you.

"whoa! that's so cool! do you know who wrote it?"

"this is actually sooooo sweet!"

megumi frowns upon hearing how overly happy and excited yuji and nobara were, which was what made the warning bells go off within his head. standing from his seat, he closes his notebook and goes to where you were all huddled together.

megumi narrows his emerald green gaze down at nobara, seeing a suspiciously familiar piece of stationary. he was itching to see just what this letter was all about when he snatches it away from nobara's hands.

"h-hey! i was still reading that!"

but he ignores nobara's protests, scanning through each written word as his forehead began to pulse with annoyance.

this was nobara's handwriting when she actually tried to write neatly!

just what were these clowns up to?

"come with me." megumi returns the letter to you and picks up yuji and nobara by the back of their uniforms, leaving you alone as you went back to staring dreamily at your love letter.

hearing both of his friends laughing while dragging them out into the hallways was more than enough proof that they had done something. only when he knew he was away from you did he finally begin speaking.

"what the hell are you guys up to?" megumi hisses at them both, feeling the annoyance grow when they casually look away from him. "i know that letter was written by you, nobara. so spill, what's going on?"

"i'm just trying to be your wingman." she tells him with a wink, all while smirking at him. "because yuji and i both know that you don't have the balls to tell her yourself."

his face began to turn hotter in response, nearly being choked with embarrassment as he pointed an accusing finger at her, "it's none of your business! if i want to confess to her, then i'll do it on my own terms!"

"yeah, surrre, you've been saying that since the end of our middle school year... and we're in our second year of high school now." yuji reminds megumi with a snicker.

"haha, yeah, yuji knows what's up! so that's why, we're gonna keep sending your beloved letters until you actually confess!"

"no, you won't-"

nobara then flashes him a sly smile, "did you not see how happy she looked after receiving that letter? she would be utterly devastated if we stopped... or maybe... even more hurt if you don't write the letters yourself."

megumi freezes, thinking back on to the joy that paints your features and how excited you were to have such a letter. in fact, seeing your sweet smile was enough to make his heart clench in response...

perhaps the reason why he was so angry and annoyed was because his friends had managed to make you smile first-

not him.

megumi moves away from them with a click of his tongue, shoving a hand within the pocket of his pants, "fine. you got me. just... don't send her anymore letters, okay? i'll come clean to her soon."

while megumi kept his back turned, he couldn't help but smirk when he hears yuji and nobara high-fiving each other, knowing that their plan was a success.

{ ... }

at the end of the school day, (when you were sure you, yuji, and nobara had failed that trig exam), you drag your feet across the linoleum floors of your school, switching out your slippers with your actual shoes when you saw a folded note fall out of your shoe cubby.

your eyes go wide when you received yet another letter, but this time, it wasn't written on a cute stationary, or even placed in an envelope.

instead, it was a folded piece of what looked like a torn page from a notebook. feeling intrigued, you unfold the note as it read.

hey, i wanted to apologize to you, since the letter you received this morning wasn't from me-

but it was written on my behalf.

those words were really cheesy, and there's no way in hell i'd ever say such things-

but that doesn't mean that my heart doesn't race for you;

it doesn't mean that i don't find you beautiful, or think about you all the time.

if you want to know who i really am, come meet me at the school's rooftop.

i'll be waiting.

-your admirer

your heart begins to race, because this handwriting was one that you actually recognized-

for you had seen such neat writing while copying and reading over a certain sea urchin head's notes.

with your heart pounding from within the confines of your chest, you immediately push your legs forward, allowing your footsteps to echo across the floors. you ignore the burning felt against your feet as you saw the door leading to the rooftop, pushing it open with the entirety of your weight.

your chest heaves with each breath that escapes from your parted lips, eyes now narrowing with a fondness when you see megumi standing several feet away from you.

his expression was shy, with his hand running across his hair as he waits for you. allowing the door to shut from behind you, you step closer to megumi and smile up at him. you don't say a word, allowing him to speak first. your eyes meet with his tranquil gaze, basking in his sighs when he says.

"nobara was meddling again... she was the one who wrote that note and put it in your locker."

you let his admission soak in before nodding, "...and...what prompted her to do such a thing?"

megumi remains silent for several seconds before admitting, "it was because of my own hesitance."

he frames at your face with his two hands then, making your face heat up in response as you were forced to look up at him. with eyes filled with adoration for you, and you feel megumi press the pad of his thumb against your bottom lip before telling you, "but, i won't hesitate anymore..."

leaning closer to you, you allow your eyes to shut in response when his lips finally met with yours in a kiss that you had been waiting for since the moment you first laid eyes on him...

a.n. - ahhh finally wrote another story for the best boy! i had a lot of fun writing this story, even if it's feels like it's been forever since i wrote for megumi 🥹 i hope you readers still enjoy it!

all stories are written by rei; reposts, translations, and plagiarism are not allowed.

#megumi fushiguro imagine #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x you #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro fluff #.stories

[lunarw0rks]

Old Bones | Chapter Three

Summary: After fleeing a toxic relationship, you fear for your safety and hire a bodyguard. He's masked, impassible, and damn good at what he does.

Warning(s): strong language, suggestive language, guns/gun violence, death, gore/medical gore, blood, canon-typical violence

Word Count: 4.1k

A/N: I think this is my fav chapter so far, lemme know what y'all think... sorry if it's medically inaccurate but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ also the bastard finally has a name !!

꒦꒷ MAIN MASTERLIST ꒷꒦ GHOST MASTERLIST // have a request? ♡¸.•*' ⋆ ⚘ 🕊 ˚✧ ₊˚ʚ prev. chapter | next chapter | playlist | ao3 ver. ꒦꒷ O.B MASTERLIST

Vaded

“Squeeze trigger slow, don’t forget to breathe.” His fingers are overtaking yours, contorting yours so they’re using the proper form.

Even if you wanted to make a mistake, his frame was caging you in, stomach pressed deeply into the curve of your back. You do just that, firing at the glass jars lined up several feet away. Not a solid hit, but closer than the others.

Simon steps back, lowering the cock of the weapon for you. “You’re hesitating. There’s no time to hesitate or you’re dead.”

“I know that.” You spit back. The fluster of continually missing, as well as being dragged out here nearly every day was getting to you. Not to mention the heat of the sun beating down on you, successfully blinding any shot you take.

“Then do it properly,” He stands near the jars in front of you now, crossing his arms over his chest in impatience. “You think I have time to ponder when I’m holding a gun to someone’s head? I don’t. I shoot first.”

Such a prick—an insufferable prick at that. His words only escalated the sour mood you’d had during this whole morning of make-shift boot camp.

You raise the pistol again, lining up the sights and tracing along his figure being outlined by the rays of sunshine. You exhale like you’d been coached, jerking the sights to the jar closest to him and squeezing the trigger.

The mason jar explodes, laying askew on the pallets he’d set them up on. He doesn’t jump in surprise, or lose his composure.

“Better. You might actually have a chance… If he’s a statue.” His lack of reaction only pissed you off more, practically wiping any form of a smirk you had after your first lucky bullet. You switch the safety back on, for his well-being as much as your own, and toss the iron to him.

He catches it without a second thought, returning it to the sack of weapons he’d brought to train with. A week, and you’d just barely made it to pistols. Not to mention, on your toes the entire time because there’s been nothing but radio silence on your spouse. Not a letter, not a piece of mail, no sign of a tail—nothing.

He begins the drive back from the countryside, somewhere about an hour out of town where none of the trigger pulls would be heard. His eyes are glued to the unpaved road in front of him, as usual. One hand on the top of the wheel, and the other taking up the entirety of his center console, leaving you little room to breathe.

“I’d say, you’re ready to carry one.” Simon’s words nab your attention. “Just don’t shoot at me again, or you’re shit out of luck.”

You don’t doubt the power of carrying, but it’s new nonetheless.

Perhaps his harsh feedback held weight, and you ‘might’ have a chance in hell of defending yourself. Might—as in, nearly none at all.

Thank the stars for that insufferable prick, then, because whether you want to admit it or not, his services are needed.

—

The weight of the piece is something you’ll have to get used to.

You refused the hip holster, to Simon’s annoyance, of course. Instead, it’s going to remain tucked into your waistband, the icy metal of the .38 revolver digging into the soft flesh of your tailbone.

He’s in the shower now, where he usually spends about two minutes anyways, despite you packing now. Bullets were your words now, if necessary. This situation was past legalities, or forms, or numbing and intrusive questions in the courtroom.

Three sharp pounds on the front door, and you’re already at your feet. The shower shuts off, and Simon has walked out with a towel concealing his waist and already started for the door.

“Wait.” You’re looking through the peephole only greeted with the sight of a badge and an impatient officer. Simon steps back a bit, watching the encounter from the hallway as droplets run down his frame.

Once you’ve opened the door, the officer holds out some sort of form. The prospect of an officer at your door has prevented you from hearing his introduction or caring to take a look at the badge. The only words that find you are ‘husband’ and ‘defamation’.

He doesn’t bother to let you respond, just shoves the form onto the entry table and gives Simon a sickened glare. At first glance, probably thinking Simon is your side piece showering off after a night of adultery.

The officer has retreated down the steps of the complex, leaving you unable to process anything. Simon doesn’t say a word, just retreats to his room to finish dressing, as if there wasn’t almost a dead cop laying in the foyer.

Your hands shiver as you skim through the document, seated at the kitchen table. You couldn’t believe the bastard—cops and judges already on his payroll, coming up with some bogus claim of defamation—all while you’re left with no evidence of the latter.

He’s returned quickly, resting his palms on the table as he soaks in the information. “You’re not going to that trial.” The paper is taken from your fingers, forcing you out of your discomposure.

“I’ll go to prison if I don’t show, Simon.” You respond quickly, wondering what the hell he’s getting you roped into.

“No, you’ll be dead.” He leads, the palms on the table turning to tight fits. “Once you’re in the courtroom, he’ll have access to you, or whatever shitty motel you’ll be staying in for months. You’re not going.” His commands are nearing that of a hardened soldier.

“This is my life you’re talking about. I can’t just pack up and run from the federal government. He’s not going to kill me, he’s going to try and put me in jail, then throw away the key.” Your tone has heightened, but his hasn’t.

He takes a few steps back from the table as if trying not to blow his top. “You’re hiding out in a shitty apartment, sobbing in the middle of supermarkets, and you’re confident in that assessment?”

“If he wanted you in jail, he would’ve planted evidence on you. I’ll repeat myself. You’re not going.” Simon sighs sharply, trying to calm himself again. “We need to get out of this apartment for now, before more police poke around and find you packing heat.”

The lack of decor, luggage still in the corner, non-perishables you’d bought—all for the inevitable moment he finds you. That moment was here, and now you were packing it all away. Somehow the place looked less pitiful with it all packed away and stuffed into his backseat.

—

You were somewhere in the countryside, only in the opposite direction of the shooting range you were at that morning. He hadn’t stopped once during the long ride and wasn’t planning to. You were in a small town before you knew it—someplace you’d never heard of, and probably with a population that doesn’t reach triple digits.

The barren landscape you were passing in the near forties seemed to continue forever. The endless crop and winding paths would provide cover, but the scenarios playing in your head depicted worse.

The entirety of the town was in a cluster—a few gas pumps, a motel, a pharmacy, and a diner—all of which much older than you’d been alive, visibly decaying under years of neglect.

His truck rolled to a stop, parking in the empty lot of the motel. You two seemed to be the only ones rooming in this apocalyptic townlet, and you were grateful for that, at least. He retreated into the office and returned holding a key to your room.

You climbed out, retrieving the duffel that had your entire life packed into it. His bag of weapons was slung over his shoulder, and he carried it as if the weight had no effect. He’d stayed quiet the whole trip, and it continued well into entering the shared space.

Two beds, a bathroom, and a kitchenette. Nicer than you expected, albeit the exterior painted a different picture earlier.

Your stiff limbs freed themselves when you sprawled out on the bed you claimed, remaining in disbelief of the situation at hand. You were on the run again, but this time not from him—from the law. How long could this go on? Living in motels, with an overbearing male roommate? Especially one without a sense of humor; the spiteful cherry on top.

He closed the curtains with a jerk, forcing you to stare at the dated floral pattern they had, instead of the secluded view outside. There was no time for error, especially when it was someone other than the law to figure out you’d skipped town.

Just when you’ve begun to close your eyes, he’s loudly rifling through the luggage sitting on the floor, muttering curses under his breath. You sit up in bed in a huff, glaring into his back. Finally, he pulls out the bottle of Kentucky, pouring himself a generous glass, before thumping it down onto the faux-granite counter.

“Seriously?” You sigh, sitting yourself up on your arms.

He takes a few seconds, savoring the burn running down his throat. “Gonna need it. Helps me focus.”

“We’ll need to pick up a few things at that pharmacy, so get up.” There’s no chance in hell he’s leaving you here alone, despite the store only being a few blocks away. Bickering only greeted you with an icy glare, so you grumbled to your feet, slipping into the jacket you’d removed only minutes before.

In usual fashion, he’s a few steps behind you, watching the few people that are out and about at the moment, most of which are retirement age.

You’re inside the pharmacy now, practically tapping your foot at him as he grabs the supplies you two might need. More non-perishables as well as a small kit used for camping. It was clear to you this little “road trip” wasn’t going to end soon—and he was quite used to being on the run.

As soon as he’s placed the bills on the checkout counter, you’ve exited the store, nearly skipping back to his truck. He begins the short drive back, but his eyes keep darting between the rearview mirror and over his shoulder.

“We have a tail.” He snarls, continuing to divert further from town. “I’m gonna make sure we lose it.”

His words make your hairs stand, whatever the hell he meant by that was nothing pretty. He was getting further from town, so whatever his plans were needed absolutely no witnesses.

“Gun?” You ask, looking over your shoulder at the black Mercedes creeping closer.

He nods, still frantically assessing his four corners. The road signs have disappeared again, and you’re back to crops and trucking warehouses. You lift yourself off the seat a bit, retrieving the revolver you previously had tucked away. You check the cylinder, indeed seeing six bullets loaded inside—bullets he’d filed X’s into the tips himself—they “blew a nastier hole” that way, according to him.

It’s in your lap now, as you bounce around from his speed increase. The tail does the same, nearly bumper to bumper with his trunk now. Simon diverts, trying to ensure it can’t clip it, but the unpaved road before you is already unsteady enough when you’re going straight.

The Mercedes clips into the side of his truck, but the size difference between the cars only causes it to swerve. Simon turns abruptly, making the tail believe he’s taking a right. In reality, he swerves left, causing the confused driver to go straight into the metal fence lining the road.

You only see the wreckage briefly; crushed hood, steam rising from the hood, and no further movement from the driver.

He slams the brakes, pulling off to the side. He pulls out his much larger caliber pistol, slamming the truck door behind him. He’s gone to make sure he finishes the job.

Your fingers find the lock button, about to hear that click, when the passenger door is whipped open, and you’re face down in the gravel before you know it. Your gun is askew somewhere, having been ripped from your hands.

The assailant's fingers dig into your scalp, forcing you to kneel on the sharp pebbles. He’s surely one of the men your husband hired. His nose is busted, and there are small shards of glass embedded in his face that he’s too determined to mind.

This was the moment fate caught up with you, just like you’d thought it would. Either with you dead in your apartment, or staring down the barrel of a gun like you are now—disarmed and on your knees execution-style.

He cocks it, pressing the metal into your temple.

The unmistakable crack of a gunshot echoes through the countryside, causing both of you to jump in surprise. Had Simon been ambushed? Was he already bleeding out in the dirt?

He seems to think the same, a lordly smirk spreading, revealing his bloodied teeth. You snap your eyes to the stars above you. His leer is not going to be the last thing you see—the night sky would be.

The ring in your ears is louder than the gunshot itself. Warm sprinkles have splattered across you now, dripping down your neck. But you’re not dead. Not clenching a bullet hole either. You have to look down to be sure, examining your body with sanguine hands.

Instead, it’s the man with a hole in his head crumbled in front of you, still your pistol in his dead fingers. The ringing subsides, but your eardrums are muffled slightly like you’ve just had your head underwater.

“Bastard got me,” Simon stumbles back, making you sigh in relief, “—came out of the fuckin’ backseat, didn’t see him.” He’s sputtering, putting a flat palm against the stab wounds on his stomach, while the other is against the door of the truck.

You use the truck for support as well, feeling the stray pebbles that were still digging into your knees, not to mention the crimson seeping into the fabric of your clothes, sticking to you. You snatch your pistol back, stuffing it back into your waistband.

He’s barely upright now. An uncanny sight at best, seeing him struggle to hold his own weight.

“We need to… Clean this up…” He takes his palm off the truck, but it’s returned when he nearly stumbles again. He’s fighting himself, forcing himself to be the one in charge here. Simon glowers down at his abdomen, lifting the saturated fabric. It’s worse than you expected, not in the deepness of the punctures, but how much blood he lost in the scuffle.

You can tell he wants to speak, to give you some sort of instruction, but the pants coming from him are too severe. He slides down the truck, leaning against the large tire for support. He’s gone even paler than usual—you can tell through the eyes of his mask.

His chest is rising and falling rapidly, at least. But it won’t be soon if you don’t do something.

It’s a blur; grunting and using all your might to put the dead man into the bed of the truck. You open the door to the backseat, finding the foil blanket in the camping kit Simon bought. You cover the bed, so his corpse looks like nothing more than a lump of firewood, or hay, or something other than what it is.

The skinny flashlight finds its way between your teeth, as you scoop and kick the dirt around to cover up the blood. The storm clouds forming are your only hope of washing away any evidence of this bloodbath. You shine the light on the side of the car, where some of the splatter had cast. You wipe it away with your sleeve, leaving only small traces of it.

Finally, it shined on him. A half-conscious Simon, who you can barely lift into the truck. He gives a little way, but your arms are putty by the end of the ordeal. He’s slumped in the seat, and you haven’t bothered to buckle him in.

You climb inside the driver’s seat, reversing quickly to make it back to the motel. The lack of guests will make patching him up easier, but the prospect of what unfolded is not providing much comfort. You’re speeding down the strip of unpaved road, eventually greeted by the few street lights illuminating the town.

You slow when you reach the parking space, claiming the one directly across from your room, so transporting Simon is easier. Luckily, the few residents that live there have retreated in for the night, leaving no prying eyes around.

You palm his pockets, locating the room key. There’s no time for slippery fingers or trembling hands. You make way for yourself and him by opening the door first, then pulling him out of the truck. He’s putting as much weight on himself as he can, but you’re left to do most of the literal heavy lifting.

Simon was otiosely dropped onto his bed, left to writhe only for a few seconds while you grabbed the rest of the camping kit from the backseat. When you return and lock the doors behind you, you’re quick to dig through the luggage for pieces of clothing. Ones you can put underneath his torso to prevent the mess his wounds are going to make.

You fish the knife he kept in his pocket out, cutting through the soaked t-shirt fabric. It glides off easily, allowing your amateur eyes to feast on the punctures. They aren’t deep, clearly not done with enough force to do serious internal damage, but there’s enough for the blood loss to be his biggest problem.

Simon must’ve finished him off before he could rough him up more—you could tell by how jagged the last stab was—like the man’s blade had been ripped away hastily.

“The bourbon…” He murmurs, bringing the bottle to your attention. Something you’ll be able to use. The self-medication that was slowly killing him might just be his saving grace.

You zip to the counter, unscrewing the cap from the bottle. He nods his head, bracing himself like he’s been through his a hundred times. He probably has, for all you know. The fawn-tinted liquid sizzles at his wounds, both disinfecting and irritating the reddened, puffy flesh.

He’s gritting his teeth under the mask, clenching one of the towels you laid out for dear life. Still, handling the pain better than you expected. You, on the other hand, were minutes from spewing.

The blood was coming out faster than you could keep up with, and no matter how many times you dug through that camping kit, it was only small bandages and ointment. You had no choice, you had to get to that pharmacy.

First, you’re hunched over the sink, scrubbing away the crimson coating you. You take off your jacket, ridding yourself of your bloodied clothes. One of his hoodies will have to do, and it will cover the remnants remaining in your hair. From how squeamish the sight was making you, you could swear you were paler than the man actively bleeding out.

Next, you’re out the door again, darting down the slick streets. Those storm clouds you saw earlier had begun to rain down on you. Good for the crime scene miles away, but not for your joints. That taste of blood, pinching in your side as you forced yourself to keep going, closing in on the pharmacy eventually.

Heaving in the first-aid aisle, grabbing any sterile gauze you see, then a box of gloves. Of course, the selection is limited. The townsfolk probably aren’t playing mob doctor like you are right now.

Once you’ve made uneducated guesses on what to get, it’s like you’re reminded of the dying man in your hotel room. There’s no time to pay, and no active cameras—no time to question the logistics of it all. Besides, the geriatric clerk barely gave you a passing glance when you stormed inside.

You’re out the back door, looping around the building until you’re back on the sidewalk again, racing with the supplies hooked under your arm. You’ve only been away minutes, but those were precious minutes where he could’ve hemorrhaged even more.

The rain putters heavily, coating your lashes like it did in the parking lot of the supermarket, daring you to stumble in disorientation.

You fiddle with the key, nearly kicking the door down when it struggles. It gives way eventually, and you’ve slammed it, already sitting on the edge of the bed. He kept a hand on his wounds while you were away, luckily, but he’s starting to slip again.

You peel Simon’s large fingers away, then look at the supplies before you. You rush to the sink and sterilize your fingers, darting your gaze from the sink back to him.

You look down at it—the engagement ring you haven’t been able to take off all this time.

“Fuck it.” You mutter, tearing it off your finger. It clatters somewhere in the sink, and you leave it there to get back to Simon. You tear the cardboard encasing the gloves, slipping them onto your trembling fingers—partially from the cold rain, as well as the know-nothing decisions you’re going to make to treat him.

Stitches are out of the question, so you’re going to have to pack the wounds—something you've seen on a medical show once. You unravel the roll of gauze, cutting off small sections of it with the knife, and then get to work.

He’s lucky he’s knocked out because he’d probably cringing right now—from your medical care, not your fingers digging around at his wounds.

You loop the bandage around your index finger, trying to recall the steps. You push it deep enough to prevent it from bleeding through, stuffing the gashes in a zig-zag pattern. One by one, you move to the next wound until they’re all packed.

If these stabs had been any deeper, there would be two bodies in the bed of the truck right now—one of which would be the owner. Opportunely, they hadn’t bled through the gauze so far.

The exhaustion caught up with you quickly, but you were determined to keep an eye on him. Without him, you were screwed, plain and simple. He wasn’t going to die and leave you with this unexplainable mess, one that he got you into when he took you on this hellacious joyride.

—

You must’ve dozed sometime in the night because the sunrise was peaking through the gaps of the curtains when your eyes opened. Not to mention, Simon was shoving you away from him, grunting as he was finally able to sit up.

He peered down at the evidence of the unpractised medical attention you’d given him. His fingers found the bottle of Kentucky still on the nightstand, and he took a slug from it, feeling the tension release a little bit.

The sight of the room surprised him a bit—the medical supplies and luggage thrown around, the clothing laid out below him, and not to mention the blood still dried on your fingers.

He finds his footing, despite the frazzled expression you’re maintaining. He’s been here before, in fact, been closer to death many times. This was nothing to Simon—“just a scratch” as he’d say. He grabs one of the only clean shirts left, slipping it on to cover himself.

After he’s taken another drink, he turns to you, standing above you with authority. This was no longer a game of cat and mouse, it was past that now. He had bigger problems, like the corpse in the bed of his truck, and the prospect of more of those men coming.

He finally finds the words when he sees you’re no longer wearing your ring. “What’s this bloke's name, the one who sent his dogs on us?”

You shake your head in confusion, but his clenched jaw is persistent and only going tighter. You’re forced to swallow the lump forming in your throat. You, too, can tell things are changing, and it’s become more personal for Simon than he’d like to admit.

 You utter his name, as he’s forced you to reveal it. “Cal. His name is Cal.”

He takes a sharp inhale, taking in the information. The hands that were resting at his sides have now turned to fits. “After we take care of that problem in the back of my truck, we’re gonna find this bastard.” You could swear steam would be coming out of his ears by now.

He grabs his truck keys off the table and starts towards the door, growling something under his breath that you didn’t make out,

“I’m gonna find this bastard…”

TAGLIST: @random-thot-generator @littleobsessionsandlifeslessons @illyanam1011

#mw2 fanfic #mw2 #simon riley #simon riley x reader #call of duty #ghost mw2 #task force 141 #task force 141 x reader #simon riley smut #simon riley fluff #simon riley angst

[luvangelbreak]

Deprived | Thirteen

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 matthew sturniolo x layla venita (female!oc) summary: everyone knows the story of the bad boy and the good girl but what happens when the school's most popular boy, Matthew Sturniolo, and the girl who notoriously is never there, Layla Venita, cross paths. warnings: swearing word count: 2.8k a/n: y'all.

pov: matt

"Stay here and get rid of that. I'll go talk to her," Allie stepped in front of me when I tried to follow after Layla but I pursed my lips, letting out a huff before nodding. She ran off after Layla and I turned around looking at the hateful writing on the locker.

On a whim and poor decision-making, I stepped in front of the locker and looked around the hall of people surrounding the locker before yelling, "Whoever wrote this I will beat your fucking ass. You can all fuck off now!"

With that, a few people scattered away quickly while other's eyes lingered, pretending to talk about something else but it was clear they were still looking at me in front of the locker.

"Bit dramatic," Chris raised his eyebrows as he looked at me and I furrowed my eyebrows further, my nostrils flaring in anger.

"Do you see what they wrote Chris?" I pointed to the locker behind me angrily, "People should be glad I'm not fighting every single one of them to figure out who did this."

"People are dicks. Layla knows that," he shrugged and I rolled my eyes at his lack of empathy.

"She has to deal with people whispering shit like this about her all day every day. Now it's plastered on her fucking locker and all you have to say is 'people are dicks'?" I looked at him in disbelief and he dropped his head, "Get the fuck away from me, Chris. I don't want to talk to you right now."

"No need to be an asshole about it," he mumbled as he walked away towards his locker and I balled my fists trying to keep myself calm. I had never felt this type of anger on someone else's behalf before but I felt like I couldn't control it.

"What did you just fucking say?" I asked him loudly making him turn around and I stepped towards him. I felt eyes turn towards me again but I brushed them off.

"Matt," Nate stepped in between Chris and I, "I get that your pissed but Chris isn't the person you're mad at right now."

"It sure feels like it," I said through gritted teeth and Chris shook his head, walking further down the hallway as I bit my lip.

"Listen to me," Nate shoved me backwards to get my attention, "We're gonna get rid of this before Layla gets back and then we're gonna figure out who did this. Then, and only then, you can beat someone's ass and it's not gonna be Chris's."

I clenched my jaw, looking down at him with pure anger but I let it slowly subside, knowing that I looked like a fucking psycho getting so aggravated about this. I let out a heavy breath and suddenly Nick returned with a bottle of rubbing alcohol and a cloth.

"Where did you even get that from?" Nate asked in confusion as Nick handed me the bottle and cloth.

"Nurses office," he shrugged and I gave him a thankful nod. I began scrubbing at the letters drawn on the locker, trying not to think about it too much knowing it would send me into a fit of rage. After a couple minutes of using elbow grease and pure determination, I managed to get it all off without a trace. Just as I closed the lid on the bottle, the first bell rang for everyone to head to their classes and our peers dispersed into the classrooms.

"I'll take it back. You can go to class and make sure Layla's okay," Nick offered and I gave him a thankful smile and nod before handing him the bottle and cloth.

I quickly walked to my locker, threw my backpack inside and grabbed my book for my English class. I sped down the hallway, swinging the door open to see Mrs P staring at me with an unimpressed look.

"Matt, you're late," she said blandly, a slight shock on her face at me being late to class.

"Sorry, I was dealing with something," I answered as I closed the door behind me.

"Take a seat please," she said kindly and I nodded, walking to the back of the class where I now always sat. Layla was in her seat, hood on and head down in shame. I felt a wave of anger fall over me again seeing her upset but I didn't let it show as I looked at her, "Layla. What did I say about your hood?"

"Sorry," Layla mumbled so quietly I wasn't sure if Mrs P had even heard her before she slid the hood off of her head. Her eyes were red and her cheeks were puffy, my heart breaking inside my chest that this had gotten to her so easily. I hated seeing her sad, it made me want to wrap her in my arms and keep her safe from anything that could upset her ever again.

I ignored Chris who was to my right as he worked on his English paper and I looked over at Layla before I leaned over whispering, "You okay pretty girl?"

She nodded in response while looking ahead. To most, they would think her expression was blank and unreadable but I had spent so much time just looking at her that I knew her mouth was twitching ever so slightly because she was upset. A heavy weight fell on my chest, feeling helpless that I couldn't do anything to make her feel better.

"You wanna get McDonalds at lunch?" I asked her again quietly and she shook her head, still not speaking. I pulled my bottom lip between my teeth, falling back into my seat. I ripped a piece of paper off of a blank page in my notebook, scribbling what I wanted to say quickly and hoped she wouldn't judge my third grade hand writing.

I slid the paper over to her and I studied her reaction, my heart warming when a glimmer of a smile peaked onto her lips. She quickly wrote something beneath what I had written before handing the note back to me.

I grinned at the paper before folding it up and placing it into the pocket of my jeans, feeling like a kid in middle school handing notes to his crush. I barely did anything the whole lesson, stealing glances at Layla any chance that I could without her noticing.

She caught me one too many times but it only led me to look at her more when I saw a smile peak through her pink lips once again. She covered her face with her hand a few times and I bit my lip to hide the goofy smile that was threatening to invade my face.

I was sure to Chris I looked like a lovesick puppy, I could feel the judgement radiating off of his cold heart. I was never like him with girls, he could fuck them once and never speak to them again. He could fuck them multiple times but still act like they'd never met around other people, I never understood how he did it, how he was so detached. It wasn't that he didn't love people, he loved our family and friends so much it often scared me what he would do for the people he loved, but he'd never been in love. He never seemed to care about romance or a girlfriend, he just wanted a quick fuck and nothing more.

I couldn't do that, I tried it twice and I regretted it every day of my life. I got too attached to the people I loved, I couldn't just leave and not think about it again. I didn't like a quick fuck, I wanted it to mean something. I wanted the person to mean something to me and I wanted to mean something to them.

I hope I meant something to Layla because she sure as hell meant something to me.

+++

She had disappeared again. I didn't see her for the rest of the day, not even after wandering around the school at lunch to check if she was smoking a cigarette in the snow.

"You find her?" Nate asked when I walked back to our table at the cafeteria and I shook my head, sighing as I sat between Nick and Mia.

"She's a big girl. She'll get over it," Mia rolled her eyes and I shot her a glare, not having any patience for her bullshit today.

"I probably should've mentioned this earlier," Allie started and I turned my head to look at her as she cringed slightly, "ButImayormatnothavehernumber."

"Allie!" I yelled dramatically as I threw my hands in front of me, "You couldn't have told me that before I wandered around the school for 20 minutes?"

"I didn't think you were serious!" she defended and I closed my eyes, letting out a huff but I couldn't stay mad at her, "I'll send it to you now. I'm sorry."

"You should've seen him during English," Chris spoke up making me look at him as I felt my phone vibrate in my pocket, "Bro looked like Tom and Jerry floating towards a pie on the window with the heart eyes he was doing the whole time."

"Are you seriously gonna call her?" Mia asked, her tone annoyed and I pulled my phone out of my pocket, not sparing her a glance as I quickly clicked on the contact that Allie had sent me before it began ringing.

"Hello?" her soft voice rang through my ear and I let out a sigh of relief.

"Layls, where are you?" I asked immediately and there was a brief silence on her end of the line.

"Matt, how did you get my number?" she asked quietly and I shook my head, ignoring the fact she couldn't see me.

"Allie gave it to me. Where did you go?" I asked again and she once again fell silent, "Layls?"

"I went home," she mumbled before I heard a sniffle and my face dropped, "I just didn't wanna be at school."

"Are you okay, pretty girl?" I asked softly earning an eye roll from Mia, a gag noise from Chris and a frown from Nick in disgust. I threw up my middle finger before I got up and walked into the hallway.

"Yeah, I'm fine," she mumbled again and I sighed, throwing my head back onto the wall behind me, "You don't have to worry about me. Nothing I haven't dealt with before."

"It's fucking bullshit," I grumbled before I let out a breath, realising that my anger wouldn't help her right now, "Can I come over?"

"You should stay at school," she answered quickly and I once again shook my head.

"Layls I wanna make sure yo-"

"Pretty boy," she cut me off, the nickname making my heart swell in my chest, "I'll be fine... Can't be too bad of an influence on you and make you skip all your classes."

"What about after school?" I asked and she hummed. I knew I sounded needy and annoying but I wanted to see her, I wanted to make sure she was okay.

"Yeah," she answered in almost a whisper, "My dad's staying out tonight so you won't have to jump the fence or anything."

I chuckled to myself before I nodded, "Okay. I'll see you soon, pretty girl."

"Bye, Matthew," she said softly before she hung up.

+++

The rest of my classes were spent waiting for school to finish. I practically ran to my car, impatiently waiting for Chris and Nick to arrive. They soon jumped in the car and before either of them could even close their doors fully, I was pulling out of the parking space.

"Dude I haven't even put my bag down yet!" Chris screeched as I pulled out of the parking lot.

"Matt, what are you doing?" Nick asked from the back seat before I heard his seatbelt click into place followed by Chris doing the same.

"I'm dropping you guys at home," I answered quickly as we made our way back to our house.

"I wonder where he's going after," Chris rolled his eyes dramatically but I ignored him as I sped down the road. After 5 minutes of driving in silence, I pulled up to the house and Chris jumped out without another word.

"Let us know if she's okay," Nick said before he jumped out of the car, sliding the door closed behind him. I took off down the road once again and before I knew it, I was at Layla's house.

I grabbed my backpack, remembering that Layla said not to leave anything valuable in the car. I made sure I had my phone and keys in hand as I jumped out, locking the door behind me.

I walked up to the door, sudden nerves hitting me as I stood on the front porch. I knocked twice and fiddled with my keys before I heard the quiet thud of footsteps. The door opened to reveal a tired-looking Layla and I smiled at her.

"Hey," I said softly and she swayed on her feet in my hoodie and the shorts she had worn when I came to pick her up before the game.

"Hi," she answered in the same tone before looking around outside, "You should come in before you get kidnapped."

"Right," I answered quickly as she stepped behind the door and I walked in. She closed the door behind me before locking both locks and spinning around to look at me.

"Stop being so nervous. You're freaking me out," she said with a frown and a slight smile.

"Sorry. I just wanted to make sure you're okay," I pursed my lips before she smiled at me fully. She walked past me and down the hallway as my eyes couldn't help but travel to the small shorts she wore peaking out from under my hoodie.

God, she looked so good in my clothes.

"You gonna stand there and stare at me or follow me so I can get into bed? I'm freezing my tits off right now," she called, snapping me out of my trance and I coughed into my fist before nodding, following after her. She entered her room and I joined her, closing the door behind me.

"Do you have a heater?" I asked her and she nodded, jumping into her bed before pulling the covers over herself.

"Yeah but we can't afford to use it," she explained and I nodded understandingly, kicking off my shoes and sliding my backpack onto the floor beside them. She patted the space beside her and I smiled, sliding my jacket off before placing it over the covers on her, "Corny."

"Apologies for not wanting you to freeze to death," I answered as I rounded the mattress, sliding under the covers next to her. She took me by surprise when she wrapped her arms around my torso, pulling me closer to her as she laid her head on my chest. I smiled to myself as I wrapped a hand around her back, my left hand placing itself on her lower back.

"I hate people," she mumbled and I bit my lip, looking down at her. I looked at her rosy cheeks, the soft pale skin tinted red as her eyelashes fluttered with every blink.

"I know," I mumbled, my thumb running small circles on her back and she looked up to me, her calm expression bringing me a sense of peace.

"You make me hate people a little less," she said softly and I smiled down at her, my eyes glancing at her lips.

"I know," I whispered and she smiled up at me, my heart warming to see that she was feeling better, "You're so pretty."

"You're so corny," she giggled, still looking up at me with a light in her eyes I hadn't seen before, "But thank you."

"Look at you. Finally taking a compliment," my smile widened when she bit her lip and shook her head. I reached my hand forward, pulling her lips away from her teeth with my thumb while I held her chin with my index finger.

She looked so delicate when she was comfortable, when she didn't have her guard up. I wanted to see her like this all the time, I missed her when she put up her walls and I knew she wasn't like this with anyone else, at least for my own selfish reasons I hoped she wasn't. I left my hand under her chin, my thumb ran across her rough lips as I stared at her intently.

She had a small smile across her face, her breathing steady as her head tilted up towards me. I pushed my tongue between my lips to wet them and I caught her staring at them for a moment longer than usual. I instinctually leaned forward, my nose nudging hers as she let out a breath.

I let my eyes flutter closed for a moment as I whispered, "You don't know how beautiful you are, Layla."

A brief pause of silence filled the room and I prayed I hadn't pushed too far, scared that she would build her walls up around me again and trap me in my own mind. You could hear a pin drop, the tension was so thick I felt like I couldn't breathe.

Until she leaned forward, her lips brushing against mine and finally, I could breathe again.

tags:

@dsturniolo @chrisstankyleg @lov3bug @pinklittleflower @thatcrazybitch-69 @trinity2058 @alorsxsturn @ilovechrissturniolo1 @sturnfix @lilsstvrn @sturniololol @sturniolowhore @leprechaunbirthdaygirl

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[mxnsterbabe]

Male Orc/Male Reader SFW Wordcount: 4,047 Commissions | Ko-fi | Masterlist | Commission for @doomfisthero

You've only just started work at Ink Envy, but the gorgeous orc receptionist has caught your eye. When he asks you to tattoo him, things go even better than you could have imagined.

You arrived at Ink Envy on a brisk morning, the kind where your breath formed clouds in the air, mingling with the faint buzz of the city waking up. The shop front was beautiful with its bold, gothic lettering and windows adorned with intricate flowering designs. Your heart thrummed with nerves; this was the beginning of… well, you’re whole career.

Pushing open the door, the chime above announced your entrance, slicing through the hum of anticipation that filled your chest. The walls were decked in a myriad of designs, from the delicate to the daring. Your eyes, however, were drawn to the figure behind the reception desk.

The receptionist stood there, an imposing presence with his broad shoulders and long, messy black hair. Two enormous tusks jutted from his lower jaw. Yet, it was the warmth in his eyes, a soft, mossy green that truly caught your attention. He looked up from his paperwork, a hint of surprise in his expression before it melted into a welcoming smile.

"Morning," he greeted, his voice deep and resonant, the sort that filled the space and made you feel oddly at home. "You must be the new artist. Andromeda mentioned someone was starting today, but she's not in until the afternoon. I'm Ceth, receptionist and piercer."

A flicker of confusion crossed your mind, realising the slight mix-up, but Ceth's calm demeanor eased your worries. He rounded the desk, his movements surprisingly graceful for his size, and gestured for you to follow him.

"Let me show you to your space," he said, leading you through the parlour, past stations that showcased an array of artistic talent. 

Your station was a cosy nook by a large window, blinds half closed to offer ample natural light that danced across the clean, inviting setup. 

“Need help setting up?” Ceth asked, and his dark eyes sparkled. 

There was a lump in your throat as you stammered to reply, “s-sure, sounds great. Thanks.”

He grinned wide, and it lit up his entire face so beautifully. Your cheeks warmed at the thought. First day, and you were already flushed scarlet?

As Ceth helped you set up your station, though, his calmness soothed your jittering nerves. Every time he passed you something, his fingers brushed against yours, sending a tiny thrill through you. It was surprising, this little spark, but not unwelcome.

He adjusted the lamp for you, making sure the light was just right. "Good lighting's crucial," he said, his deep voice making the words feel more like a promise. “Though I’m no tattoo artist myself.”

The light fell across his face, and showed off off the maze of tattoos that wrapped around his arms and peeked from under his shirt. They were a mix of the old, the kind of designs you'd imagine on ancient orc warriors, and the new, with some twists that felt modern and bold.

Ceth noticed you staring and gave a small, proud smile. "Each one's got its own story," he shared, pointing to a thick band of ink on his arm. "This one's for strength," he explained. It felt intimate, him sharing these bits of his life with you, like he was letting you in on secret chapters of his story.

“And this one?” you asked. In a sudden rush of boldness, you reached out to trace a thick, curving line that vanished around the back of his neck.

Ceth hummed, and the vibration went right through your arm and all the way to your chest in a delightful shiver.

“That one’s for love.”

Your mood dropped. Of course somebody so handsome was already taken.

Maybe he sensed it, too, because his enormous hand skimmed across yours, the warmth of him seeping into you. “I’m not married or anything,” he said gruffly, “it’s more like… the idea of love. Us orcs can be romantic.”

You snorted in disbelief, but his gaze had captured yours.

“Some of us anyway,” Ceth corrected. “Anyway,  do you need a hand with anything else?" 

You swallowed thickly, hating how your whole body tingled with such a simple touch. "Just this last bit," you said, pointing to a tricky piece of equipment and trying not to think about his hand on yours.

With the last piece of equipment finally in place, thanks to Ceth's steady hands, you took a step back to admire your new station. It was more than just a workspace; it felt like a small piece of you, a little piece of Ink Envy that belonged to you.

Just as you were soaking in the moment, the entrance door chimed, heralding Andromeda's arrival. She was a vision, her tall and curvy frame accentuated by a vintage fifties dress that hugged her in all the right places. You weren’t into women, but between her and Ceth’s rippling muscles, it was easy to imagine why they were both so popular. 

The single eye in the middle of her forehead sparkled with a mischievous glint as she stepped into the tattoo room and saw you standing there.

"Making yourself at home, I see," she teased, her voice rich and full of warmth. Her gaze shifted between you and Ceth, a playful smirk curling her lips. "It looks like you've already taken a liking to Ceth. Can't say I blame you; he's one of our best."

You felt a flush of warmth at her words, glancing at Ceth to find a hint of a blush on his cheeks too.

“Come off it Andromeda,” Ceth scolded. There was warmth in his eyes despite his rough voice.

Andromeda, ever the gracious host, didn't dwell on the moment. She clapped her hands together, her single eye gleaming with excitement. "Right, let's give you a quick refresher before we open up. I know we did the grand tour last week, but it never hurts to double-check.”

You smiled. “Sure.” 

“You’re not really an apprentice, just new to Ink Envy, but I’d like you to check in with me at the end of each day for a little bit. Any problems or questions, come right over to me. While you’re waiting on the clients coming in, work on your portfolio a bit, shadow some of the other artists if you want some inspiration."

She whisked you around the parlour, her energy infectious. Despite having seen it all before, her enthusiasm made everything feel new and exciting again. Andromeda's pride in Ink Envy was palpable, from the carefully curated art on the walls to the spotless workstations, each reflecting the unique spirit of the artist who occupied it.

As the tour wrapped up, Andromeda leaned in, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "You don't have any bookings yet, but the buzz is already building. People are curious about the new talent we've snagged. Give it a bit of time, and you'll be as in-demand as the rest of us."

Her confidence was reassuring. With a final, encouraging pat on your shoulder, she sauntered off to attend to her own preparations, leaving you with a sense of anticipation for what the day might bring.

Ceth, who had been a quiet presence during Andromeda's whirlwind tour, now turned to you with a soft smile. "Looks like you're all set. If you need anything, though, I'm right up front."

There was something in the way he said it that made you believe he truly meant it. It wasn't just about being colleagues; there was a genuine offer of support there, a foundation for something more.

As the first customers began to trickle in, curiosity alight in their eyes as they glanced your way, you felt a surge of gratitude for the warm welcome you'd received. Ink Envy was more than just a tattoo parlour; it was a community, a family of sorts, and you were starting to feel like you belonged.

As the day unfolded, Ink Envy became a hive of activity, the air thick with the buzz of machines and the murmur of voices. Customers filtered in and out, their eyes bright with the anticipation of new ink. You found yourself swept up in the energy, fielding inquiries with a growing confidence that surprised even you. By midday, you had your first two bookings—a collection of small, intricate designs and a sprawling back piece.

In the lulls between consultations, you sketched up ideas, your mind whirring with creativity. The vibrant, geometric patterns flowed from your pen, and you wondered if you could ask to put a piece of your own on the wall. You were so engrossed in your work that you didn't notice Ceth approach until he was right beside you.

"That's quite something," he remarked, his voice tinged with intrigue as he peered over your shoulder at the designs spread out before you. His proximity sent a subtle shiver down your spine, the warmth of him so close - but never quite touching.

"Thanks," you replied, trying to keep your voice steady despite the fluttering in your chest. "It's a bit different from the usual stuff here."

Ceth hummed in agreement, his gaze still fixed on your sketches. "It's nothing like any of my tattoos, but... I like it. A lot, actually." There was a pause, a moment charged with something unspoken before he added, "Would you design one for me? Something in your style?"

The request took you aback, a mix of honour and excitement bubbling up inside you. "I'd love to, Ceth. Do you have anything in mind?"

His response was a thoughtful look, his eyes scanning the sketches before settling back on you. "I trust your vision. Maybe something in blue."

The thought of leaving your mark on him, in the form of a tattoo, felt intimate, a tangible sign of the attraction that had been simmering between you all day.

"You sure you're ready for something this bold?" you teased, gesturing to the most vibrant of your sketches.

Ceth's reply was a grin, his confidence unwavering. "I think I can handle it. Besides, it's not every day I find an artist who can make me see colours quite like you do."

Despite his usually reserved nature, Ceth seemed to find comfort in your presence, allowing his words to carry a lighter, more teasing edge. "You know," he mused, leaning casually against the edge of your station, "I never took myself for someone who'd go for something so... vivid. There's a first time for everything, especially when the artist has such... compelling persuasion."

His words caught you off guard, leaving you momentarily lost for words. The way he held your gaze, a soft challenge in his eyes, made your heart skip a beat. Yet, before you could muster a response, he was called away to the reception desk, his duty pulling him back to the front of the shop.

You found yourself watching him as he moved, the ease with which he interacted with clients and managed the bustling front desk a testament to his skill and dedication. Even from a distance, you could see the way his presence put people at ease, his quiet confidence a steady anchor in the lively environment of the parlour.

As the last rays of sunlight faded, marking the end of your first day, you turned your attention back to the design you'd been sketching for Ceth. The lines flowed freely, inspired by the interplay of light and shadow, and the vibrant, geometric patterns took on a life of their own under your pen.

When Ceth returned, his shift at the reception desk over, you presented the design with a mix of excitement and nervous anticipation. His reaction, however, was nothing short of admiring, his praise genuine and effusive. "This is incredible," he said, his voice carrying a warmth that seemed to colour his words with a deeper meaning. "I can't believe you came up with something this perfect so quickly."

Those words sent a rush of warmth to your cheeks, the flattery leaving you flustered yet elated. The connection between you, already sparking with potential, seemed to deepen in that moment, the shared excitement over the design a bridge between your worlds.

"We should set a date for this," Ceth suggested, his gaze lingering on the sketch before meeting yours again. "I can't wait to see this come to life."

The realisation that Ceth would be your first client brought with it a surge of both pride and nerves. To mark his skin with your art, to leave a piece of yourself with him, felt like an intimate exchange, one that transcended the usual artist-client relationship.

As you agreed on a date, the significance of the moment wasn't lost on you. The third of February - Ceth would be your first proper client.

***

Over the next few days, the rhythm of life at Ink Envy became more familiar, and you settled into routine. Clients came and went, and the designs you had to prepare began stacking up. Your portfolio of sketches grew, vibrant geometric patterns mingling with the softer, more organic designs requested by your clients.

Yet despite how busy you were, your thoughts often drifted to Ceth. You'd catch glimpses of him throughout the day, his presence a constant in the back of your mind. Whether he was greeting clients with his quiet confidence or organising the front desk, you found your gaze lingering a moment too long, a distraction that was both welcome and unnerving.

His laughter, rare but rich, would send a warmth cascading through you, and the briefest touch—a brush of hands as you passed him a pen or the momentary press of shoulders as you navigated the busy space—left a lingering heat on your skin.

Finally, the day arrived for Ceth's tattoo, a day that had been marked on your calendar since the first day. As you prepared your station, the usual calm that accompanied your routine was tinged with an electric charge, the air around you thick with the weight of the moment.

When Ceth approached, you smiled. “Come on over,” you chirped, “I’ve got the stencil ready and everything is good to go.”

Ceth’s smile brought a familiar flicker rising inside of you. He sat down heavily, broad body making the chair creak.

You grinned, holding out the stencil. “You’ll, uh, need to remove your shirt. We decided on the ribs, right?”

“Mm,” Ceth hummed. “It’s one of the few spots I still haven’t been inked yet.”

You took a moment to mentally prepare yourself, focusing on the stencil in your gloved hand instead of the way Ceth’s massive body shifted, so close your knees almost touched. “All right,” you said finally, “take it off, then.”

The moment Ceth removed his shirt to allow for the stencil application, the air in the room seemed to shift. The expanse of his skin, already marked with dozens of sprawling tattoos, now laid bare before you, sent a flush of heat to your cheeks. The sight of him stirred something deep within you, a flicker of something you couldn’t place.

Carefully, you positioned the stencil, your fingers brushing against the warmth of his skin. Ceth's steady breathing, the rise and fall of his bare torso beneath your hands, was a grounding rhythm in the charged silence of the room.

The buzz of the tattoo machine filled the space between you and Ceth. As you began, the needle dancing across the stencil, Ceth's composure remained unflinching. It was impressive, really, how he stayed so stoic.

"Doesn't that hurt?" you ventured, breaking the silence, your focus unwavering from the task at hand. You thought of your own multiple tattoos, years and years of work, and how even you had flinched once or twice in the past.

Ceth chuckled, a low sound that seemed to vibrate through the room. "I've had worse scrapes from a day in the garden," he quipped, his tone light. "Your hand is steady. It's comforting, in a way."

“You garden?” you asked without thinking. 

When you paused to glance up at Ceth, he was smiling amiably. “Sure, sometimes. I’m no landscaper, but I’m good with a shovel and a watering can.”

It was easy to picture him, massive shoulders straining a tight t-shirt, dusted with dirt as he worked the garden. Or did he work without any shirt on at all? You had to steady your hand at the thought, suddenly flustered.

Thankfully, Ceth broke through your thoughts before you could embarrass yourself. "So, do all your clients get this level of service, or am I just special?" he teased, a hint of a smile in his voice, even as he remained perfectly still under your hand.

"You might just be topping the charts," you admitted, the words slipping out before you could stop them.

The hours slipped by, marked not by the clock but by the progress of ink on skin, the design coming to life with each stroke. Ceth's resilience was impressive; he hardly seemed to notice the discomfort, his attention instead caught up in the exchange between you.

Yet, as the tattoo neared completion, the air between you grew charged. You had to lean right over him to finish the last dots of colour, free hand pulling the thick muscles taught. The proximity, the intimate touch necessary for the art, seemed to amplify everything and it left you sweating nervously.

Finally, you reached a natural pause, the majority of the design laid down in bold, vibrant lines against Ceth's skin. You found yourself hesitating, staring at the tattoo to avoid meeting his gaze.

"Maybe we should take a break," you suggested, your voice steadier than you felt. The words were an excuse, a chance to step back and breathe, to regain some semblance of control over the racing of your heart.

Ceth agreed, a knowing look in his eyes as he rose from the chair. The break was necessary, a brief respite from… whatever was going on between you.

As you stepped away to gather your thoughts, the reality of it all finally settled in.

Taking a moment for yourself, you stepped into the back room, the cool air a sharp contrast to the warmth of the tattoo room. The buzz of the tattoo machines faded into a distant hum, allowing you a moment of quiet to collect your thoughts.

When you returned, something in the air had shifted. Ceth was waiting, his usual composed self, yet there was a tension in his posture, a hesitancy that you hadn't seen before. His eyes met yours, and there was something there, a warmth, that made your stomach flip.

The room seemed to grow smaller around you. The gentle hum of the place faded into the background, the world narrowing down to just the two of you.

Ceth broke the silence, his voice low, each word measured. "There's something I need to say," he began, the words hanging between you, heavy.

The anticipation was a tangible thing, a thread pulled taut, ready to snap. You found yourself holding your breath, waiting for him to continue, the air between you thick with the unsaid.

Words failed him, and in a moment that seemed to suspend time, Ceth stepped closer. The space between you evaporated, and with a gentle certainty, he kissed you.

You felt a rush of warmth and softness as his lips crushed yours. The world tilted slightly, and in that instant, everything else fell away, leaving only the sensation of his insistent lips on yours, the sweet musk of his cologne, the tickle of his tusks as Ceth drew you ever closer.

Your initial shock melted into the kiss, a soft sigh escaping you as you leaned into the moment, head whirling. Ceth's hands found their way to your waist, grounding you, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened, the world outside the embrace fading to a distant murmur.

When you finally parted, the world came rushing back, the sounds of the parlour returning to fill the silence. You flushed, remembering that there was only a thin curtain between you and the rest of the shop. 

In the aftermath of the kiss, a silence enveloped the room. Not awkward, but heavy with the significance of… everything. Ceth was the first to break it, his voice softer than usua;. "I don't usually do things like this," he confessed, his gaze locked with yours, searching, as if trying to gauge your reaction.

For a brief, heart-stopping moment, fear prickled at the edges of your mind, the worry that maybe this moment, this connection, was something he regretted.

Then Ceth continued, his voice firmer, laced with a conviction that chased away any doubts. "Kissing you? That might just be the best decision I've ever made."

The honesty in his words, the open admission, brought a warmth that flooded through you, chasing away the last remnants of uncertainty. 

"I asked for the tattoo because I wanted to get closer to you," he admitted, a shy smile playing at the corners of his mouth.. "Seems like it worked better than I hoped."

The confession drew a laugh from you, a sound of pure joy that filled the room. 

Leaning in, Ceth captured your lips in another kiss, this one softer, his tusks barely brushing across your lips, feather-light. Even that was enough to make you sigh, melting against him.

As you pulled away, the reality of the situation settled back in, the reminder of the unfinished tattoo rushing back to you. 

"We should probably finish the tattoo," you murmured. “tt's not good to leave it exposed for too long."

Ceth's chuckle was warm, his gaze softening with affection. "Your concern is sweet," he said, his hand reaching out to gently brush against yours.. "Let's finish it then. Maybe after, we could go for dinner?”

The invitation was unexpected but immensely welcome, stirring a flurry of excitement within you. "I'd like that," you replied, your voice carrying a hint of eagerness you couldn't quite mask. The prospect of spending more time with Ceth, outside the walls of Ink Envy, made you shiver in anticipation.

As you slipped on a fresh pair of gloves and prepared to resume your work, the atmosphere between you shifted. There was a lightness now, a sense of openness that hadn't been there before. Despite the nerves fluttering in your stomach, your hands remained steady.

"I can't believe we're doing this," Ceth said, a note of wonder in his voice that mirrored your own feelings. "Can’t say I’ve ever gotten myself a date this way before."

"It's not the most conventional start, I'll give you that," you admitted, the needle buzzing as you resumed your work. The lines flowed smoothly, the design coming to life under your careful touch. "I'm not complaining."

"Neither am I," Ceth replied, his voice steady despite the sensation of the tattoo.

As you worked, your mind buzzed. The excitement of seeing the tattoo completed, of witnessing your art permanently etched onto Ceth's skin, was thrilling. Yet, it was the anticipation of dinner that really had you on edge.

"Any preferences for dinner?" you asked, glancing up to meet his dark gaze.

Ceth considered for a moment, his expression thoughtful. "Surprise me. You seem to be good at that."

You hummed in agreement, smiling to yourself.

It wasn’t long before you were finishing up, thoughts of dinner still on your mind. As the final lines of the tattoo were laid down, a sense of accomplishment washed over you. It was beautiful - a splash of colour amongst Ceth’s otherwise heavy, black tattoos.

"There," you announced, a smile tugging at your lips as you wiped away the last of the ink. "All done."

Ceth rose, examining the tattoo with a mix of admiration and awe. "It's perfect," he said, and there was something wistful in his voice.

Ceth barely gave you time to wrap the tattoo before his hand found yours, an electric spark running through you at the touch. He pulled you gently into an embrace, his strength enveloping you in a comfort that felt like coming home. ns.

Breaking away, he whispered, a mischievous glint in his eye, "Dinner's just the beginning, you know. I've got plans for dessert."

His tone sent a shiver down your spine. How could you say no to that?

#exophilia fiction #exophilia #monster boyfriend #monster romance #monster x reader #tag: mxm #tag: male reader #tag: #tag: male monster #tag: orc #tag: sfw

[athanasius-symposium-of-writings]

Hello I know you just wrote for D.M. but can I request ❛ you're mine. you've always been mine. ❜ with D.M. too? Maybe the reader is his ex gf who left him cos she realized that he was a red flag

Thank you and sorry if my English isn't that good! Have a nice day/night!

Your english is fine no worries! Hope you enjoy this i based is lot on Sherlock Holmes lol

Rated Mature (to be safe) | Warning: possessive behavior, kidnapping, reader is done lol

Send a line

The end of engagements is not uncommon, it is something that happens in the search for the soul mate. It will hurt, it will take time. Yet telling the bastard D.M. to acknowledge you are no longer accessible to him or how the engagement ring is returned to him with a letter telling in long-winded words you no longer want to see him.

Well, he is delusional at first believing you simply needed space. You need to reflect and realize how good you have it with him. He gave you a week. Then another week, he was busy. Then another week due to once again, he after all, masterfully artfully creating schemes. When a month passed, he sent you a letter. There was no reply, in fact, the letter he sent was returned to him.

You moved. You moved. You moved.

Désire Mélodis never had someone leave him. He has broken many hearts of both genders, but when he read your letter— Actually read it, he saw the seriousness of your words. You rejected him, you gave up on a comfortable life with him… Are you stupid!?

The man’s rage is cold, he simply burned your letter before going to the desk where he has a poster of you from your performance here long before he approached you.

How ungrateful are you? The nonsense you wrote him is just that: Nonsense! The lord professor is the most desirable man you will ever meet! To have caught his eye means you should be grateful! Along with feeling special. He scoffs before laughing hysterically.

“Mon amour,” His finger tracing the jaw of your picture, “Enjoy your time away from your cage.” A dastardly smirk on his face, “For once I find you: I will clip your wings.”

You should have known sooner or later your former love would come back in a blaze of glory. All you could do is just prepare for that, mentally. You sigh the second you see Lady Truth, Mr. Inference, and Mr. White entered the theater and sat in the back. Oh, lovely.

Not even the first bloody act the stage is on fire and there is a villain who shows up by crashing from the ceiling. 

You are not even going to try to figure out how the man survived falling from that height to the stage.

There in the spotlight, there you stand wearing red, there the most dramatic moment happens before your eyes.

“You crazy son of a bitch!”

Is he serious? Is he serious about showing up like this?! In a dashing white suit with a top hair and cape, he appears, the curtain falls behind you, and he snatches you as if you magically weigh nothing. What madness! Wait, the man is too tall, and the long claws are not D.M.’s style.

“Tuberose put me down right now— Aaaaaa!!” Screaming as the terrifyingly tall man steals you away as the fire starts to consume the stage. Pointing at the place where he fell from, he points and launches the hook before sending you both flying through the air. The hook to pulling you both out of the theater.

“Please stop kicking me.” Once on the rooftop, he tosses you over his shoulder.

“Maybe I will stop kicking if you put me down!” You are beyond pissed. Honestly, you know D.M. is dramatic but burning down the opera theater, dramatic speech by his assistant, and what the hell is this get-up he put on Tuberose? “This suit is ugly by the way!”

“His request.”

You roll your eyes as you are forced to endure being chased after from rooftop to rooftop. “If you turn left at the next street you can lose them in the alley.”

“Thank you.”

“Uh-huh.” Bored. This is honestly why you ended the engagement! The drama was ridiculous, not to mention how you felt like you were competing for your ex-fiance's attention. “How is he?”

“Colder.”

“I see… I missed you guys.”

The assistant, you know you do not if Tuberose is an assistant, puts you down when close is clear.

“Are you going to change?” Watching him undress, “Oh your hair is messy.” As he changes, you fix his hair. “There.” Smiling then pouting when he puts on his fedora. He gives you his shawl to keep you warm given what you are wearing is a red costume for your part.

“Welcome home, mon petit gâteau.” Open arms as you are brought to his manor. His smile is fake, the foyer looks nice still, oh, you noticed a new maid.

“Hm,” Looking around. Nothing changed. Guess you shouldn't be surprised, you only left two or three months ago.

It took a bit of walking to the rendezvous point where Gatto sat in the automotive waiting. The drive was unbearable, you only compiled because you care for the safety of these two over your own.

Plus, D.M. would never hurt you… You hope.

“Sir, I know you understand this is kidnapping.” Crossing your arms after giving back Tuberose his shawl before that adds to this long overdue argument. “What were you thinking doing that!? Couldn't you have waited until I was home!?”

“Dear, you were merely a distraction to my true objective.”

“Ah, using me again. You never change.” Throwing your hands up in the air, “Did you at least have something made before stealing me away?”

“Dinner is prepared for us, my love. Your favorites.” Bowing as if so pleased with himself because he is, he thought of everything.

“And this is going to be civil?”

“As civil as you remain.”

And so you take his hand as he leads to the prepared dining room, alone. Alone with him.

Into the belly of the beast moment.

“Same chef?” You finished dinner, now having a shared dessert with D.M. beside you. It has been civil, a few quips or sarcastic remarks, for the most nothing argumentative. Yet.

“You said you like the way she makes the velvet cake.”

“And I told you she needed to be given time off to see her son.” Eating a spoonful of cake, “Did you?”

“Of course.” His foot rubs against your calf under the table.

“Désire.”

“I have missed you a great deal.” The lord's free hand touching yours, “We could have talked about this.”

“There was nothing to talk about, Désire.” Slipping your hand away to take a sip of the wine you have been nursing throughout dinner. Must be from his personal collection. “You have your pursues, I have my wants.” Speaking with some liquid courage in you.

“And your wants are for me to fulfill, (Name). Anything you desire and I can grant you it.”

“Do you love me?” Serious as you put the spoon down and lean on the table.

“Of course.”

“You say that but not once did you say it!” Annoyed, “I had to hope you loved me. But it seemed you loved playing games with those detectives over our relationship!”

Then you started yelling, tears ruining your simple stage makeup. God, doing this with a costume on makes this so ridiculous!

The former key to your heart is prepared, you know for he is sounding a lot calmer than you are as emotions flare out. The lord professor, son of a bitch, always so perfect; the Creme De La Creme of society, when your engagement ended— When you ended it, they blamed you. Because Désire Mélodis could do no wrong!

“(Name),” When he stands, you turn in your seat about to follow to stand your ground but when he goes on one knee, reaching into his pocket to pull out the ring, the engagement ring you sent back to him, you stop. “You're mine.” Sometimes it frightens you how sure he sounds. How can this man say without a shadow of a doubt that you are his? “You've always been mine.” The pain of that truth is you have yet to look for another. Oh, and there are suitors who have tried to do the song and dance, none have swept you off your feet like this bastard has.

“You can’t own me.” The wine hits you, “You don’t own me.” He chuckles at those words for it is the last thing you say before he kisses you. The sort of kiss he would give when you are mad at him, the sort that makes you dizzy and cling to his jacket pulling him closer. His finger outlines your jaw down to your throat, his lips leave yours as much as would enjoy staying there…

He is sweet, the sweet that makes you cry more, his arms the safest place you have ever been, and you let him slip the ring back to its rightful place.

The gentleman that he is, painfully at times, he does not take you on the dining table though you hint for him to do it. Instead, he takes you to the guest room (prepared beforehand) to sleep off the wine you drank (he knew to give you more than himself, snake).

In the morning, you will be upset. The lord likes that fire about you, keeps him entertained.

#reader insert #idv #anon ask #idv photographer #photographer x reader #identity v x reader #identity v #identity v x you #identity v photographer #identity v joseph #idv joseph #idv joseph x reader #idv x reader #joseph desaulnier #joseph desaulnier x reader

[slocumjoe]

companions react to sole going missing

I've gotten quite a few asks about various circumstances leading to sole going missing, and I've really been trying to figure out how to write this beyond "they panic" 12 times, so...this is a lot more "how do they find sole" than anything else 🤸‍♂️

Cait; Cait is so pessimistic and naturally anxious, she's doesn't realize she's right, when she makes a barb about Sole getting eaten, or getting kidnapped, or maybe tripping and drowning in a puddle. Cait isn't surprised when it starts looking like that something really is up, but fuck if she doesn't freak out. Gets her weapons, gets her armor, and is out the door with no real plan, no direction, no goal. Has to be grabbed before she can set out and just get herself in trouble too. Cait isn't going to be any use in finding Sole, but if Sole's being held by people...that's when you play this particular card.

Codsworth; He's used to Sole being gone for long stretches of time with no word. He's not just the last to panic, he's the last to panic because he's the last person to realize oh shit, this is different. Once that can opens...have you ever seen a Mr. Handy freak out? Those saws and flamethrowers are dangerous to be around. Codsworth has some combat potential, yes, but he isn't meant for that, not at all. He's joining the search party, obviously, but he's not much help if there isn't people to set on fire.

Curie; She's the more optimistic sort, so one of the last to worry. Curie gets nervous when everyone else is nervous, even the most pragmatic of them. If Nick or Piper think something is wrong, something is wrong. Curie, having been a Ms. Nanny, had a database of the geography and cityscapes of Massachusetts, for scientific purposes. That database is now a memory, and now a little foggy, but Curie's a walking GPS, otherwise. For this reason, ends up going with Nick, helping him get around Boston, Cambridge, wherever. If Dogmeat is for tracking a scent, Curie is for directions.

Danse; Sole is not allowed to leave without an estimated return date. You cannot leave Danse's sight without telling him it'll take me this many days to get there, and this many to get back. So, once Sole is not back by the return date, Danse is in the power armor and going after their corpse, assuming them dead. Mostly to mentally prepare himself for them actually being dead. Unlike Cait, Danse goes on his own with an itinerary. He checks possible campsites, checks in with anyone he finds on the road...the line from A, to B, to C, whereever Sole went, Danse traces where they should or could have been. He ends up running into the others this way, and from there, it's just a matter of time. Once they're back...oh man. The earful. The scolding. The lecture. It's a force of nature, how upset this man is. If Sole vanished themselves? You could use the anger to power the Prydwen.

Deacon; keeps a tab on Sole at all times through the Railroad, so once a letter comes in, hey, lost track of them, will update once I find them again, and that next letter comes as still no sign, Deacon is off. Doesn't say anything to the others, just vanishes as he does usually. Sole is either pulling a him, or someone's got their mitts on them. Both are bad. So Deacon checks in at HQ. No one's seen them. They were last seen here. This was the last person they talked to. Nothing else? Fine. He checks the safehouses. He checks anywhere Sole has mentioned as a camp or hideaway. Deacon, here, his use comes in the form of elimination of information. They would have done this if X was true, they would have gone here if Y happened. He narrows it down until the trail leads right to Sole.

Gage; You get old enough, in his work, you start to just know when someone's gotten into some shit. One of the first ones to wake up one day and go "Keep your gun close, feel like we're gonna have to set off here soon." So, first to intuit that something is up, but not the first to freak out. There's a difference. Gage doesn't worry right away, he worries when it's getting clearer that something is up. Even then, he doesn't panic. Sole was an important person—any raider gang that nabbed them, one of their mooks almost certainly went bragging. Raiders always brag about a good score. Just needs to hit up one or two unsavory bars, see who's drafting a ransom with their buddies over beer. Despite his protests, Piper and MacCready tag along with him. This turns into Uncle Gage's No Good, Awful, Very Bad Investigative Babysitting Adventure and he hates every minute of it.

Hancock; second to last to realize what's up. Hancock himself is prone to wandering off, chasing a flight of fancy, just getting bored and doing other shit. So, he assumes Sole is doing the same. Maybe something else came up, maybe they're just taking it easy. It's Sole. They're smart and a badass, they're fine. He'll join up with the others, ask around with his people in Goodneighbor once the others start worrying, in hopes of calming their nerves. Take a breather, man, lemme ask Ham if they ever stopped by. Hey, Ham, did Sole ever...wait...those guys? And Sole? ...Ah, shit. If anyone can get the most intimate info on why or how Sole is missing, it's Hancock. And the why and how is a good way to learn the where.

MacCready; An anxious person, MacCready starts worrying when the day they should have come back passes, and then another passes, and then another. He checks with travelers coming from wherever, and if there was no weather or any other obstacle, MacCready knows right then, Sole's in a bad situation. He's shaky and a little pale the whole time, but he sticks with Piper, backs her up as she pries info out of anyone who's got it. Every day Sole is missing, kicks himself for not going, or not demanding Sole take him, if told to stay behind. Once they team up with Gage (ei, follow him around like ducklings, since he knows more places to look), starts questioning the sanity of Sole and their whole posse a lot more than he used to. Wonders if his life now counts as a horrific comedy once the investigation leads them to a drag race for the undead.

Nick; Being the detective who's been around this particular block a few times...he's be the one to realize when, truly, Sole was missing, rather than unaccounted for. There are certain tells and traits of a case that will hint if someone is okay, just doing their own thing, or if they're in trouble. Once Sole starts looking like the latter, Nick wastes no time going on the hunt. First things first, where were they headed, what were they planning on doing? Then it's off to witnesses. Where were they last seen? Sole's tough, and Sole is far more valuable as a hostage than some raider gang's dinner. It's likely they're alive, but the longer you go, the lower that chance gets. If anyone finds them, it'll have been in large part due to Nick's methodical work.

Piper; If Sole vanished intentionally, Piper picked up on their sneakiness before they left. If that's the case, it's not long at all before Piper ferrets out their location, their plan, because she's started unraveling it all before they were even out the door. If Sole's disappearance wasn't self-inflicted...the indomitable Piper Wright's gonna sweat on this one. Where Nick had the idea of investigating Sole, Piper goes after culprits, people who may have wanted them dead or alive. She gets into the bowels of the Commonwealth, and even if she has MacCready to help her shoot her way out, she's glad to run into Gage at some point. He's a bastard, but you share a goal with that cyclops, and he's a very useful ally. Even if he bitches every time Piper asks too prodding a question and starts a bar fight. C'mon, she was just curious about their make-up...

Preston; is the one who's Freaking The Fuck Out. That's his GENERAL, you know what happened the last time his general died? EVERYONE DIED. EVERYONE. Preston gets on the radio and calls all hands on deck, tear the Commonwealth apart if you have to. This period of time becomes a thing of legend for raiders everywhere, because one day, that bumfuck militia raided them, camps and hideouts all over swarmed and seiged by Minutemen looking for their boss. Preston's running around the Commonwealth with a team of Minutemen soldiers, using numbers and some careful brute force instead of precision investigation. To Preston, they don't have time to methodically pick apart the story, they need Sole back now. Once Sole is found, Preston wrestles with the fact that he...may have gone a little overkill...

X6-88; If the Institute is still standing, checks in with the Commonwealth surveillance officers, and reports that data to Nick. He doesn't want to work with Nick, but he is a detective. And Sole is his Director. X6 isn't risking anything, here. If the Institute is kaput, X6-88 goes off on his own, uses his courser skills to hunt down Sole himself. When the others find Sole, he also finds them, just, like, through a different door. They have one way of finding Sole and getting to them, X6 finds another. Danse tracked them via their campsites? X6 tracked them via the movements of startled radstag herds. Nick went after witness testimony? X6 went digging through corpses to find their spent ammunition. Piper and Gage looked for claims of having them hostage? X6 looked for raider gangs who ceased all activity. X6 finds them in such clear, laser-focused way it's both comforting and terrifying. Like...it's great and cool you know that, but oh my God, I'm glad you weren't trying to kill me.

#fallout 4 #fo4 #paladin danse #preston garvey #nick valentine #piper wright #robert joseph maccready #x6-88 #companions react #Codsworth #porter gage

[kingofthe-egirls]

LUFFY ANGST

(luffy rejects you, ur sad, sanji sorta comforts you)

“Nope!” Luffy smiles as he rejects your sexual advances. He’s sitting on a crate, kicking his legs against the sides so his heels banged on the wood. There’s printed blue text that says “FRAGILE” in all caps. His calf squishes over it as he leans back on his hands. Both his legs cover a letter each: “G” and “E.” So now it says “FRAIL.”

Go figure.

“Oh, okay.”

The words sour your taste buds like spoiled milk. He smiles, like it’s silly you even asked. He starts tilting his head to whistle a cheerful tune.

It’s so off-key.

****

So you still do your crewmate duties: mending the sails, rigging knots, climbing up the rickety ladder to stay in the crow’s nest for a chilly night’s watch. You sit with a flannel blanket around your shoulders, staring out at the midnight sea with a cup of hot chocolate in both hands.

You blow on the steam.

Someone pokes their head through the small opening: Sanji.

“Sorry, love,” He says, smiling wryly as he climbs up to sit next to you on the small wooden bench. The Going Merry is cozy, but sometimes cramped. Especially with your crush happily spacing himself away from you. It’s been a night since your confession, and his absolute rejection is still wrecking your lungs.

You take a scalding sip of molten chocolate. Sanji sighs.

“So, I heard about your loss in love,” he starts, voice gentle as he swipes his straw hair to the side. His legs stretch out in front of him, black slacks and shiny leather shoes.

There’s a scuff on the side of his left heel. You sniff.

It smells like snow.

“Sucks.”

You mutter the syllables into your drink, the “S’s” hissing through your sharp teeth. You clack them around the edge of the mug: biting down on the ceramic.

Sanji leans his steady weight into your side, his hands clasped between his knees. His fingers are slender, and strong. Frostbite nips at his dry knuckles, the redness blossoming against the cracked skin. You scowl.

“Your hands are dry,” you say, reaching out from your warm mug to softly touch the blistered skin. You stare at him, at sapphire eyes.

He has a regretful look on his face.

“Sorry,” he says, staring down at where your fingers meet his. “Nami let me use some of her hand lotion, but it’s scented so I don’t like wearing it when I cook.”

“Ah,” you say, nodding, “Makes sense.”

His fingers slowly wrap around yours. He turns your own hand over, so he can see your palm. You hold it flat for him, letting him stroke the subtle lines. His index finger traces the long streak you sport down the center. It crisscrossed several other lines, like spiderwebs or trade routes on one of Nami’s maps.

“Long life line,” he says, softly.

“Is it?” you ask, leaning sideways to stare at your own palm in his suffering hands. “What do the other lines mean?”

Sanji shakes his head, smiling conspiratorially. “No idea, sweetheart. Sorry,” he nudges your shoulder with his own. He sets your hand back against the still-steaming mug.

“I have cream,” you say, sipping your hot chocolate. “You can use it after washing your hands. It’s got aloe in it so it’s supposed to help with dry skin…,” you trail off, your own shortage of beauty knowledge showing. You shrug. “I get dry skin, too.”

“Like a dragon,” he says, flirting. You smile, despite yourself, and settle into the weight of his side. He wraps an arm around you, and you sigh.

Steam curls up around your lips.

The chocolate tastes sweet.

“Or a lizard,” you say back.

He snorts.

“Sure, lizard skin.”

“Ew,” you snicker, smiling wide for the first time this evening.

#dumpster dive #my writing #one piece fanfic #luffy fanfic #luffy angst #sanji fanfic #one piece angst

[solomiracle]

when i think of them, i think of...

inspired by this post by @shoccolatine, check it out!

LUCIFER

his smile — whether seductive, sadistic or genuine

reds, blacks/greys/whites, golds

his study — the skull on the wall, fireplace, the red velvet chair | you reading by the fireplace, enjoying the quiet crackling sounds as he works

his demon form — the red gloves, the horns, the wings, the peacock feather details on his clothes, the diamond on his forehead

his fur lined coat, his gloves, his tie

his eyes, specifically the reds at the bottom

apples, poison, fangs, blood

ghosts, grief, loss | him petting a sleeping cerberus as he sits by lilith's statue. he's silent, not wishing to disturb her

how much he loves his family — how he's willing to be a villain to anyone he feels may harm them, from you to his own father

cosmic and body horror, upside-down crosses, eyes, destroyed psyches, crackling, warped reality, the sound of bones snapping

the skeleton in his room

records, wine, comfortable silence, quiet nights

MAMMON

him laughing as he and you drive in a getaway car

his laugh, his smile, his sunglasses, his jacket

that little pose he does where his hand kinda covers his lips, usually done when he's feeling confident

his silliness — the dumb excuses for doing (or not doing) something, his even dumber schemes, running/hiding from lucifer, his tsundere-ness, how he says "yikes!"

gift boxes, jewelery, gold, silver, money (coins and paper)

casinos, the word "jackpot", poker, slot machines, cards, dealers

the casino fight scene in black panther, specifically the part where claw's hand thing shoots the cabinet and the money flies everywhere

his wings

his familiars | him petting and praising them for doing a good job, like catching stray grimm or reporting important info

him punishing people who don't pay back their debts — they find themselves in an empty street, fog rising and crows soon surrounding them

how much he respects lucifer, how he followed him into hell without question

how despite all the fighting and dumb stuff that he does with his family, he still values his role as a big brother

LEVIATHAN

this card (the pre-devil's flower)

him at his pc, laser-focused in on a game. he's glaring at the screen, fangs bared, determined to win

his room — the bathtub, the jellyfish, the aquarium, the figures, henry 2.0 in his little fish bowl

headphones, game controllers and consoles, screens, neon colors (greens, blues, purples), keyboards

anime, magical girls, figures, sparkles

his loud ass OOOOHHHHHHHHHWWOOOOOOOOAHHHHH voice line

his tsundere-ness and shyness, how he gets flustered so easily, how cute he is when he blushes, your love and affection for him being "too high level"

how he seems to have a soft spot for the twins

his demon form — the tail, the diamond pattern along his neck, his weird zipper jacket thing, his horns | (a fic i read where the author described his horns as antlers, and they headcanon-ed that they shed every season)

fish, colorful coral reefs, bright blue seas, bubbles, beaches, snakes

deep dark oceans, octopus/giant squids, sea monsters, ships, the navy, admiral uniforms, lotan

SATAN

orange cats, piano music, books, libraries, coffeeshops, soft greens and browns

him sitting in a greenhouse. sunlight filters through the glass walls and plethora of green plants. he's smiling as he reads a book, an orange cat sleeping in his lap

his professionalism — he has many connections, and he prides himself on his intelligence. "people respect someone who's well-informed."

how he's a gentleman, almost like a fairy tale prince

love and lovesickness | him writing love letters and poetry for you, a giant smile on his face as he comes up with the most beautiful words to describe you

him becoming incapable of reading love stories when you're away, for all he can think about is you while reading them. his fingers delicately trace the spines of his many romance books, but he refuses to open them. just the thought of doing so is too much to bear

his room — the beauitful shade of purple, the window, the books, the candles

fire, chaos, destruction, broken buildings and bones, screaming, rage, fangs

his eyes, a beautiful green

his demon form — the feather boa, the horns, the ribbon ribcage design on his shirt

the things that make him stand out compared to his brothers, compared to everyone — his symbolic animal is a unicorn (the only fantasy animal), his black eye shine, his butler outfit is the only one with three patches on the sleeves

his pose — one hand on his hip and the other on his chest, just like lucifer...

ASMODEUS

pinks, yellows, oranges, and more pinks

his cute smile and giggle

his demon form — the bat wings, the gradient horns, the bleeding hearts on his arm, the asymmetrical legs | (the redesigns i've seen from people where they include a scorpion tail)

scorpions, sand, heat, blood, bloodlust, hearts, gore, passion, obsession, love

diaries, glitter gel, sparkles, cute nicknames

spotlights, music, singing, stages, partying, drinking, clubs, sex

bunnies, strawberries, fluffy and fuzzy textures, fangs

his eyes | (the fics i've read where the author describes their color as champagne)

him lying in bed on his stomach, fresh out of the shower in a cute robe, slippers, and headband. he's writing in his diary, kicking his legs, smiling as he thinks about you

lipstick, blush, makeup, nail polish, influencers, devilgram, livestreams

(red) hearts, both the symbol and the organ

his positive energy — his ability to light up a room, how he wants everyone to join in and have fun, asmo nights, how he sees the beauty in everyone

how much he cares for his family — he painted their nails so everyone would know them as brothers, how he's determined to make sure satan feels included

his insecurities — he ties himself to his image and appearance, to the point that when you were the first to compliment his personality alone and not just his looks, he was surprised

how he acts like a helpless damsel in distress while also being the most viscous character

that scene in season one, where he said that if you were thinking about belphie while with him, he would rip your heart out | (it made my heart beat faster, but not out of fear)

BEELZEBUB

reds, oranges, yellows

the sun, bright blue cloudless skies

him being the cause of plagues and famines. a scene of him summoning swarms of locusts to gorge on crop fields, leaving nothing left, still unsatisfied

wheat and corn fields, apple orchards

his wings | (i saw someone describe them as fairy wings)

dense, mossy, and enchanted forests. twisting trees and twinkling fairies, mushrooms and flowers growing everywhere

bugs — bees, butterflies, flies, grasshoppers, beetles, locusts

bears, squirrels, lions, grass, honey, fluffiness, cuddling

his smile, how adorable his blush is

calling him beautiful or sweet, watching him blush in embarrassment. a big, ravenous demon turning into mush after being complimented by a human

how he loves his family more than anything — his extreme survivor's guilt over lilith, how he said he would die for lucifer, how he became enraged and even attacked lucifer once the truth about belphie's whereabouts were revealed

even with how he's a big brother to belphie, they're still twins, making him the youngest of the brothers as well — he has his own bratty behaviors, throwing tantrums, being a karen at restaurants, stealing food from levi every morning. he's the biggest brother, but he's still another baby of the family

his hair

his jacket and shirt | (they both look very comfy, and i would love to wear them)

hunger — hell's kitchen, banquets, expensive meat, clusters of grapes, plates, forks and knives

fangs, tongues, gore, cannibalism

BELPHEGOR

dark purples and blues, blacks, white accents

space — starry night skies, the moon, constellations

sleep, teddy bears, pillows, blankets, dreams, illusions, ghosts, nightmares, fear

the cow jumped over the moon nursery rhyme

cow print — it's on his pillow, his demon form's jacket, and his swimwear jacket too

his horns, which are similar to that of a dorset horn sheep

him looking down at sheep mc's bell in his hands, a solemn look in his eye. maybe mc's in the human world, or maybe it's been years after their death

regret and grief — not being able to save lilith, his love for humans turning to hatred, his fight with lucifer, the attic, lesson 16

how he and lucifer were said to be close before the attic...

beel, lilith, and love — he doesn't blame beel for saving him, and called beel an idiot for believing otherwise. he learned about the circus in the human world, and pretended to be a ringmaster while trapped in the attic. he let lucifer get rid of lilith's room, and said goodbye to her

his sarcastic and bratty little shit-ness — his "innocent" bitchass smile, his giggle, how he embodies the youngest sibling and baby of the family, the anti-lucifer league

a fanart i saw of him in his TSL outfit, the description being "the princess is locked in the tower for a reason..."

#from me #obey me #brothers #other #ensemble x mc

[iamnotoriginalphil]

Hi! I love your writing so much! Are you still taking requests?If you are, could you write one where Lesso and f!reader grew up together and were dating before Leonora was taken. And maybe having them reunite after all these years and finding that they still are in love with each other.

Here you go, Anon. I hope it was worth the wait!

“Well?”

Deauville sighed, used to your questioning. After twenty years, the charm had worn off. She hauled a box onto the counter, gesturing for you to look through it.

“Go ahead.”

You scrabbled through the book, each one meticulously checked. Hundreds of thousands of books over the years and each one was laced with disappointment. It had begun to grow crushing but you weren’t giving up. You couldn’t give up. Not yet. Not ever.

Your heart stopped.

“Oh my god,” you breathed.

With trembling hands you pulled the book from the bottom of the box. Your finger traced over the embossing, the two swans, the letters. You turned the pages of the familiar fairytale. There, in black and white, was a familiar scrawl in the margins.

“You couldn’t just tell me it was here?” you asked, looking up at her.

“That would have taken the magic out of it,” she replied, “wouldn’t it?”

You spent the rest of the day pouring over the book, doing your best to read the messy handwriting without letting your tears drip on to the pages. You couldn’t help the smile that bloomed over your face, reading her thoughts and feelings about the story. Her frustration was so palpable.

You didn’t notice when the sky began to turn red outside your window. You were so focused on the writing in the book, trying to find any hint about how life had been going for her.

Something screeched through your window. You started, head snapping up. A big clawed hand burst through the window, reaching for you. You snatched up the book, trying to smash it away but it curled its talons around you. You screamed.

And then you stopped, knowing where you must be going. Where you had to be going. There was only one place the giant skeletal bird thing could be taking you, just like it had twenty years ago.

As you circled around the school you felt your breath catch at the beauty. You’d never seen anything like it except maybe in books or in your dreams. It was like something out of a fairytale.

The bird swooped down and you let out another shriek. The darker school loomed towards you, growing closer and closer. You were swung around a tall tower before you were let go over a large body of water.

You screamed, hitting the water hard. Gasping for breath, you swum to the surface, fingers still clutching the book to keep from losing it. Striking out for the closest shore, you saw a large imposing door waiting at the top of some steps.

Trying the handle, it didn’t open. You banged your fist against the door, refusing to stop until someone answered you. If there was one thing to know about you, it was that you were stubborn. Annoyingly so.

The door was pulled open, a furry wolf head sticking out. You jerked back, keeping your yelp inside.

“Go away,” it growled.

“Not until I see Leonora,” you said, “let me in.”

“Go away,” it growled again, slamming the door in your face.

You began hammering on it again. You were this close. You weren’t about to give in now. She was just behind the door. You knew it. You could feel it. If it took all night, you’d stay there demanding to be let in, but you would be let in.

“Go away.”

You stumbled back a step, staring up into the familiar eyes of your long lost love. Leonora’s eyes widened, sweeping over you, pink lips falling open.

“Nora,” you breathed

You flung yourself at her, needing to know it was real, that she was really there. A hand to your chest shoved you back, sending you crashing to the ground. It took a moment for your brain to figure out what had happened and when it did you stared up at her, eyes widening and mouth falling open.

“Who are you?”

The end of a cane slammed into your chest, keeping you pinned to the cold stone. You shivered, your wet clothes clinging to you uncomfortably, the chill in the air making you feel your body temperature drop.

“Nora, it’s me,” you said, “you know me.”

“I don’t know you,” she snarled.

“From back home,” you whimpered, “from Gavaldon.”

“I know who you’re pretending to be. Now tell me who you really are,” she demanded.

“It’s me,” you said again, “I promise.”

“It can’t be.” She shoved her cane into your chest again, hard enough to leave a bruise. You made another small noise, tears springing into your eyes.

“Please,” you said, “Nora, please.”

Her eyes swept over you and you could see the cogs in her brain begin to work. So familiar, the same as they’d done when you were still just kids. She looked so achingly similar. You could see your Nora there.

“How’d you find me?” she eventually asked.

“I found your book at Deauville’s,” you said, holding it up,” it has the embossing and your handwriting all through it.”

She snatched it out of your hands, flipping open the wet pages. They clung to one another and the ink was running but you could see when her eyes widened. She looked up at you then back at the book. Hope filled your chest.

Your name was like a drop of sugar on her tongue, sweet and desirable. Her cane clattered from her hand and she was hauling you to your feet, into her arms, the chill forgotten. It was the same and yet different, the feel of her against you. You’d both changed enough over the years for it to be exciting.

You clutched at her, not sure you were ever going to let her go again. You couldn’t trust that she wouldn’t disappear, like trying to hold on to smoke. She pushed you back, just a step, eyes travelling over you again.

“How did you get here?” she asked.

“A big bird thing. The sky turned red, just like when you were taken. I knew it would bring me to you,” you said, “Nora, I’ve been looking for a way to you since the day you left.”

“You have?” You weren’t sure what the emotion in her voice was, confusion mixed with disbelief mixed with something else.

“I couldn’t just let you go,” you said, “I love you.”

“Still?”

“Always.”

You shook your head. She’d once believed your love was forever. What had happened in the last twenty years to make that belief disappear? Had she not realised that you would keep fighting to find her every day of your life?

“You don’t even know me anymore,” she said with a shake of her own head.

“I don’t care,” you replied, “you’re still you.”

“I’ve changed.”

She took a step back and you stumbled forward, grasping at her hand, refusing to let her go a second time. You couldn’t. You’d never let her go again.

“Then I’d like the chance to get to know you now,” you said, “I’m afraid I haven’t changed that much but maybe this new you will still like me.”

“Surely you have a husband and children you should be with instead of me,” she said, turning away, but you saw the flash of longing on her face.

“There is no husband. No children,” you said, “there was never anyone but you.”

“No one?” she asked, and most wouldn’t have heard the hope in her voice but you knew her better than you knew yourself.

“No one,” you confirmed.

She continued staring over your shoulder, out at the water and the other school. You took the time to look her over. Time had been kind to her, although there was a weary slope to her shoulders and you thought she might not have been getting enough sleep. The sting of worry was as sharp as ever when it came to her and her wellbeing.

“Please, Nora,” you said, her attention snapping back to you, “please don’t send me back. I need you. I’ve always needed you.”

“What if I’ve moved on?” she asked and dread curled in your stomach, “I might have someone else.”

“Do you?” you asked, voice shaky.

She paused a moment and you could see it all crumbling down around you. She would cast you out, and be happy with the faceless person she’d met here, and you’d be all alone again. The town crazy once again.

“No.”

The tension left your body and all you could do was give her a hopeful smile. She cursed, turning away from you, pinching the bridge of her nose, just as she had always done when you’d done something to frustrate her. The jolt of familiarity was electrifying.

“You’re the only one I’ve ever loved,” she admitted with her back still to you.

You heart thudded in your chest.

“Nora?” you asked.

“What?” she snapped.

“Can you look at me?” you asked, “please?”

She slowly turned towards you. There was a flush on her cheeks and she wouldn’t meet your eyes. You stepped forward, hand coming up to cup her cheek. Her eyes snapped up to you, and you could tell she was fighting the impulse to step back, to push your hand off her face.

You lent forward, giving her time to move away. She froze, letting your lips brush against hers in an exploratory kiss. You’d been imagining this moment for so long.

Her hand shot out, wrapping around your waist, pressing into your spine. Her body was pushed against yours, nails almost digging in to your skin. She kissed you roughly, not like she had back when you were teenagers, but it made your knees weak. Her other hand tangled in your hair, tilting your head to kiss you deeper. You whimpered into her mouth.

“Still want to get to know this new me?” she murmured against your mouth.

“Yes,” you breathed.

“I suppose you’d better come in then,” she said.

You didn’t argue as she dragged you into the castle.

#lady lesso x reader #lady lesso imagine #lady lesso #leonora lesso x reader #leonora lesso imagine

[emptyheadwriting]

The Last Heir-Wednesday Addams x Reader-Part Eight

Blossom

Word Count:2.2K

Warnings:N/A

Part 7

—

You were slowly getting over your emotions that stemmed from parents' weekend, you had spent most of your free time between classes attached at the hip to Wednesday or Enid, needing a familiar sense of sisterhood to drag you out of the slump.

Sleeping alone did you no favors. The darkness that swallowed your small space seemed endless despite the fact you could sense the walls no further than a few feet away from you. The grey stone supports and details seemed cold and dead. It was a far cry from the camps you would set up with your people, filled with colorful clothes, laughter, and a flickering fire that seemed to glow with Lady Hestia's calming aura, and you spent far too long counting the lines and scars in your palm before being able to fall asleep.

One night, your room felt particularly cold and hollow, and the lines on your hands were growing too familiar to regard as entertainment, Enid barged into your room hysteria riddling her tone as she spoke, "Y/N you have to come quick, someone slipped a letter to Wednesday to meet in Crackstones crypt and of course, she just has to go" she rambled.

You shot out of your bed quickly, happy for the opportunity to escape the small room that felt as lonely as a prison cell.

--

The forest was eerily quiet as you and the pair of younger girls walked through them. The wet leaves on the ground made soft squishing sounds at every footfall and insects called back as they moved away from the perceived threats. You all walked in silence, sparing only glances and gestures until you reached the crypt.

Wednesday leaned close to you and whispered, “whoever it is they must be inside, be ready”. It was at that moment that you realized why there had been a nervous tickle dancing on your spine the whole duration of the trip, in your rush to leave you had forgotten to put on your ring and grab your bag, you cursed yourself under your breath, before balling your hands into fists and following Wednesday inside, leaving Enid outside as a lookout.

It was quiet in the room, only the sound of the two of you slowly inching forward could be heard, until your stiffened at the shuffling of feet paired with a loud cough that shattered the silence. “Whoever you are show yourself” Wednesday called, you closed the small gap that had been built as you had spread apart to look around, “try anything and I will tear you limb from limb” you added on as you heard the shuffling of feet return, only this time it was paired with soft laughter as the group of teens stumbled forward and started to sing.

The echoing chorus of their voices was disturbing to your ears as you took a step away from the crowd, whatever this event is, Wednesday was clearly the focus. When the signing finally died down, Wednesday looked over to where you were, your fingers tracing over a saying etched into the stone, “what does it say?” She asked standing over your shoulder.

“Fire will rain when I rise” you started as you stood up and gestured at it, “this was written on many gravestones of leaders who met early demise before accomplishing some goal of theirs,” you said as you recalled seeing it multiple times on the graves of generals and kings that had died to your hand.

“The first part was burned into Nevermore’s lawn,” Wednesday said as she went up to brush her hand against the engraved words, feeling the cold stone for only seconds before her head snapped backward and she was flung into a vision.

—

The morning after the surprise party you stood in Wednesday and Enid’s room, watching as the dark-haired girl drew on a piece of paper, it must be whatever she had seen in her vision. There was a tenseness to her figure as Thing crawled up her arm, “Careful, that’s my cold shoulder” she said and a small smile formed on your lips as the dismembered hand cowered away off of her and up onto your shoulder. “Don’t blame Thing, the party was my idea, everyone should be celebrated on their birthday, you agree right Y/N?” Enid’s pleading voice came as she approached the desk.

“I do not have a birthday so I believe I do not have a say,” you said back with a shrug of your shoulders, there was no keeping of personal dates in your time. One could only measure age by how many solstices they had seen come and go, by your own count you had lived through roughly thirty-four. “What?!” Enid shocked question seemed to put a halt to all other sounds in the divided room. When you looked over at the werewolf, her hand was pinching at the bridge of her nose, “I will have to deal with that nonsense another day, I mean you deserve a birthday too but for now, Wednesday has to open her gifts” she explained as she walked back over to her side of the room, and you felt thing jump off of your shoulder and scurry under Wednesday’s bed.

You, on the other hand, stood to the side unsure of what to do, clearly, the raven-haired girl had no interest in the tradition that Enid was forcing her through, but your manners pulled at you forcefully. It was a disrespectful act to not bear gifts when others did, so you reached into the bag that lay at your hip, and when you felt nothing reach your hand you sighed, of course, your bag did not know what a birthday gift was, it had no idea of what to conjure for you. You took your hand out slowly and cleared your mind, what could you possibly have that would serve as a gift.

You felt a weight fill the bag and you reached in, feeling your fingers graze over the familiarly smooth surface, pulling the object out you revealed a ceramic vase. You rotated it in your hands to reveal the scenes painted on its curved sides. Satisfied with the bag’s decision you walked forward, presenting your gift right after Wednesday had finished thanking Enid for hers. “This vase depicts the story of how the Apollo turned ravens black, the sun god was angry at an unfaithful partner and scorched the beautiful birds” you explained as her small hands slipped between the handles.

“Yet men say we are the emotional ones” came Wednesday’s only response, but you caught the way she held her gaze on the vase for long after she had placed it on her desk and had gone to return to her sketch.

—

Wednesday knew of two people who knew the town properly and were willing to give out information at will. Naturally, she suggested asking them both to ensure the prompt investigation of what Goody had told her during her vision. You were tasked with asking Xavier, and she reasoned that you got along better with him than you did with Tyler, you couldn’t disagree which is how you found yourself walking into his art shed with a copy of Wednesday’s drawing in your pocket.

The music blaring was unrecognizable and much too loud for your taste as you stood a few feet from the boy, watching as he aggressively slashed paint onto the canvas in front of him. “Art is meant to be a peaceful pastime for the sophisticated, you act as if you were in battle” you spoke loudly as you mocked the expression on his face as he turned towards you. Xavier shut his music off and quirked an eyebrow at you, “what do you know about art?” he asked as he sat down on his stool.

"I come from the age where a goddess had an art competition with a mortal and lost, I am sure I know plenty of art" you scoffed before walking to the bench in front of him and pulling out the drawing Wednesday had given you. "Your line work could use some work Y/N" he teased as he looked over the drawing of the gate.

"I did not draw it" you shot back with a playful shove of his shoulder, "do you recognize the gate, I must know where this place is" you explain, watching as the boy's eyes narrow before he lazily lifts an arm to point at a drawing on the wall. A drawing of the gate that matched the one you had brought stared at you hauntingly.

"It's the gates mansion, when painting isn't enough to clear my mind I pass it when I go out for jogs," he explains softly. "why did you draw, what did you see happen at that place?" you ask the physic as you turn back to face him. "I didn't see anything, just the gate and I could feel that thing's presence there, I'm sure you are going to go and search it out now, why do I speak?" he said as he shook his head before standing up.

"Listen I know me, you, and Wednesday aren't the best of friends, I actually think you two are each other's only real friends, but whatever you do, don't die, either of you," he said voice trailing off as sadness snaked its way into his words, the memory of carrying your bleeding body out of the woods as Eugene sobbed above you flashing through his mind.

"I will do my best to ensure a safe journey for Wednesday," you say back as you bring your hand up to his shoulder as a comforting gesture. "and for yourself?" he asked so quietly you are sure he only meant it as a thought.

"I would give my life for hers if given the opportunity" certainty and serenity floated through your voice, leaving no time for a response before you turned and made your way out of the shed.

--

You and Wednesday gathered in your room going over what the two of you had gathered you told her of Xavier’s dream and where the place you had to look for was, and she spoke of how Tyler seemed to be hesitant to discuss the picture and how he attempted to change her focus multiple times.

“and we still need to figure out exactly what our red booted culprit has to do with all of this and who it is” Wednesday’s voice came as the two of you made your way through the halls of Nevermore and towards the Gates Mansion. “Whoever it is has control or at least can communicate with the beast, it did not take long for it to reach me once she had fled the cave” you had reached that conclusion the same night you had been attacked which is why you had hurriedly sent Eugene away.

Wednesday mused the idea as the sound of her footsteps changed from thudding on hard concrete to muffled thumbs on grass paths. “Is it because you have died before that you seem so comfortable in giving your life for others?” She asked abruptly, and the question stopped her in her tracks. The raven-haired girl had never known fear akin to the fear she felt as she watched you bleed like a gutted animal on the forest floor, and in that moment she realized that the death of those close to her did not seem as insignificant as she hoped to believe since the death of her beloved Nero.

“Death did not scare me before my first death, I was destined for Elysium, the Isle of Heroes, only when I faced the judges did I learn of the curse placed upon me and at that moment I feared death, being placed in the fields of punishment was something I had never seen coming” you explain as your voice shakes in a mix of anger and despair, remembering the scene vividly in your head. You stood, small in stature to the godly figures in front of you as they read out the deeds of your life, you remember the smile on your face as they praised you for defending Greece vehemently until the nation's waning breathes, and you could still feel your face fall as the read aloud your curse and with sad looks on their faces cast you to be tormented.

The first whip lash you received burned on your back as you went to talk again, “I swore long ago to give my life for my people, and you and certain others are my people now, I would defend you until my dying breath should it be required”.

Wednesday felt conflicted, on one hand, she felt a sensation she was not used to, sympathy. The smaller girl could not imagine what it would be like to be tortured for ages upon ages for an action you had no control over, and she wondered if her ancestors had considered that the curse would impact an innocent member of the bloodline. While the other part of her mind shouted praises to her long-dead relatives, without their actions you would not be by her side and you were becoming far too familiar a presence for her to fathom you not being there. Her inner thoughts screamed for her to allow herself to be vulnerable, just this once they pleaded, she will not judge you they swore, love can not blossom without the openness to be hurt one screamed.

"I would rather die alongside you than have you leave my side so soon" she spoke strongly before she restarted her strides forward in hopes of hiding the soft rosy hue that covered her milky cheeks.

—

Taglist:

@tundra1029

@efectoangel

@colezb

@ognenniyvolk

@awolfcsworld rld

@youralphawolf72

@maria-403 3

@mary-jinx

@screechcat

#wednesday addams x reader #wednesday series #wednesday netflix #wednesday x you #wednesday x reader #wednesday #wednesday fanfic #wednsday addams

[damedechance]

seek&destroy

UPDATE: ⇀Read on ao3: Pt 1, Pt 2, Pt 3 ⇀Listen to the playlist

Pairing: Gwynriel

Parts: 3 of 5

Rating: Explicit (for eventual smut)

Summary: Those with a link to a realm long gone now live in secret, and Gwyneth Berdara is one of them. After a horrific tragedy rends her life apart, Gwyn finds herself in good company with her fellow Valkyries, a group of vigilantes who work to restore the forgotten relics of a land called 'Prythian.' When Gwyn's work brings her to an illustrious museum, her own world collides with that of the mysterious Shadowsinger--an encounter that leads to her vowing to bring him to his untimely end. [[Written for @foundress0fnothing]]

Read below for an excerpt from ch.3:

CHAPTER THREE

“We only have a couple of hours before the police show up onto the scene,” Emerie said, turning back to her computers and beginning to click through the photos. Hundreds of them it seemed like, and Azriel was the subject of every single one. “Maybe until morning for them to completely case the museum, and probably about as long for the break-in to appear in the news.”

“What are you getting at?” Gwyn said, shaking her head slightly as she tried to process what Emerie was saying. She narrowed her eyes, watching as a series of photos of the shadows flew across the screen. The little one by her foot in the stairwell, the serpentine ones wrapping around her legs.

“Bear with me,” Emerie said. She finally landed on an image of Azriel’s smirking face beyond the metal bars of the gates. Gloating, undoubtedly, but something adoring in the gaze, too. A bit ravenous.

Emere turned to face Gwyn, as Nesta got up from the chair by the window and came to sit on the floor on Emerie’s other side.

“We’ve never left so much evidence behind,” Emerie began. “A broken lock here, or a smudge of dirt there. We’ve had a few bad cases where Nes completely trashes a place, sure–”

“Get to the point,” Nesta interjected, crossing her arms over her chest.

“But nothing that could be traced back to us,” Emerie continued. “Until him.”

Without looking, Emerie stretched out a hand and tapped the screen. Right above Azriel’s grinning mouth. 

Smothering the inexplicable urge to smash Emerie’s laptop into a million silicon pieces, Gwyn crossed her arms over her chest and tore her attention away from the screen. Gaze flicking between Emerie and Nesta, she said, “What do you want to do about it?”

Gwyn knew what she wanted to do, and most certainly would accomplish it just as soon as she figured out how to find him, but Emerie and Nesta appeared far less concerned with the absolute humiliation of being thwarted for the very first time. It was the strangest role reversal, one where Gwyn relinquished her need for meticulous planning followed by devout adherence to said plan, and something about it had unmoored her. She felt her body swaying in this sea of rage, and could only hug herself tighter in a pitiful attempt at controlling the waves.

“His team was very smart,” Emerie said, letting out a slow breath that could only be reluctantly impressed. “The entire time you were in there, I was trying to find any digital trace of them. We hadn’t hacked the security camera system yet, since you knew your way around them so well, but someone else did, and I was following that trail for so long only to find out it was a dead end. They’re clever.”

Gwyn frowned, glancing over to Nesta to see if she would confirm. Nesta’s disappointed expression mirrored her own, but then she nodded towards Emerie. “Just listen.”

Emerie pointed again to a different part of one of the screens, a string of numbers and letters that was incomprehensible to Gwyn but appeared to mean something of significance to Emerie.

“There was nothing,” she said. “Until…”

Her finger moved, gliding over the screen until it landed on one of the videos playing on loop. Shadowsinger’s back facing her, as he ran through the tunnel, wings tucked behind him. His hand going up to his ear, briefly.

Nesta leaned over and punched a key to turn on the sound.

“Lower the gates. Yes, I’m sure–lower them.”

Over and over, the same string of words punctuated only by Gwyn’s own rattling breaths as she chased after him. The groan of metal, as the gate began to come down, only to abruptly be cut off as the loop started again.

“This gave us more information than it seems, at first glance,” Emerie said, eyes still fixed on the screen as she went to lower the volume again. The loop continued on faintly, as she spoke, “Firstly, it was the first time he indicated that he wasn’t working alone. But whereas you and I were in constant contact the entire time, even if you weren’t directly speaking, I hadn’t caught one signal from his own radio. Not one, until he decided to speak here.”

“What does that mean?” Gwyn said, unable to tear her eyes away from the sight of those colossal wings, as pixelated and grainy as they were in the camera feed.

“It means two things,” Emerie said. “First, I was able to trace the signal. I’ve been working on it right up until you two arrived, actually, and I think I was able to narrow it down to the most likely point of origin.”

“Good,” Nesta said gruffly. She got up onto her knees, as if she was about to head out the door again. Gwyn was about to join her. “Where are we headed?”

“Wait,” Emerie said, slapping a hand over Nesta’s arm to pull her back down. “Because there was something else about the signal that bothered me. Why would he choose to make contact with his partner like that, if he had made it so far without? Especially in such an easily traceable way? Our own comms system has layers of security around it that are practically miles thick, but I was able to find him in less than an hour.”

Gwyn pressed her lips together, deep in thought as she continued to trace the shape of those wings with her eyes.

“Maybe he was desperate?” Gwyn ventured. “I did stab him.”

Emerie shook her head immediately, and thrusted her hand at the screen. “Look.”

She pressed a key, and the video feed of him running from her in the tunnel was immediately replaced by the one of him on the other side of the bars.

“He was practically begging for you to touch him,” Emerie said. “It wasn’t desperation. At least, not to gate away. He didn’t need the gates to get away from you.”

She pressed another key, and the image began to move. A video of him stepping back, before the shadows swallowed him and he disappeared.

“Then what do you think it was?” Nesta said, her own gaze slowly veering away from the screen to look at Gwyn. She didn’t meet her eyes.

“He didn’t want to get away.”

Emerie turned to look at Gwyn.

“He wanted you to find him.”

#gwynriel #azriel x gwyn #acotar gift exchange 2023 #gwyneth berdara #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #modern au #museum heist #enemies to lovers #meet ugly

[highwaytothedangerzone502]

Foxtrot Alpha Alpha - Chapter 37

Pairing: Hangman x Female OC

Word Count: 1417

Warnings: Swearing, insinuation of sex

Summary: Hangman learned his lesson a long time ago to never show his true feelings when someone's words or actions hurt him. To do so showed weakness that could be exploited, and Seresin men couldn't show weakness. Of course, there was an exception to every rule, and Jake's always came in the form of women, three in particular: his mom, Juliette Kazansky, and the girl whose name he could no longer bring himself to speak. She was the girl that got away; she was his biggest 'what if' and his biggest regret; she would forever be the ghost that haunted his dreams. Jake believed that's where she'd stay, for he would surely never see her again after what he did.

Or so he thought.

Notes: This is the sequel to India Lima Yankee; I'm using the same callsign for the Female OC as in Ghost Story because I just really like it, but they are different characters; chapters in italics are flashbacks.

Chapter Songs: True The Alchemy

****

Hangman

The blue light of breaking dawn peeked through his curtains, adding to the serene, surreal reality Hangman found himself in. Ghost lay beside him in the crook of his arm, her head on his shoulder and arm draped lazily over his torso. He traced mindless patterns on her bare back with one hand while his other rested on her arm. Sleep remained fleeting throughout the night, only allowing him a few precious hours of rest. It was Hangman's own fault. He feared if he fell asleep, that when he awoke, the events of yesterday and last night would be a dream. A cruel, heartbreaking, wishful dream. 

I love you. Ghost's words echoed repeatedly in his head. Hangman couldn't stop it. For so long, he'd ached to hear those words, and then she'd said them. Hangman hadn't quite been able to process it, still silently reeling from seeing the letters he'd written to her- with no intentions of ever relinquishing them to her- in Ghost's hands. Coyote had no right to give them to her, but while Hangman wanted to give his friend a piece of his mind about it, he also recognized that without it, he and Ghost may never have confronted each other about everything.

Ghost twitched in her sleep and whimpered. Hangman placed a kiss on the top of her head, and she settled down. A few moments later, she stirred, squinting at the daylight and letting out an annoyed groan. She shifted slightly up his body to hide her eyes in the crook of his neck.

Chuckling to himself, he whispered, "Good morning."

Ghost only let a tired grunt in response. She had never been a morning person unless it involved getting breakfast, so Hangman didn't take it personally. 

"You hungry?" Hangman queried. 

Ghost nodded but failed to move to let him up. When he pointed this out to her, she mumbled, "I think I'm going to choose starving and staying where I'm at."

Hangman, unable to stop himself from teasing her, said, "Can you say that again? I can't hear you when you're talking into my shoulder."

Ghost twisted her head and rested it on his chest, but didn't look up at him. She repeated what she'd said and added, "You didn't have trouble hearing me talk into your shoulder last night."

Hangman laughed good-naturedly, tugging her closer to him. "That's because you were screaming, not mumbling."

"Shut up." The searing kiss Ghost captured him in took away any seriousness from her statement. God, Hangman couldn't get enough of her. He never believed they'd be like this together, let alone even speaking. And the strangest sensation, the most unfamiliar emotion, settled over him. 

Happy.

He was happy.

Hangman tried to reflect on the last time he felt the way he did now. It didn't take long to figure out it had been before Ghoul died. A time when he and Ghost had briefly returned to Texas, and they sat on the bleachers of their high school football stadium, staring up at the stars, laughing so hard that tears filled their eyes. For the life of him, what they had talked about eluded him, but the memory and feelings remained, and Hangman would savor them forever, including the current moment he found himself in.

Hangman kissed the top of Ghost's head and said, "You relax here. I'm going to cook breakfast."

"No, no, I need to get up. Otherwise, I'll sleep until noon."

"We can go back to sleep after breakfast because God knows we barely got any last night."

Ghost grinned wickedly. "Who says we'll get any after breakfast?"

Hangman debated on saying 'fuck it' and skipping eating if it meant going another round -or two- with Ghost, but the love of his life decided for him, rousing herself out of bed and heading to the bathroom. He forced himself up and threw on some underwear and gray sweatpants before shuffling to the kitchen. He pulled out the bacon, the eggs, and some potatoes and got to cooking, playing some soft country music in the background.

About ten minutes later, Ghost padded in, wearing nothing but her underwear and his t-shirt. He nearly went weak in the knees at the sight but managed to stay upright through sheer stubborness. Ghost sat at the bar and watched him cook. Without a word, he slid a cup of tea over to her, already made the way she liked it with cream and sugar.

Ghost smiled sleepily and said, "I needed this."

"Wake you up for round two?" Hangman asked cheekily.

She snorted softly. "I'm pretty sure it'll be more like round six or seven, but no. It's not just because I got no sleep last night."

Hangman grated the potatoes to prep for the hash browns. "What's up?"

Ghost traced the rim of the cup, staring into the steaming hot liquid. "You know how my mom and dad split up for a bit before I was born?"

"Yeah, your mom came to Cali. Why?"

"She met up with Maverick while she did. They... had a fling."

"Huh. I'm surprised Charlie did that when she was still technically married. I mean, I know your parents were separated, but-"

"That's not the kicker."

"I feel I should stop grating the potatoes for this."

"You might want to sit down, actually," Ghost suggested with mild amusement. Hangman remained standing but braced himself on the counter. "It was roughly nine months before I was born."

"I don't... Oh. OH!" Hangman barely remained standing as the epiphany struck him harder than a plane going Mach 2. "You-you're-"

"Maverick's daughter," Ghost finished, crossing her arms on the counter and resting her chin atop them. "I haven't told anyone else in the Daggers. Not even Juliette. I wasn't planning on anyone finding out, especially Mom and Maverick."

"They know?"

"Yeah. Mom somehow found out, and I know she told Maverick because he tried calling me not long after Mom called me out on it. That was before I came over here, so, you know, was dealing with two existential crises at a time. Figured this one might be more easily solved since it was closer to home."

"Maverick's close to home," Hangman pointed out, tossing the potatoes onto the skillet. "Why not deal with him first?"

Ghost shrugged. "I don't know where to start or what to do about it. With you, I at least had history to go off of."

"And the knowledge that, for better or worse, I just can't say no to you."

Mischief flared in her eyes. "You shouldn't have told me that."

"Food first-" Hangman said, piling her plate with breakfast- "cardio after."

He joined her at the bar, and they said nothing as they devoured their food, starving from yesterday's activities. And last night's. But Hangman didn't mind the silence. It allowed him to wrap his head around everything that had happened and been discovered in the past twenty-four hours, and Hangman couldn't decide what shocked him more: Ghost sitting beside him as more than a friend or the news of Ghost's real father.

Maverick was Ghost's biological dad. 

How... well, he knew how, but still. How would this affect Ghost's relationship with the Captain? How would it affect her relationship with Juliette, who had practically been a surrogate daughter to Maverick? And Rooster, who might as well have been Maverick's son? 

"Trust me, I've had the same thoughts," Ghost said quietly, picking at the last few pieces of hashbrown on her plate.

"How did you-"

"I recognize the expression," she replied simply. "I should probably call my mom back, and Maverick too, for that matter, but I don't want to deal with it. I just... I want to enjoy a sliver of peace and happiness right now."

Hangman grabbed the underside of her stool and pulled her closer to him. "You don't have to face this alone. I'm with you."

"Forever?"

He leaned in and pecked her on the lips. "And always."

Ghost smiled, a blush rising on her cheeks. "Would it be okay if I stayed here a little longer? I don't want to go home yet."

"Of course," Hangman replied immediately, silently pleased not only for his own selfish reasons of keeping Ghost at his side for as long as possible but also because a little voice whispered sinisterly at him that if he let her out of his sight any time soon, he wouldn't see her again for a long time. 

****

Tags: @lgg5989 @shanimallina87 @polikszena @summ3rlotus @icemansgirl1999 @supernaturaldawning @thedarkinmansfield @lyannaforpresident @lapilark @getmyprettynameoutofyourmouth @simpofthecentury @shadeops21 @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @double-j @bradshawsandbridgetons @catsandgeekyandnerd @peachiicherries @multifandomcnova @fandomsstolemylife00 @bookloverhorses @mak-32 @midnightmagpiemama @luckyladycreator2 @ellamae021 @kmc1989 @atarmychick007 @rotating-obsessions

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#top gun #top gun fic #maverick #rooster #hangman #phoenix #bradley bradshaw #iceman #bob #jake seresin #coyote #payback #fanboy #omaha #yale #halo #fritz #harvard #tg2 #tgm #top gun maverick #fanfic #jake seresin X oc #pregnancy #grief #foxtrot #alpha #taylor swift

[chernabogs]

Of Obscure Sorrows

A passing moment among ruins weaves a tale of a changing story.

(Is this Malleus x Prefect (mostly platonic)?? On my blog?? Yes, in my usual moody, kinda sad way. Terms within come from 'Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows by John Koenig)

Ambedo.

His gaze narrows as he reads over the text again.

N. A melancholic trance in which you become absorbed in vivid sensory details. 

Dark lips curl into a bitter grin as his finger traces over the lettering. It’s quiet where he sits, sequestered away in a mausoleum of sorts to a building long since passed. Crumbling brick walls with vines acting as their mortar are his shelter, and the sun above him—barely concealed by the foliage of the trees—is his ceiling. 

This day is an ephemeral one, he thinks, tilting his head back to squint at the golden rays dancing through the leaves. A warm breeze, carrying the scent of nature on its back, brushes across his skin as he exhales slowly. Here, in the heart of the forest within NRC, is one of few places of solitude left. With only the wildlife as his soundtrack, it’s a much needed paradise from the chaos that is the Diasomnia Dorm. 

He looks at the book again.

Anchorage. N. The desire to hold on to time as it passes. 

He hears the sound of footsteps in the foliage. His gaze rises from the curious novel he holds to see a familiar figure, eyeing him up with some curiosity a few feet away. Perhaps he should have expected this; his sanctuary is on the outskirts of Ramshackle. It was only inevitable that the sole occupant would find him here. He looks to the skies again—how long has he been out here, anyway?  

“Hello,” he hums. A simple word, and yet it carries such a profound effect, causing a smile to appear on the Prefect’s face as they approach. It’s as though with a single acknowledgement he’s given them permission to enter his home; he hasn’t, but they don’t seem to care as he watches them struggle over the decay he sits in. Humans have always been rather clumsy in his eyes—he remembers Silver in his younger years, stumbling and tripping everywhere he went. It seems as though for some humans, such habits never truly leave. 

“What are you doing out here?”

Their voice is calm, curious—comfortable around him. Although he sits shrouded by nature, looking as inhuman as he can ever be, they smile at him like he’s simply another person they cross paths with. And they have crossed paths, many nights now, in the sparse early hours outside of Ramshackle. He raises an eyebrow at their words, looking at their face before he speaks.

“Temporarily escaping.”

Flashover. N. The moment conversation becomes alive. 

As though his comment opened a floodgate, the Prefect happily begins speaking as they settle amongst the ruins as well, still uninvited, but not unwelcome. It was an oddly jarring comparison; someone so lively resting among things so dead. Whereas Malleus himself could have easily blended in with the scenery, the Prefect stood out like a beacon, unaware of the change they were bringing. They weave a tale with their words, unbothered that Malleus simply sits and watches with his book still in hand. 

But he listens.

He catches each hitch of their words, each syllable and vowel that they drawl out. He studies their expressions and makes note of what makes them smile, and what makes them scowl, as though trying to learn these responses himself. They speak of Grim, and of Ace and Deuce, of the weight of the studies that they, as someone without magic, carry, and many other tales of mischief done. 

They ask how he is. He tells them he's fine. He speaks lightly of Sebek, Silver, and Lilia; of the Gargoyle club and a recent letter from home. It feels unusual, having such a lively conversation like this. It feels unusual having a conversation at all.

And yet, he finds himself without complaint. 

Nodus Tollens. N. The realization that the plot of your life doesn’t make sense anymore. 

It dawns on him an hour in, when the Prefect is still present and has given no indication of leaving just yet, that this is a new experience for him. Malleus is a scheduled person; despite how it may seem, he knows exactly what he will expect in a day, what he will do, and how he will do it. He has a story-line to follow. To be visited by this human and to be lured into a conversation that thrives even as the sun whittled away is not a part of his story-line. To be engaging with anyone at the school beyond what was required, actually, is not a part of his story-line. In one moment, the Prefect is already changing his narrative.

He quietly closes his book as he watches them. The gesture seems to catch their attention and although their words cease, their gaze fills with curiosity about what he's going to do next. 

“I dare say it’s beginning to get late.”

“Oh,”

The Prefect sounds surprised as they look up to the skies as well. What was once blue is now gold, indicative of the coming of dusk. Malleus had sequestered himself away for silence, and found himself more than entertained instead. He rises from his seated positions on the ruin and casts down a sparing glance; a few loose stones fall to the earth with his actions, telling him that his presence will still be recorded, even if he didn’t mean it to. 

“I will escort you back to your dorm.” He chooses a line that can be taken as a sparse, polite offer, concealing his own selfish desire to keep talking behind something acquaintances would say. It’s a safe phrase; perhaps he wants to ensure they don’t get in trouble in these woods, where they are without their friends and without magic. Or, perhaps he’s just being thoughtful of the hour, wishing to guide them home before night descends.

Either way, the Prefect’s face lights up at the offer and they nod, accepting it without hesitation. 

For some reason, that small gesture causes a warmth to stir in him. 

They soon depart side by side; he, still blending with the scenery, and they, still standing out like a beacon. The sun continues to wane as the golden rays hits the forest floor, and the ruins soon descend into silence, broken only by the sounds of crickets and fading conversation.

Soon it’s as though no one—no Prince, and no Prefect—was ever there at all. 

Keyframe. N. A moment that seemed innocuous at the time, but ends up marking a diversion into a strange new era in your life.

#malleus draconia #twst malleus #twst #twst fanfiction

[cypressnmarigolds]

Here for another blurb if it's okay with you 👉🏼 👈🏼

Much like how your creep vincent headcanons have invaded my brain, pillow princess Vincent has been on my mind too. So excuse me while I throw you this.

3 words,

Service.

Dom.

Reader.

Maybe after opening up to Vincent and deeper into your relationship with him, both of you decide to do the big next step and figure out both your likes and dislikes 👀

But even though our boy might like to be pampered, he is extremely demanding and likes to have things go his way, having full control of the situation at all times. Picture this, both of you sitting on his bed, tension in the air, unsure who makes the first move, shy stares exchanged. Vincent thinks you're still really cute when flustered, he might as well help you ease down, right?

Him grabbing your wrist and making your hand touch him. He starts with sliding your hand from his neck, down to chest, stomach and down, down till he gets where he wants you touch him the most after all this time.

He constantly keeps an eye on you to see if you're doing okay, not feeling super uncomfortable about how forward he is and giving you enough space to pull your wrist away. The bastard is grinning at how focused you are on your hands, as if scared you might be doing something uncomfortable to him. How naive reader.

You can feel how hard and warm he is and it makes your heart hammer against your chest like crazy, pupils blown wide. Vincent guiding you gently on what HE likes first, making you fingers curl, grope, trace everywhere wants to have touched and you being so obedient during it (for now at least)

idk 🤷🏻‍♀️

(I think this is the horniest thing I've ever shared with someone so directly, I am ashamed 🙈)

@sending-love-letters 🫀💌

hehehehehehe I like this idea a lot , PLEASE don't be ashamed!

(full disclosure: I looked up a bit about service doms beforehand to make sure I was getting the right idea, and I found a beautiful tidbit some someone describing being a service dom as 'My submissive is like a piano, she tells me what keys to press to get a reaction, but I, as the Service Top, ultimately decide on the melody I want to play' and that is wonderful stuff right there)

I love the idea of Vincent being a slightly bratty, bossy sub and a pillow princess bottom. Of course he cares about you and making sure you're satisfied, but if we're still talking creepy golden child Vinny, he's gonna be a bit of a selfish brat to start off with, if for no other reason than to fluster you and get his thrills from being in charge. Buuuut, at the risk of getting angsty, he also wants someone to make him feel good when he's had to put up with abuse from Bo.

Anyhow, he will make sure you know, under no uncertain terms, exactly what he likes and exactly how he likes it. Little does he know he's about to create a ✨monster✨

Once you've got him figured out, he's done for. You may be at his service, but he still wants you to dom him, right? Vinny must get what he asked for!

Sweet dirty talk. One comment about how pretty his hands look clutching the sheets and he's red faced. Another about how cutely his stomach twitches when you touch his cock? Swooning. How sweet his nipples look? Dead.

Deepthroating. Greedy bastard he is, he will ask this of you, and will probably help you train your throat if you can't take him all. But when you whip this out of your bag of tricks, he's cumming in under three minutes. Eyes rolled back and one hand fisting either his hair or yours, the other in the grip of his teeth to keep from crying out.

Overstimulation. This is when when you know you've got him. He's just come, and he's twitching, shaking and whimpering, and you can see his eye glisten with tears, and he looks at you like he's begging you not to stop and he just keep going. Whether you're fucking, riding or blowing him, he takes over and starts moving his hips erratically until he finally cums again. With a wicked grin, you coo at him and call him a good boy and begin aftercare, knowing he's spent for the night. Upon hearing the nickname, his eye pops open and he knows he fucked up. (in the best way!~)

Whoops, got a little carried away. I hope I did your idea some justice!😅 I really like this idea! Seems to really fit Vincent. Thank you so much for the ask @sending-love-letters!

#Did I do to much? Probably #Do I regret? Absolutely not. #asks #vincent sinclair smut #slasherfucker #my writing #vincent sinclair x reader

[imagine--if]

DUDE ABOUT THE SUPER READER ONE U SHOULD TOTALLY MAKE IT INTO A FULL FIC LIKE IM SO INLOVE WITH THE IDEAYDUDUXYXUCJ

A/N: I just saw this in my inbox and YESSS, I've started the To My Hope series and this is finally the funeral scene!!! This was the scene I've been waiting to get to - Riddler meeting Hope 😍 enjoy! This is pretty long but I really wanted to include everything 😂💚

To My Hope; You Came

Words: 2336

"I was Hoping that you'd come last night," Bruce says as you drive to the funeral, smirking slightly at his name joke, to which you roll your eyes with a light scoff. "But I understand. It's a lot to take in."

"I just couldn't face it," you tell him with a shrug. "The person who's supposedly obsessed with me... you saw the news, about Pete."

You couldn't bring yourself to go with The Batman and Gordon last night, to look at the scene of Pete Savage's death, left by the Riddler. You were too distracted with the letter, the Riddler himself when he appeared on your TV screen... absolutely everything. But you're Hope. You'll manage, like you always do.

"Well, Pete's not a good cop," Bruce states, and you frown, listening. "Looks like he got greedy. I think he was in on the drops business. The Riddler's targeting the corrupt, especially people to do with that case. There are more photos," he continues, passing them to you and glancing at the car windows, their reflective film blocking out any random, prying eyes from outside. You shuffle through the photos with a sigh.

"I managed to get someone in the lounge," he adds, "to the club below it. Colson, the DA, he was there. Talking about an informant on the Maroni case. A rat."

"A rat," you repeat slowly, and Bruce nods. "Okay, that kind of makes sense, what with the Riddler putting rats in that cage yesterday..."

"I got a card," he responds, and you can see the dull annoyance in his gaze immediately after he mentions it. "Another riddle. 'Follow the maze until you find the rat. Bring him into the light, and you'll find where I'm at."

"Bring him into the light?"

"We'll work on it," Bruce assures you. "I, um, I met a girl from the Iceberg Lounge," he adds. "Selina. You'll get on well with her. She's friends with the blonde girl from the pictures with the late mayor. She talked to Colson."

You smile with a nod, giving the photos back, the frowning as you notice his hesitation to mention something else.

"Okay... What is it?"

He pulls out an envelope from his pocket, handing it to you. You bite your lip as you stare at the familiar handwriting from Mitchell's house, the angel card.

To My Hope

You quickly pull the card out of the envelope, and stay frozen in your seat as your eyes trace the words on its cover. It's another old fashioned love cartoon, with two silhouetted figures holding hands, standing under a large green heart with curly white words written inside.

'I HAVE ALWAYS LOVED YOU,

'I ALWAYS WILL,

'LOVED YOU YESTERDAY,

'LOVE YOU STILL.'

You open the card up properly to see the same riddle The Batman got, but the obvious difference between his and yours is the faint, messy hearts drawn in the background of the writing in pencil. Bruce looks away, annoyed.

"I don't like the idea of him thinking of you like that. Stay close, okay? I know you can handle yourself, but this is different."

You smile at Bruce fondly, tucking the card away in your jacket pocket. "Alright, worryguts."

Chanting and clamouring can be heard clearly from outside, as Bruce Wayne's car drives to the entrance of the church. As you peer out the window, you can see a group of people chanting "No more lies!" and holding up boards with the Riddler's question mark symbol sprayed on it, signs held up saying 'OUR DAY OF JUDGEMENT'. Bruce stares too, retreating into silence as he steps out, going over to your side to give you a hand, and choosing to keep it in his.

Reporters are quick to clamour around you, cameras flashing.

"Is that Bruce Wayne?"

"Who's the girl with him?"

"Mr Wayne, is that your girlfriend?!"

You bite back a smile, looking up at him. "Told you."

He shakes his head at you, but he's not seriously annoyed. The amusement fades as you look over at a car, where Falcone himself steps out, a young woman beside him. Bruce follows them, pulling you with him, and you frown, trying to tug him back before one of his men notice.

"Hey, hey! Give us a wide berth here, would you, slick?" a bodyguard jumps in, and Falcone turns, the girl looking back at you both.

Falcone calms them down in a second, reassuring them of who Bruce Wayne is, about knowing his father. You avoid eye contact with the man, instead, your eyes wander to the group of protesters with Riddler gear at the entry's barricaded area.

"Come on," Bruce's voice draws your attention back, and you go on inside. Bella Rel greets Bruce and you almost as soon as you get in, and you let her pull him away, smiling at the look he gives you as you scan the large number of people there to pay their respects.

"What good's a safety net that doesn't catch anybody?" A man behind the barricades indoors mutters to himself, and you look over at him with a small frown. "Didn't help my daughter when she needed it, I can tell you that. The guy was just another rich scum-sucker. He got what he deserved."

His eyes meet yours suddenly, and then it's his turn to frown. "Hey, don't I know you? I've seen you somewhere-"

A hand on your shoulder makes you flinch, and you're met with Bruce, who glances at the man before leading you away.

The faint music of Ave Maria in the background somehow made you uneasy, and you glanced around at the mayor's son and the people... before your attention was immediately caught.

Panicked, muffled screams sound from outside, along with the roaring of an engine and crashing sounds. Bruce grips your hand tightly, stepping in front of you protectively as the noise grows louder, drawing out the conversation and singing from within the church. You follow Bruce's stare as he looks up at a balcony, where the silhouette of a man stands calmly, peering down at the scene. Your breath catches in your throat as your fingers trace the card from your pocket, and the loud smash of the breaking of the paned doors makes you jump.

People scatter screaming to get away from the big black car, as it speeds down the aisle. Bruce shoves you to the side, making you lose your balance but miss the car's route as he sprints towards the boy, pushing him out the way and rolling over as they stumble. The car crashes into the thick, poled walls, and when you look up again, the man's figure is gone.

The GCPD flock around the car, bashed up and spray painted in white with lettering. Gordon yells at the driver to get out of the car... and when he does, you close your eyes in disbelief.

It's Colson, duct tape around his mouth muffling his cries, and attaching a phone to the palm of his hand. He's still there when you open them, dried blood trickled down his forehead as his words are muffled under the tape. A large, clunky collar is around his neck, and when someone points it out, everyone screams. The phone rings, and another chorus of screams sounds, the ID simply stating that it's an unknown number.

Colson holds up the phone, showing the envelope taped onto his shirt.

To My Hope & The Batman

The guests clear out instantly, and you look over your shoulder at Bruce, who looks straight back at you, nodding.

You've never gotten changed into Hope so quickly.

You've never wanted to stay hidden away in your apartment so much.

Night falls over Gotham as Batman insists you two go out to answer later in the day, the police now surrounding the building, sending a robot in to scan the bomb and survey the scene. The Batman stays close to you as you walk side by side back into the church, and Colson looks up at you with wide, tired eyes. Batman takes the tape off his mouth, and Colson gasps, shaking his head and apologising over and over.

"Please, he made me do it," Colson insists tearfully. "He told me if I didn't do exactly what he said he'd kill me, I'm so sorry!"

"Looks like a combination lock," Batman observes the collar, and you nod.

"Can't we just cut it off?"

"Not if you want to keep your head."

Colson sighs shakily, and you take the envelope off his shirt, pulling out the card with a 60s style blonde woman holding an oversized telephone.

"In these troubling times, never forget," you read quietly, opening it up, "I'm only a phone call away. Answer."

Colson raises his hand as he offers you the phone, and you glance at Batman in confirmation. He nods, and you reach out to answer it, tapping the green icon on the screen.

The same room from last night's news is in the video call's background, heavy breathing close to the camera, as the masked man leans into the frame.

"You came."

"Who are you?" Batman questions calmly.

"Me? I'm nobody," the Riddler breathes, "I'm just an instrument, here to unmask the truth about this cesspool we call a city."

"Unmask?"

"Yes," the Riddler agrees, his eyes gliding from the Batman to you. You swear you can see them soften as he stares at the screen from his side, his breathing picking up again.

"Oh, Hope..." he whispers, "you look so beautiful up close... did you like the cards I sent you?"

Batman tenses beside you, and you open your mouth before closing it, your mind completely blank of any way to answer.

"Let's do this together, okay?" The Riddler continues. "I've been trying to reach you. You're both a part of this too, lovely."

"How are we a part of this?" Batman asks.

"You'll see," Riddler responds darkly, adjusting his camera as he sits down. "Say hello to my followers. We're live. They've heard a lot about Hope, here... and they're here to watch our little trial. At the moment, the man across from you, Mr Colson... is dead! But-"

"Jesus, can we get somebody out here, this psycho's gonna kill me!" Colson interrupts in pure terror, and you hear the Riddler sigh.

"Wait a minute- SHUT UP! You deserve to be dead after what you did- you hear me? YOU HEAR ME?!"

"Okay, okay," Colson whimpers, and you watch the screen in shock as the Riddler's groan turns into a hyper laugh, his face close to the camera.

"I'm giving you a chance," the Riddler tells him, before jerking away from the camera dramatically. "No one ever gave me a chance. Now. Ever since I was a child, I've always loved little puzzles. For me, they are a retreat, from the horrors of our world. Maybe... they can bring some comfort to you too, Mr Colson."

"You want me to do puzzles?" Colson questions, and the RIddler agrees excitedly.

"Three riddles in two minutes. You give me the answers, and I'll give you the code for the lock - do you understand?"

Colson agrees nervously, and the shrill beep of the bomb makes huim jump and whimper in fright.

"Riddle number one! It can be cruel, poetic, or blind, but when it's denied, it's violence you may find."

"W-wait, could you repeat that? Cruel... poetic...?"

"Justice," you pipe up, and Colson turns to you desperately.

"Huh?"

"The answer, it's justice!"

Colson repeats it, and the Riddler confirms the word happily.

"Yes! Justice! Isn't she clever?" He coos adoringly at you, and you watch in uncertainty. "And you," he turns his attention back to Colson, "were supposed to be an arm of justice in this city, along with the late mayor and police commissioner, were you not, Mr Colson?"

"Yes, yes, of course, of course," Colson agrees quickly.

"Riddle number two," the Riddler carries on gleefully. "If you are justice, please do not lie. What is the price for your blind eye?"

"Price?" Colson repeats cluelessly.

"Bribes," Batman repeats, and Colson tries to repeat it.

"No, he wants to know how much it cost for you to turn your back," you clarify.

Colson hesitates in despair.

"Fifty-eight seconds!" The Riddler yells impatiently.

"Look, how much was it?!" you demand worriedly.

"Nothing!"

"How much!" The Batman raises his voice.

"Ten grand," Colson caves in, "Ten Gs a month, I get a monthly payment just not to prosecute certain cases!"

"What cases?"

"He didn't ask me that, come on! Ten grand!"

The Riddler laughs in amusement. "Okay, okay - don't lose your head, Mr Colson. Just one more to go before your time runs out. Last riddle! Since your justice is so select, please, tell us which vermin you're paid to protect?"

"The rat," Batman tells him instantly. "The informant you all protect from the Salvatore Maroni case."

Colson's face goes pale. "How do you know about that?!"

"What's his name?" You ask, and Colson shakes his head, as the Riddler announces the twenty seconds left.

"No."

"He's going to kill you, Colson!" You point out with round eyes.

"I'm a dead man either way," Colson replies, and repeats the statement as Batman grabs hold of him. "If I go out this way, it's just me, but if I give over that name, I have family, people I love... he'll kill them too,"

"Who will?"

"People are watching-"

"What people?!"

"It's so much bigger than you can imagine," Colson says miserably, "it's the whole system."

"Five seconds! I'll see you soon, my Hope - I love you! Goodbye!"

The deafening book of the bomb exploding cuts off Colson's pleas for mercy, and the Batman jumps in front of you as it goes off, shielding you from the damage as you're both blown back. Your breaths are shaky and uneven as you hear echoed, fading voices, and the voice of the Riddler, before darkness consumes your mind.

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