#Dewi stop destroying things

[lilybug-02]

Kind of Important.

Bug Fact: Hummingbird Moths mimic the look and behavior of Hummingbirds to avoid predation.

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[imakemywings]

for the character bingo: Maglor/Elros/Finduilas? (no pressure to do all of them!)

Maglor:

Maglor oh Maglor...you fetid dead shrimp of an Elf. I actually like Maglor a lot, I think he's a very interesting character. He's both an artist and a deadly warrior. He's the only Feanorian we see really push back against the Oath and the only one who ever suggests they just stop. He doesn't hang onto that, but there is an effort and there are other signs late in the First Age that he has regrets about the path he's taken and I think he's genuine about those. However, I am exhausted with how the fandom handwaves his crimes, acts like he's somehow less culpable than his family in their war crimes, lambasts his victims as authors of their own suffering, acts like his victims are obliged to forgive him because he feels bad, and act like his relationship with Elrond and Elros was some fluffy sweet found family story. Maglor's fucked-up-ness, as with all the Feanorians, is a huge part of what makes him interesting.

I think Maglor, for most of his life, was an incredibly selfish person. That exhibits in different ways. In Tirion, it was because he was an Artist and he did not have time for his stupid brothers and cousins' issues, he was Creating Art that was going to last a Thousand Years and he was above petty nonsense like caring about other people's problems. Maglor, like Feanor, feels a lot, and he is very willing to subordinate other people's needs to his feelings. Maglor's feelings >>> everything else. (The drama in Tirion was never-ending!)

When we see him start wavering after the Third Kinslaying, I think a few things were going on, but one of those things was I think Maglor was starting to panic. He was looking at what they had done and realizing that actually, he's a pretty shitty person when everything is tallied up. Nobody is going to remember him for his art--they're going to remember him for the ruthless slaughter in pursuit of his father's property and the total extinguishing of an entire culture out of Middle-earth. This is where we see him start to push back against Maedhros and the Oath--he isn't upset about the one Silmaril lost to Earendil, he argues against pursuing the two held by the host of Aman, he suggests they go and repent to the Valar and accept whatever punishment might be due them.

"Fostering" Elrond and Elros was, to me, a desperate Hail Mary effort at self-redemption by Maglor. It was also, again, a deeply selfish act. He took two traumatized children whose family and people he butchered, whose home he had destroyed, and whose culture he had erased, and tried to make them the vessel of his salvation. Which is not to say he didn't genuinely love them! I think he did and I think they were perhaps the only source of joy for him at that time in his life. And I think he realized somewhere on the front end that this was fucked up, but by then he was attached to them, and it took him years to reach the point of being selfless enough to let go of them and let them leave.

Maglor's journey to regret is complete, to me, when he rejects the Silmaril. At this point, he openly acknowledges to himself and others that what they did was wrong, it was in vain, and he regrets. If he could do it over, he would do things differently. But it's too late now--and there's no one left to hear him say it.

The interesting thing about "Maglor lives" AUs to me is that it gives him the chance he lacked in canon to make good on his claims of regret and actually do better. Because I think he is capable of it, it's just that he never quite gets there in canon, not before it's too late.

Finduilas:

Most of what I have to say about Finduilas is based on headcanon, because alas, we don't get a ton out of her in canon.

Finduilas is someone I see as aggressively optimistic. Not the kind of dewy-eyed optimism where she thinks things will just ~work out~ but more of a determination to do everything she can to make things work out and a commitment to avoiding self-defeating pessimism. She will not despair until there is absolutely no avenue left to her; I think she does a great job of maintaining estel. This is why she held out hope that Gwindor would come back from Angband.

But I think the Gwindor who returned from Angband was naturally a very different person than the one who had ridden out from Nargothrond. He would have necessarily come back extremely traumatized after twelve years as a slave of Melkor and while I think Finduilas was committed to helping him recover, I think his newly cynical and harsh outlook on life cooled the ardor of their earlier relationship.

I also think she was drawn to Turin because he has a similar kind of hopeful outlook. In a perverse sense, despite his pessimism about himself, Turin keeps trying to make things better and keeps believing he can make things better even when everything goes wrong for him again and again. I think Finduilas was drawn to this attitude and that's a big part of what made her fall in love with him.

I also like to think Finduilas was a healer! She was interested in medicine and made a personal study of it for many years and even delivered babies in Nargothrond.

I don't think she and Gil-galad were especially close but I do think she looked up to him a lot and would have been proud to see him take the crown of the high king of the Noldor.

Sorry Elros, I don't really have enough thoughts about you to share ╯︿╰ I do like the headcanon though that part of the reason he chose to be a Man was because of his disgust with how the Elves had behaved in the First Age and that he never fully forgave the Feanorians for their actions. I also see him as a rather adventurous person--he has to be, to willingly take the path with the unknown end!

[treatian]

The Chronicles of the Dark One: The Delicacies of Time

Chapter 33: Future Planning

He would have thought that bringing an end to Zelena would have given him peace. He'd assumed that falling asleep, not just in his own bed, but in the arms of his beloved, was enough to ease his mind until dawn's light. But even as he slept, images flashed through his mind, a near-constant torment incomparable to spending day after day in the cage of her basement.

Baelfire's fingers slipping through his own.

The Seer walking into the light.

His hands on Zelena.

Her laugh.

Her voice.

Her grin.

Baelfire's eyes glazed open.

He was awake.

Belle was not.

In the days when she'd been new to his life, new to their life, they'd always waken when the other had nightmares, yet now she slept on. That was probably normal, given the year they'd all endured, the year he'd put her through. She wasn't immortal like he was, she needed the rest.

He needed the rest too. But to risk closing his eyes or settling in when the voices in his head were clamoring and shouting at him…it wasn't going to happen. He needed to get up. To move. But the grip Belle had on him was like iron. To break it would certainly wake her, and he didn't see any reason why her rest should be disrupted just because his own was. So, he did what long ago he'd promised her he'd never do again, just this one time, he used magic to keep her asleep and extract himself from her embrace. He tucked her in carefully, then grabbed a pair of pants and left the room.

With nothing but time on his hands, he wandered, looked into each bedroom, dragged his fingers along the banister, checked the refrigerator. His home was his own, just as he remembered it, but he felt strange standing in it. The scent of Belle was heavier than his own. The organization and cleanliness were traces of her, not him. It made him feel like he was the intruder, like he was the one just visiting until he laid eyes on the door to the basement…and wondered…

If everything else was just as it had been before the Curse, then was it possible everything was just as it had been?

The feeling of his own, familiar magic flaring to life the second his fingers hit the knob was comforting. And quietly cracking open the door and smelling his own scent among the musty stale air was welcome. Though his logical mind rebelled at the idea of taking refuge in yet another basement, his legs carried him down the steps and into his former workspace. Emotions too great to comprehend overwhelmed him and threatened to bring him to tears, but he shoved it away and walked forward. He let his fingertips draw shapes in the dust on the wooden tables, and gave his spinning wheel a gentle push, only to stop it when its predictable squeak made him want to cry. His eyes trailed over the books on the shelf, their titles and authors easily recognizable even if they weren't written on the spine or organized alphabetically or by the dewy decimal system or whatever tool Belle preferred. But his gaze also lingered on the spot on the wall where a safe space was magically carved out and hidden. He didn't need to open it to know that the two books he'd stashed there about his mother were present, unlike in the Underworld, where that safe space had been empty and the shelves had been full of the other books about the Black Fairy he'd destroyed once upon a time.

Alone in his room, sitting on the stool to his wheel, the same wheel he'd once sat at with Bae upon his knee teaching him to spin, he wondered if Baelfire would discover his former abode in the Underworld. As far as he knew, his son never crossed the threshold of his house, never even knew where it was. Though he'd imagined family dinners, he knew that would never be. And now that he knew what was on the other side, now that he'd gone to the Underworld and come back only to lose one of the things he was most eager to save…he shuddered to think of Baelfire in that place. Cold. Alone. Finding the cemetery, working through his unfinished business, facing that fire to get to the light…

He shuddered again, but this time it wasn't in the images in his head that summoned the gesture, but rather a familiar itch at the back of his neck. He'd been kept in a cage and watched long enough to recognize the feeling of being watched once more.

"What are you doing here?" he muttered without turning to look at who they might have chosen to send this time.

"We appear in moments of doubt. You'd think you'd realize this by now…" Nimue answered in a tone that was both bored and condescending all at once.

Fuck would he never be free?!

"Congratulations, Rumple, you made it out alive…this time at least," the former Dark One taunted, making her way around the table and into his line of sight.

"Yes, no thanks to you. If you have a point to make, then make it."

"Because you're so busy wallowing in your own grief…"

Yes. And because he didn't feel like kowtowing to her when he had yet again proven himself to be stronger. If he wanted to wallow in his own grief, then he'd fucking wallow…

"Get to your point."

She stood before him, looming as close as she could with the wheel between them. "You're slipping," she accused. "You've always been one of the strongest of us, but your heart has always made you weak. The boy is gone. Now, instead of intelligently taking advantage of the situation and cutting all ties to the girl, you've chosen to bind yourself tighter to her."

A small huff of amusement escaped him, and he shook his head in wonder. How could someone who lived in his head have such a pathetic understanding of who he was after all these years?

"I need her."

"Dark Ones need no one."

"This Dark One does."

"For what purpose?" she argued. "The aim of the Dark Ones has always been to eliminate Light Magic. But every Dark One has always had some other goal, something they've worked for that made the magic necessary in the first place. Yours has always been that boy. First, you save him, then you lose him. Then you brought that Curse upon the land, and you found him again, but at great cost. What purpose do you have now other than the one that's been set before every Dark One?"

"Merlin's Tower is a bit out of reach at the moment."

"A fact I readily acknowledge and is part of the point I want to make."

This conversation was beginning to sound familiar. How could he have made it out of this situation only for her to still doubt him?!

"If you are about to suggest, again, that I hand the dagger, and the power, over to someone else, then you've lost your mind."

"Never as much as you have."

The muscles in his hand twitched with tension. Tension and need. If she wasn't already dead, he'd choke the life out of her with his bare hands for a comment like that.

"Where is your head at, Rumple?" she went on. "There's no more future for us to read inside, no one to tell us where to go or what to do anymore. Not to mention, you carry with you the sins of the past. That black heart of yours will last us…what? A few more months? A year maybe, before it takes over? Not a single one of us has ever lived to see the consequences of a truly black heart to know the full extent of its threat to society. And what's your plan? You want to marry the girl only to turn into one of the darkest, most dangerous creatures to walk the earth?"

"I'll figure it out."

"Yes, because planning to plan is surely sufficient enough."

Yes, in this particular case, after everything he'd been through…he was somewhat sure it was! And she couldn't understand it, none of the Dark Ones could, because she'd said it herself that none of them had ever faced this down before. They'd been spectators as he'd lived his life, but they'd never actually lived it themselves. They'd watched it play out like the audience of some television soap opera, invested perhaps, but unaffected by it.

He was aware of the condition of his heart. And now that Zelena was dead, he intended to return that dagger to Belle at the first opportune moment, and his plan from there was to hope that she'd keep him in the right when his heart went bad. And if that plan failed, then he wanted to live out the rest of his days with as much happiness as he possibly could. He deserved to live out the rest of his days with that happiness. And if he couldn't have Baelfire by his side, then he was damn sure going to marry the love of his life and have her.

"Live," he answered, glancing up at the demon before him. "My plan is to live. No matter how painful or difficult it may be, no matter how much longer my heart has. I plan on living."

Nimue sneered at the suggestion like it was a rotten smell. Anger flared behind her gaze as she reached her hand out and curled her fingers over the great wheel between them. "Well, then you better start making plans for that, Rumpelstiltskin," she muttered in a sinister, threatening tone. "Because if you think that a man like you can settle into a quiet life with a wife, have a few more babies, a white picket fence, perhaps…then you are more foolish than we ever imagined you to be. Someone will come for you. All magic demands a price, and you can't hold onto yours without paying. They'll come for your wife and your children and that life you desire. "

Enough.

"Can you not allow me even a night of peace?" he demanded, staring back at her.

A smile curled at the corner of her lips. "That's just the thing, though, isn't it, Rumpelstiltskin? We both know that if you were looking for peace, you wouldn't be down here, now would you…" Then she turned, and looked over her shoulder into the dark recess of space below the stairs. Slowly her neck craned over to him. "So long as you're just stewing, you might as well get to work."

Curiosity was what drove him from his seat, to follow her gaze and pull free, for the first time since he'd been in this world, a familiar trunk, one that had never belonged to him, but was in his possession all the same. He knew what lay inside, which was perhaps why he hadn't opened it since coming to Storybrooke. Inside that chest lay tome after tome of writings, centuries of knowledge, including his own, carefully prepared and passed down from one Dark One to the next.

He sighed as he looked the trunk over. He wasn't ready to give up his power yet, he wasn't ready to concede defeat. But then again, the Dark One Chronicles weren't just about passing down a legacy. They were about knowledge. And after his time in the Underworld, he couldn't deny…he had plenty of knowledge to give.

[kittykittyhunter]

[Circa October 2019]

from the very beginning;

They're lying on the hillside, enjoying the dewy grass, staring up at the wide, wide universe and its endless stars when the first says, "I had a dream, a while ago."

"About what?"

The tone is light, inquisitive – befitting of a heroine who can at last revel in respite, having saved everyone who needed to be saved.  The first smiles in the dark and fights to keep her voice measured rather than sombre.

"I dreamt that we'd met a long time ago.  We were childhood friends and grew up together.  We went to school.  Trained.  Got part-time jobs.  We were there for each other.  Through everything."

"Oh... wow.  That would have been cool, actually.  Really nice."

"Better?"

The second says firmly, "Oh some things, definitely.  And easier.  I wouldn't have had to fight so hard if I'd had you by my side from the very beginning.  I'm just glad you came into my life when you did."

There's a long silence after that.  Insects crawl over their forearms and the second contemplates falling asleep, secure in the knowledge that she is safe when in the presence of her equal.  Nevertheless, she rubs the tiredness from her eyes and yawns, "Did you like the dream?"

"Not really."

"Oh."  The second flushes, embarrassed.

The first sits up and tucks her knees under her chin. "It's not your fault.  I'm not normally this sentimental, but when I woke up, I was angry that it took so long for us to meet.  We could have had years and years.  But up until now, all we've ever got are scraps of time, whenever our realities happened to collide.  And that's... sad."

The second feels her heart splintering in her chest.  She balls her hands into fists and squeezes them tight.  "I'm sorry," she says. "There's not much that I can do about that."

"You already do more than enough.  Never forget that."

"Why," says the second suddenly, bolting upright, "does this feel so terrible?  Why do I feel like I'm losing you?"

A deep, deep sigh.  The stars sigh in sympathy.

"Because I've got a world and a war to get back to."

"I'll come with you –"

"You can't," the first interrupts.  "I won't let you.  You can't drag yourself from place to place to fight other people's battles.  You're not a weapon!  You're –"

"What?" she demands, "What am I?"

"Too important."

"Have you ever wondered if the feeling's mutual?  If maybe you're too important to be destroyed?"

A short, wry laugh.  "I won't be destroyed so easily.  Don't forget.  I'm one of the best."

"That applies to me, too."

"It's different.  You are the best.  Here, anyway."

"I don't get it.  It's fine for you to help me solve my problems, but it isn't okay for me to help you?  What the hell is that?  Don't you trust me?"

"I trust you," the first answers, "and I love you, which is why I need you to stay here, where it's safe.  This is where you deserve to be.  I'm not going to argue about it."

They both get to their feet.  The air cracks.  The gentle mood is gone, never to be recovered.  The second hisses, "Newsflash, genius.  This is an argument."

"No.  This is a goodbye.  Take care of yourself."

She breaks into a sprint.  The second follows, howling the other's name.  The first hurls something into the darkness and a portal opens up, its edges cast in blue flames.  There's a shimmering, mirage-like scene on the other side: monsters dance through the skies, terrific and violent.

Before the first can vanish, the second catches her wrist.

"I told you, I –"

"And I heard you," comes the bitter reply, "and I respect you too much to completely ignore you, though it looks like you don't care enough about me to stop yourself running away.

"Three months," she adds, holding up the same number of fingers.  "If you're not back by then, I'm going in there and murdering whatever murdered you."

The first struggles between a grimace and a grin.  "Give me six."

"I thought you're one of the best?  Three's plenty."

A small nod.  They press palms for a moment, as though transferring courage.  Then the second steps back and the first steps forward.

As the portal swallows itself, she glances back once, over her shoulder.  She mouths an apology and is gone.

The second bites back her tears.

[teenage-mutant-ninja-freak]

Ciao 👋🏽💛 can we please have a little Donnie x reader drabble where the reader has dark skin, brown eyes, and curly hair? And one day, reader overhear Donnie venting to Mikey about his crush and the reader assumes it’s April before Donnie describes them as having “gorgeous brown eyes/beautiful brown skin” and it immediately clicks that no, he’s not talking about April.

Donnie confessing his love and you overhear

“She’s perfect, just...I know perfect doesn’t exist and I’m in way over my head but is it really that outlandish of me to think that maybe she’d want to be with me too? Those big intelligent eyes and she’s so kind and always males time for me...”

you’r heart sinks and you stop listening

Of course he wants someone else, of course you’re not good enough for him

it’s like a knife to the heart thinking about how head-over-heels he is for someone else.

It’s got to be April, she’s the only other woman in his life who meets that description.

you can’[t even be pissed off, you know April and she is stunning and intelligent and interesting and “All the things I’m not” you think to yourself.

you’d been pining over Donnie for a while now and you were just beginning to convince yourself that maybe you should tell him

this destroyed any chance of that happening

but then you hear it, something else he adds to the conversation with Mikey

“Any the curls in her hair! Mikey, I’ve never seen such beautiful curls or her stunning dark skin. It’s like she doesn’t even try to look that fresh and dewy everyday. But the eyes, man. That’s hat gets me. Her incandescent, dark eyes! They kill me every time I look at them”

April has blue eyes and straight hair.

could he? No. There;s no way this could be about... you.

But he doesn’t really know any other women, at least not meeting that description. 

your heart soars, he has to be talking about you!

you feel positively giddy, the man you’ve been crazy over for nearly a year now actually wants you back

it’s the thing of fairy tales

you walk in the room, head held high

they immediately stop talking and dart their eyes to you, trying to suss out what you may have overheard

“Donnie” you begin “This woman you’ve been talking about. Maybe you should ask her out on a date. I’m sure she’s say yes”

he’s staring out you, mouth agape and cheeks flushed with embarrassment 

you look shyly over to Mikey, your confidence slowly vanishing in the silence of the room

“Y/n, umm. I mean...Would you? Y’know... Liek to go on a date with me?”

Your heart’s beating like a doll drum but you couldn’t be happier.

“I thought you’d never ask!”

[inknopewetrust]

Crashing // Epiphany V

Summary: As Paul’s visions see fruition, the fears he instilled in you materialize.

Pairing: Duncan Idaho x Fem!Reader; Paul Atreides x Aunt!Reader)

Word Count: 4.6k

Warnings: heavy spoilers for Dune (2021), descriptions of injury, language, angst.

Quick Links: Series Masterlist // Next Chapter

The sands of time evolve slowly.

Each grain a memory of the past slowly billowing in the heat; whispering quietly the secrets of its history, it is death and defeat in the sweltering air of Arrakis.

And then, the sweat kisses.

It trembles against soft, dewy skin in the wicked warmth. A swollen tear drifting from one’s cheek to chin, only to realize that it is not sweat that lingers—but sadness.

Arrakis had summoned death. It had blessed the very souls of the past to come and conquer, bleeding House Atreides dry. With the smallest twitch of the finger, you thought you could feel Caladan’s walls. The cool concrete that begged to be welcomed once more but remain unloved and unlived for as long as time may tell. Running a slight hand along its cracks, Caladan called out differently than Arrakis. Its castle was quiet and filled with a palpable, wet air that Arrakis and its homestead lacked.

And like a ghost, you felt its honor.

Silence heavy, unnerving. You could feel your feet tapping each stone calculated and careful. In the night, it was always so—gentle steps and harbored breaths, no one can hear what a good soldier forgets.

But you did not forget, at least you cannot. Because you had seen this before—the halls, the dimmed rooms, and pattering rain drops that eked down from the minute cracks in the ceiling to small puddles on the floor. You had been there before—in Caladan on a chilly night like that.

It felt empty. Chilling your spine as the hard ground gave away to something soft and hot. The sweat not tears nor sea water but pain-filled panic that had been flowing for hours without a clear recognition of it happening.

Jolting awake in the heat, you nearly screamed at the sensation brewing in your thigh.

“Quiet, quiet, Y/n.” Jessica muttered as she pulled tighter, and the burning stung stronger. She was dressing your wound in scraps of cloth she ripped from your clothes. In the dunes, there was nothing to help you. “I need to stop the bleeding otherwise there is not path for you.”

The morbidity of her words did not go unnoticed, it was what she had intended. From the moment you had fallen unconscious inside the halls of Arrakeen, your memories were jaded. The thopter was nothing more than a blip, a second, in your history and the sensation of being pulled into a tent was even less familiar. Throwing your head back against the sand, all you could do was grit your teeth and try not to cry.

“The city is destroyed. There is nothing left.” Jessica glowered in the dark sepia of the billowing tent. The winds of the early morning hours harshly meeting the exposed material as the sand began to diminish the filtering light on the sides. Paul sat with his knees pulled to his chest, watching his mother work on your leg. “I do not think anyone could survive such a thing.”

“Don’t say that.” You told her, groaning as she pulled the cloth into another knot tightly––almost physically manifesting her disagreement. “You underestimate the very people we call friends, family.”

“The Harkonnen said you shouldn’t have survived but you did. None of us were supposed to live, Y/n.” Paul spoke up. His voice was harsh from inhaling the sand and the dry air did no one favors.

“But we did. We can’t assume the others are too just because we were lucky.”

“Were you lucky or was Duncan there to help you?”

Jessica paused. Her hands retracted, her eyes avoiding you as though they had hashed out an entire day’s worth of conversation without you. Paul stare was unwavering. It was as though he had no emotions behind his eyes or feeling that expressed relief you were alright or that he had lived through something unimaginable. Then he started twisting his finger, calling your eyes to his hand as he watched the beads of sweat fall from your brow and then your eyes returned to his.

The ring on his finger was Leto’s.

“Who did you get that from?”

“Why wasn’t Duncan at his station, Y/n?” It was a constant battle of words. The thoughts he had been harboring in the hours since his vision had built up and there was no room for excuses now.

“Paul, where did you get that?” Your voice was a mere whisper from what it was.

“My father...” Paul almost laughed, looking to the ring with a fondness he was never prepared for. “This belongs on my father’s finger.” He returned his gaze to you. “I’m a Duke because my father was left unprotected.”

“We were ambushed, Paul. No one was protected.”

“But you were.” The hues of the tent were red. A blood red––a significance that meant something different to each of you. “You were protected. And you lied.”

“I didn’t lie, Paul.”

“You lied. You lied to me, to my father, to everyone to protect YOURSELF!” He yelled; his fists clenched tightly and the ring standing out against his boney fingers. “He’s dead because you were selfish.”

Like waves washing over broken sand, everything was losing its shape. Leto was dead. Your brother, however selfish or protective his intentions had been, was gone forever and the last conversation you had was filled with harsh words. Looking away from Paul, the tears that had gathered in your eyes were beginning to bubble over. Jessica sat back beside Paul.

“I thought my dreams were nothing more than that because you assured me... now I have nothing, and I see a horrible future I know is true because you lied.”

“What was I supposed to do, Paul?” You sighed. Your voice fractured and sad, tears wasting the water of your body as they fell onto your cheeks and onto the ground. “My entire life is an image I must maintain. I can’t be who I am, I can’t love who I love because I am told not to.”

“The choices you made were nothing but your own.”

“It was not as though I made them all myself... if you knew anything about life you would recognize that. We could not cost one another our dignity; to be judged by everyone for something beyond our control.”

“I wouldn’t have judged you!” His own sadness breaking his angered façade. Fists unclenching and his fingers ran through his hair. “I trusted you!”

“Do you truly believe that it was easy? Especially after you said what you saw!?” You exclaimed, choking back the depressed sobs that were threatening to overtake any sense of words you could make up. “We thought about telling you, for the sake of the dreams, but it takes a lot to break honor, Paul. You could not have asked that of us.”

“He saved you. My father died because no one was there for him.”

“Blame the others too! We were all supposed to die. We were sent here to die because we are a threat. It should not be me, the one who lingers in shadows for a semblance of political honor to help you realize that.”

Paul shook his head, distressed and irate. He was grieving, he was traumatized; the images of what he witnessed nothing like the books and films had showed him. For a moment, he was as weak as he was when he was a little boy––crippling, asking for his father to return although he was already gone.

“He did not need to die.” He muttered in return.

“Would you rather me die? To have your father here, my brother, my brother, in my place. We grieve now in his memory but do not be so daft to believe that what you conceive as a mistake is such. The Harkonnen’s planned this and had help from the emperor. Think no differently that the fate of this house would be changed if Duncan hadn’t been with me.”

“If you saw what I saw, the war in my name... maybe you would have thought differently.”

You tried to sit up, pushing on your arms as your blurry vision clouded both judgement and action. The pain of your leg throbbing, red and irritated from the sand.

“The world never revolved around you, Paul. Just as it does not me, or your mother, or Duncan. Just because you believe you are who the tales say they are waiting for does not mean his death falls on his own family’s guilty hands. My hands are not stained red.”

“You are a distraction.” Paul’s eyes were red and glistening, his jaw ground tightly as Jessica laid a hand on his arm. “We could have been prepared if my father’s judgement was not shaped by the problems in his house.”

“Paul...” Jessica whispered, trying to end what was happening before the worst begun. “Do not speak words for which you will regret.”

“No, Jessica.” You told her, trying not to writhe in agony as you moved upwards. “Ambition can cripple even those who do not have a choice in the matter, I know that. But without ambition, we would be nothing––this house would be nothing. The choices my brother made behind blackened curtains have led us to this path and whether my small, meaningless existence in its legacy impacted his inability to protect us, I cannot be certain anything would have changed.”

“You play a larger role than you believe... it is cowardice that bleeds from your honor.”

“I did what I must.”

“I can see you in the sand.” He said without an ounce of emotion in his voice. Flat, uncaring. Paul was a void of himself at that moment. “Hiding, cowering in a hideaway.”

Still, even with his visions of the future, Paul did not want to believe what he saw would come true. However, in his own pain, he used the possibilities of what could happen to further wound you.

“The pain I see in your future...” From the moment the conversation began, the culmination would lead to grim words being shared. Paul’s anger, his sadness and pain were built within the gift he had been bestowed. And the rumblings of words he should not say began to fumble out like China falling from a delicate shelf. “You deserve it, Y/n.”

There were no words left. Paul had all but sealed your fate with his hatred. Red, burning and bleeding in the sand––the sky filtering that brutal color as the sun began to break above Arrakis.

Jessica kept to herself. Her mind racing of memories and thoughts––what she could have done differently, could have done better. Paul barely spoke another word, but his sporadic coughing cleared the heavy air.

Leto was dead. You could only imagine how or where. You would never see his smile again or reminisce about your childhoods, even if they were vastly different, they were yours. Leto would never neglect your responsibilities, find that half-built study space, or understand that you too had found a love that was unwelcome to the institution. Maybe, if heaven existed, he saw that truth now and could accept it.

If Duncan had joined him, maybe he could tell Leto how much you meant to him.

That was the if you did not want to imagine.

Was Duncan alive? If he was, nothing would ever be the same. The last evening you shared was far from normal and if life ever returned to it, was there a possibility for what had existed to continue? As you folded into yourself, you thought you could smell him on your clothes. They did not understand––Paul did not understand––how difficult life was or how difficult love was. In a war, in a revolution, in a massacre, little could be salvaged in the night as foreigners attacked without forgiveness.

In the sandy dunes of Arrakis, nothing would ever be the same. There was little hope in the tent and the fractures were so deep, so large, that the lines for reconciliation were mere strings being snipped every second.

Maybe you did deserve the pain... but you knew no one, not even yourself, should. It was not your fault love existed. It was not your fault that Paul’s belief he was the savior villainized everyone who punctured his visions. But whatever was to come next, you were not sure you were prepared. Pain could only run so deep before the people inflicted cannot survive.

The beacon sounding its steady beats reminded you of that.

Its rhythmic beats came on quickly.

A heavy silence lingered over the three of you after Paul’s final blow and no one so much muttered a word or heaved a sigh as the air remained thick and unwanted. In the pile of Dr. Yueh’s package, a beacon hidden from your view began to sound. At first, you believed it to be a tracking device stored by the Harkonnen’s to finish what they started but neither Paul nor Jessica was alarmed by the noise.

From the second you woke, you understood that you had missed a great deal of the tragedy that befell House Atreides. Their discovery that Leto was dead, the realization that Dr. Yueh had been the one to sell them out, the grand vision Paul had which decided the future––all were missed, and you were left to put the pieces together as the boy’s silence became unnerving and Jessica’s grief was instilled in resignation.

Your eyes trained themselves on the strange, vein-like structure of the tent. Watching how the water bubbled in clots and flew freely, collecting the water from each of you. Its movement ticking away at the sun, the clock, and all relative feeling of time because as you laid there, still, it was easy to let your mind wander to those who had died and those who you wish to know were alive.

Then the beats became clear.

They startled you, making you turn your head in the direction of Paul and Jessica––the latter of which had been sleeping soundly next to her son––who were both aware of what the beacon’s sound meant. Paul shuffled over a pouch, pushing it into Jessica’s hands, pointedly ignoring you.

“Someone is near.” He continued to sift through the small package of materials before landing on a sand compactor––the one Duncan had shown Gurney not too long before.

“You need to drink.” Paul told Jessica as she slowly lifted the spout to her mouth. “It’s recycled water from the tent. Sweat and tears.”

Jessica pulled back, her face contorting in a near-disgusted form but she drank again despite the salty nature of the water. Without looking at Paul, she passed the pouch to you and told you to drink as well. She knew not how much blood you had lost, and the desert was not kind to those who were not in peak condition. As you drank what you could, Jessica eyed the wound on your thigh.

She knew that it would be a challenge getting you to walk, much less run, in the arid landscape that spanned the entire planet.

Paul turned on the sand compactor. The whirring sound brings you back to reality as the luke-warm water settled within you, grateful that your body was given something rather than having something more taken from it. Without offering help, Paul turned to the exit.

“All right, let’s go.” And the sand compactor blew a hole out from the sand, letting the early sun in.

Paul exited first. He gazed into the dunes of Arrakis with a different perspective than the one he had arrived with and in the distance, he could hear the sound of a thopter coming towards the beacon’s signal inside the tent.

“Come on.” He grabbed Jessica’s hand, pulling her out and leaving her to help you.

“Try not to put pressure on your leg.” She spoke quietly, as if her voice would alert the Fremen or summon the sandworm.

You lifted up carefully, trying not so much as brush that leg against the sand but every movement was aching. Jessica could see the pain in your face. The way you tried to lift it up but even that was a challenge that was hardly met. She extended her hand and much as she could from the outside, opening her palm to greet your own in hopes that maybe her own strength would be enough to pull you out of the tent. She looked in your eyes, concerned but motivated to help amidst her own son’s beliefs that life would be different if you hadn’t lied to him. Jessica knew you. She knew your heart and mind are always acting soundly and strongly even if distracted. Jessica blamed no one besides the emperor and the Harkonnen for what happened hours before.

“On three. Alright?” She nodded to herself, to you, in pseudo-confidence that it would neither hurt nor cause more complications to the journey to safety.

“On three.” You repeated. Her hand tightening its grip on yours and as she counted, you took a deep breath and then she pulled. You managed to get the best of your two legs out of the tent and held onto the outside of the crippling, sand-covered tent as a result. At the same time, the attention shifted to the thopter flying over the three of you–clearly a savior and not an enemy.

Paul was the first to recognize the chaotic flying nature of thopter. It was distinct and familiar, nothing foreign about it. It washed over Jessica as Paul mumbled a single word: “Duncan.” and shuffled down the sand the best he could. Relief washed over you like rain and Jessica squeezed your shoulder.

“Go, Jessica.” You told her, gripping the tent to show her that you could do this on your own. “I’ll be alright.”

“Y/n–”

“I’ll be alright.” She saw through you but followed her son anyway.

You slowly made your way down the dune. Each step becoming one closer to no longer being scared, to no longer being alone. The thopter landed when you were halfway there, and Duncan came running through the plumes of sandy dust toward Jessica and Paul. Seeing him embrace the two of them was heartbreaking. House Atreides was a shell of what it once was and, in all capacities, the emperor and Harkonnen succeeded in their mission.

Duncan kneeled before Paul, distraught in his own right, and pledged his allegiance to his new Duke. Duke Paul Atreides. And unlike Paul had offered you, the young liege put a hand on Duncan’s shoulder, not turning him away as he had you. Duncan looked up at him again, shaking his head.

“There is nothing left. There is no one left.” Arrakeen was nothing more than a wasteland. “They destroyed everything.”

“We have to find the Fremen. It is the only chance we have.” Paul told him what Duncan already knew. It was the only possible solution to concede when all other roads were nothing more than dead ends. Duncan nodded anyway––he was now taking orders from the boy he had helped train. The boy he had seen as a babe and the young man who slowly came into his own. A mere child of a leader he had grown to have a deep, familial respect for and with that, his mind always wandered to you. Even as Paul remained angry with you, he saw the concern in Duncan’s face.

“We need a medkit.” Paul told him, glancing over his shoulder, directing Duncan’s attention to you slowly descending the dune.

And the look that came over Duncan’s face made Paul feel guilty about what he said.

It was just what Gurney Halleck had told him to look for. If just for a moment Paul was able to witness something so pure, so innocent that the mind did not register whether it fulfilled the persona of the person it was appearing on, then he would understand. Paul retracted the hand that Duncan had sworn his fealty with and let him go.

The dune was steep and slippery—the grains of sand ready to fall quickly with every inch and the blood rushing back toward the wound made it even more difficult. The motivation, however, was still surging. It ignited inside of you like an eternal flame because the one hope you had allowed to fester into an unimaginable dream had come true.

Duncan was there in the flesh. His hair blowing wildly, the stillsuit worn haphazardly as he reunited with the people he loved most. You watched as he clutched them tightly against his body, relieved that the seeds of House Atreides had not fallen into a dark, lonely night. And after he pledged his loyalty and as the sand continued to run with your haggard steps, he looked up.

Even with such a distance between you there was no denying the peace that came with knowing the person who meant everything had survived. Duncan removed himself from Paul and Jessica’s company, running to you as if it were the final mission he would ever complete.

Knowing he would come to you, you stopped moving, barely holding yourself up on one leg as the blood began to seep down your leg in measured trickles.

“Your alive.” It was the first thing you could hear Duncan say. He needed to say it out loud to be real.

“Barely.”

As he ascended the dune, Duncan shuffled his feet to lessen the amount of spraying sand—not wanting to cause further irritation to you if he could help it. He reached out one of his gloved hands toward you, helping you down and toward him. As the two of you drew closer together, there was no denying the horrifying anguish of the situation.

You could reach out to him now—allowing Duncan to wrap his arms around you in an embrace you greatly needed and the feel of your hands cradling the back of his head was all he needed. For a moment, everything was fine. The world faded away and Arrakis was nothing more than the ground on which your feet stood.

Duncan smelt of fire and fuel. His hair was knotted from the wind but the touch of his fingers clutching your body, the feel of his face buried in your neck—he was alive and real and no matter the amount of reunions you had been faced with over the last few months, this one would be cemented in your memory.

“Leto’s gone.” You whispered as you both backed away from the embrace enough to see each other’s faces. Duncan rested one of his hands on your waist, holding you steady so you did not have to and the other rested on your cheek.

“I know…” his thumb moved in a comforting stroke. He needn’t say “I’m sorry” or “If I can help…” because it was just as much a loss to you as it was him.

But you never truly appreciate the people around you until they’re gone. When only the memory remains and the “what if’s” become more prominent than the past.

“If you would not have made it…” again, your voice was nothing more than a fractured tune. Emotion wrought and high, the thought of Duncan dying was almost too much to believe.

“I’m here.” He replied softly, pulling your head down to where your foreheads met and the simple connection was a blessing. “I’m here.” He repeated once more.

“Duncan…” you started, pulling away and holding onto his arms for support. His normally stoic gaze was concerned, eyebrows furrowed and conflicted with both duty and honor, love and lust.

“Harkonnen soldiers had Paul and Jessica when I found them. They said I was not supposed to live, but incapacitated me rather than kill me—something about taking me prisoner for the Baron’s own liking.”

“But you gave them a good fight?” He offered a small smile, just the tiniest hint of amusement that you had gone from cowering under a bed, following his orders, to fighting trained killers in the hall.

“I tried.” You sniffled, lifting a hand to wipe away the tears that continued to fall. “I’ve lost a lot of blood and I cannot trek this desert like this.”

“I found Kynes. She knows where to take us.”

“She’s the Judge of the Change… how can she possibly be on our side?”

Duncan shook his head, not entirely sure himself. “I think there is more to her than we realize… too much of that nowadays, huh?” Again, the quirk of his mouth and the way his eyes crinkled at the sides made you feel butterflies. The almost child-like appreciation that he knew what you needed—no more heartbreak, no more pain if he could control it.

“Put your arm around me.” He shifted himself to line up next to you, the side of your bad leg. It was a strategic move in the desert because carrying someone else’s body weight wasted energy and water that he would need if something were to go awry. So, you leaned against him and tried to move as efficiently as possible in the sand.

“Kynes can clean it on the thopter, but it will be hours until we reach the station. You need to do what she says, ok?”

“I do not believe I am in a position to say otherwise, Idaho.”

The two of you managed to reach Jessica and Paul, the boy watching with a careful eye, none too filled with apologizes yet. Duncan ordered them to get to the thopter quickly and Kynes was there to greet them.

“For a moment I thought you had not made it to Paul and Jessica.” Duncan admitted, continuing to hobble with you toward the vehicle as the wind picked up around you. “God, I was not ready to believe that.”

With every step you drew closer, Duncan knew times for privacy would be the most scarce delicacy in the world. As the sound of the thopter’s wings and engine whirred loudly around you, he turned, looking you in the eyes and gripping your face with such passion it nearly stung.

“I will not leave this planet without knowing you are safe, Y/n. I may serve your name and family but I serve you. I, fuck…” only in times of complete complication did Duncan use such language before you. He was trained not to—protocol for interacting with the ‘ladies’ of the house.

“I love you so fucking much and I will be dammed if you go before me.”

Before you had a second to respond, he brought his lips to yours in a fury of passion and pain. You had both thought the same of one another—that death was a real possibility and neither of you had said what you wanted to. There was much unknown about tomorrow, but so long as the truth was set free, death may be greeted without fear.

“I love you, you know I do, so much.”

And before Duncan pulled you up into the thopter and helped buckle you in, you held his hand tightly and reiterated the proclamation from times before love was admitted proudly—no longer a secret, but an oath.

“There will never be anyone else, Duncan. I am with you now, forever, however long that may be.”

It could not last forever.

As Kynes cleaned the wound of blood, you gazed at Duncan as he flew above the dunes and through the afternoon and night.

A sickening feeling washed over you when night fell. It was as if the universe was warning you that forever was wishful.

For tomorrow was judgement day.

A/N: Thank you so much for reading and I appreicate the paitence waiting for this part. As always, likes, reblogs, and comments are always appreicated :)

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[phillippadgettwrites]

Stay

Rated X / 1229 words / Posted on AO3

She slips under the cool sheets, sidling up to him with dewy, shower-warm skin.

“Hi,” she purrs in his ear, and he grunts. “You asleep?” she asks quietly, draping her leg over his.

His hand finds her knee, sliding up her bare thigh until he meets with her hip and confirms that she’s entirely nude.

“Not anymore,” he says with a gravelly voice, rolling to his side to face her.

“Thanks for letting me stay here,” she says as his hands explore the skin of her back and waist, grazing the side of her breast.

“It’s your house too, Scully,” he murmurs. “You can stay here whenever you want.” His hand trails lower, cupping her ass cheek and squeezing. “Such a shame that all your clothes were destroyed in the explosion,” he says. “You’re going to have to go naked until we can get to the mall.”

She giggles, wriggling closer.

“I have quite a few things to replace,” she agrees.

“How about that little pink thing? You going to replace that?” he asks, grabbing the back of her thigh and hitching her leg over his hip.

“Do I need to?” she asks breathily.

“Well, you know I don’t take issue with an assist,” he replies, pressing his groin against her belly so she can feel him growing hard. “But in the meantime, I’ve got your six.”

He kisses her, first sweetly and then passionately, and she is once again pleasantly surprised by how easy this has been to fall back into. His hands wander while his mouth teases hers, fingers grazing nipples and the smooth skin of her belly, trailing up the backs of her thighs and brushing over the crack of her ass. His touch is electric, anticipatory, and she feels herself growing wet and needy. She reaches for him, getting in one languid pump over his sweats before he pulls her hand away.

“Not yet,” he says levelly, and she feels a little rush of excitement.

He rolls her to her back, spreading her thighs and kissing his way down her body. Her pelvis undulates gently of its own volition, aching for his attention, but he takes his time. He sucks hungrily on her nipples, trails his tongue over the creases of her thighs, licks and laps all around her vulva until she is on the cusp of begging. When she finally feels the wet brush of his tongue over her slippery lips, she melts into the bed and groans.

He hums happily while he tastes her, grabbing the backs of her thighs and pushing them up to tilt her pelvis higher. His tongue flashes over her asshole and she gasps, touching his head in encouragement. He pulls away and she looks down at him, confused, as he grabs her hips and twists them, urging her to roll on to her belly. He then tugs her pelvis up and away from the mattress and settles his face in the valley of her ass cheeks.

There was a time that this became a regular part of their lovemaking. On the run, in an endless series of motels in forgettable towns, they’d pushed their own limits sexually, trying just about anything that neither of them balked at in an attempt to find joy and release. Upon discovery of their mutual enjoyment of ass play, it was practically all they did for the better part of a year. Over time, as they settled down and returned to a life that resembled normal, it happened less often. Then sex of any kind faded away until it stopped altogether. That was one of the biggest red flags, in retrospect.

She snakes her hand under her belly and between her legs, stroking her clit while he tongue-fucks her. She reaches further back to gather her own wetness as lubrication and her fingers brush over his chin. She holds them there, feeling his jaw work as he licks at her. Suddenly, he sucks her fingers into his mouth and she moans, wanting more. Wanting everything, wanting him.

“I want you inside me,” she says against the cotton of the sheets, and the bed jostles as he rises to his knees and pushes his sweats down.

He drags the head of his cock up and down over her slippery slit, then pushes into her cunt in one swift motion. She cries out, fisting the sheets and pushing back against him. He fucks her steady for a bit, his hands on her hips, and she fumbles for the bedside table to retrieve a tube of lubricant. Pouring some into her hand, she reaches back and grasps the root of him. He stills and she leans forward, letting him slip out. She spreads the lubricant over his shaft and then raises him higher, pressing the head of his cock against her asshole. She works by feel, slowly sinking back on him until there is a brief sting, and then then a feeling of fullness.

He stills, letting her adjust to him. She hears little catches in his breath and singular throbs of his shaft inside her, and her cunt waters.

“Okay,” she says, and he pushes the rest of the way in.

She brings her hand back to her clit, increasing her pace as he increases his. He’s breathing heavily through his nose, holding back, waiting for her. She wants to tell him how good he feels, but that will likely make him come and she’s not ready for this to be done. She does give him one command, towards the goal of finding her own release.

“Harder.”

He blows out a stream of air through pursed lips and obeys, skin slapping in the quiet room. It’s perfect, stroking a place that is inaccessible through any other means, and she holds very still as he hits just the right spot over, and over, and over.

“I’m gonna come,” she keens. “Fuck me, please.”

He growls and takes up a punishing pace, and she swipes her finger over her clit as she falls apart.

“You feel so good,” she whimpers, and he snaps his hips forcefully against hers.

“Goddamn it, you’re so tight,” he says through gritted teeth, and then “Fuck, I’m coming.”

She feels him, hot and forceful, as he spurts inside her. She’s still throbbing, still riding out her own orgasm, and he continues to pump until he’s soft enough to slip out easily. She collapses onto her belly, panting and drunk on dopamine.

Mulder disappears into the bathroom for less than a minute, then slides up beside her and brushes his hand over her back.

“I missed that,” he says fondly, and she huffs a little laugh.

“Me, too,” she agrees, feeling herself drift off to sleep.

“I meant it, Scully,” he says tenderly, swirling his thumb around the edges of her tattoo. “Stay as long as you want. I like having you here.”

She rolls over, tucking her face into his neck as he wraps his arms around her.

“I bet you do,” she says playfully, and he laughs, then squeezes her ass.

“I do, for a lot of reasons,” he adds.

They are quiet for a beat.

“Maybe I’ll hold off on looking for a new place, just for a bit,” she says, and she can hear him smiling.

“I think we’re gonna need more lube,” he says, and they both laugh.

Tagging @today-in-fic

[ficsnroses]

𝑯𝒊𝒔 - 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧𝐧𝐲 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐚𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐜

johnny silverhand x fem! V [reader]. 

summary : johnny and you both want this, a physical exchange to feel relief. 

warnings : smut, nsfw. rough unprotected sex. swearing. 2.5k words. no spoilers other than johnny’s status.

notes : something new! next to zero plot, just some good ol fucking each other’s brains out smut. I had a lot of fun writing this, might write some more fics for him if readers are interested. enjoy! feedback appreciated as always. also! i’d love to read some johnny fics if you have recommendations :)

She’s slipping away, day by day by day.

Exhilarating, exhausting. The steps under her feet hurt, they mock. With each dragged, littered breath trudged out her lips, she crumbles. Crumbles in what feels as if the boneyard of a dream; the debris of a reverie.

She hurts, she needs relief. Something temporary to match what swills inside.

Relief that would come in something more than amber kissed crystal glasses, something stronger than the wash of bitter liquor searing down her throat. Alcohol feats in her head- but so does he.

He feats in her head, he’s taking over. Day by day, by day.

“Hey highness, why don’t you make yourself useful and get more smokes.”

His voice comes in loud barrels, thuds of lightening that crash in her veins. It’s sharp, pronounced. Gravelly, a contrast, disparity to her quieter, mellower one- one that caused a ruckus to be heard for the entirety of her being, to be remembered.

Yet, it hadn’t gotten her far. She’d been far from what she’d dreamt.

       Her voice, her quiet, broken voice that plead to be heard.

He stands crisp, muscled back brave against the cold metallic wall. Broken drags and hostile exhales haste out his throat, the tared smoke serving as a dire remembrance of what he used to be.

Real.

“Gonna move or what?” Strong, cynical. The tone he spits is rough, pessimistic. He’d come as a parasite, something humane no more, driven by a dream, a delusion. His delusion, he’d use her for. There’s no affliction in his voice, no compassion. His voice registers dimly through the rumble of her own agony.

Somewhere along blurred lines, parasitic growls became usual; anticipated.

It’s tough being angry at someone who hears you.

And somewhere along the dreary lines, he’d felt it too.

It’s tough being angry at someone who sees you. Sees someone, the world had long forgotten.

Her voice comes in sharp daggers, strident. “Shut up.” Long for relief brews in her nerves, threatens to overtake. Threatens to destruct. “Shut the fuck up for one second” She growls, a low huff under her breath. The burn is breaking her, the yearn scorches inside long empty walls.

He knows too, he senses the deliberation inside her. He feels it in cold, chilled ghastly bones. He could help her, and she could help him, with something more than the mission at stake. Something sinfully bigger than the dream.

Something to feel human, again. He walks, a hologram that leaves louder, heavier steps than anyone she’d known prior. She feels a tingle; a twitch in her skin ignites, she feels a dark warmth.

It comes from him; it calls from his body.

“You’re an asshole. Nothing more.” She pierces, the toxins fall her lips, a desperate attempt to keep him away. Keep him out.

The drags of his steps thud louder in her head, the shift of his holographic form closer. There’s a hoarse gravel in his throat, something so negative, yet so familiar. So painfully familiar. He lives inside her, he’s all she’s began to remember. “Cigarettes make me feel something.” The cool air that stings the nape of her neck sends a shiver down her spine. “Something fucking real for once.”

“Fuck off.” She spits, avoiding a sworn intense gaze. Her stare in the abyss out the distant paned windows causes a churn in her mid, something sickening. A quiet realization falls, creeping.

“You’re taking over me.”

A chuckle off his mouth, a smirk curled to his thin taut lips. “We are bound.” He growls. “And I am owed.”

Chained; she reminds herself. You are chained, shackled to him.

“You’re owned nothing.” She grits. He watches the way she tenses, visibly burning.

In his hallow shell of a mind long forgotten, he’d undressed her a thousand times; watched the way she slept so vulnerably, thought of the way the threads that hug her body like a lover could peel off so easily. So sinfully. “Can’t help but wonder what this pretty pussy of yours could make me feel instead.” A growl emits his throat, stocked fingers finding their way palming thin fabric shielding her cunt from prying gaze.

And the touch that registered leaves her panting. His touch, something she’d never felt before, was real. He was real. This ghost that drowns in her every thought was existent as day, dark as night.

“You want me, as much as I want you.” His voice comes in drowned out waves; the long inside her body for something physical slowly enveloping. “Fucking say it.”

She dreams of relief, of release. She dreams of good, pleasure that could wash her lungs; quench the burn. She dreams of something more than the familiar scald of liquor sent in cascades down her throat. She dreams of something physical, something filthy to satiate relief.

Sex starved, she succumbs. Sex longing, he smirks, and smirks,

       and smirks.

Stop, says her mind.

Go, haunts her body. Let him use you the way you’ve always wanted.

“Fuck me.” She mutters, breath rugged, crisp desperation rung on shade stained lips. “Fuck me. Now.”  The words rip, long pent frustrations urge. He’s far too appealing, perfectly groomed beard and lengthy locks raven on his mane; toned muscles, cryptic bolded ink litter his skin. Deep-rooted ink bedecks his un robotic arm, and she sighs at the way his smirk induced lips crawl at her neck. Lingering kisses, gentle bites leaving faint purple bruises to her delicate skin;

Something about the way he speaks, the way his touch held the power of a million fucking bullets.

Unmatched, unprecedented.

Cold and stoic, his bionic hand plants to her chest, above the valley of perfectly plump breasts. Slowly, he guides, her body finding refuge on her bed covered in a sea of soft sheets and cottoned pillows. The same bed, where she knew he’d fuck her into oblivion, now that she’d asked.

A fire burns in his belly, a smoke that matches lustrous eyes roving and bulging pants. Through brown leather, the outline of his impressive cock causes a gulp in her throat, the anticipation tightening in her ached cunt, long yearned for the fruit of any friction. “Take everything off.” His shallow voice demands, and she watches the way he palms a throbbing cock shielded from her gaze.

Johnny was equipped, experienced; expert to say the least. He knew well how to please a woman, how to mix the perfect blend of pain and pleasure. If there’s one thing groupie affairs taught;

all pussy is good, but only few, came heavenly.

He’d known since he’d saw her, since their first encounter. There’d been no place he’d wanted to be buried guts deep, no place as tight, warm, inviting than her cunt. Her movements follow obliged, skimpy cloth and thin bottoms tugged off for his view. Amatory lace bottoms and a matching bra unhook through the brittle fingers of her hands; her eyes never leave him. The way his prying eyes dig into hers, piercing. He palms, and strokes, cold hands moving to unbuckle a heavy belt that falls to the floor with a dense thud.

In the chilled air of the futuristic room, a cold shiver pecks at her skin; inch by inch a warmth blazes inside. The anticipation of what Johnny would, could do to her. He could destroy her.

He could ruin her, with every thrust.

Much to his splendour, her bare breasts sit perfectly swollen on her chest, pert, hardened nipples vibrant with tint. Silky skin, perfectly dewy. She was a fucking goddess in her own right; a sex siren his cock pulses for, in dire need. A flush to her skin ignites, visibly frustrated. “Haven’t been fucked in a while, have you.” He states firmly, less of a question than proclamation. A cold, robotic finger grazes her bottom lip, stony, iced, a snicker loiters. “Or haven’t been fucked well?” His finger trails down, gently, sub-zero, feather light as it glosses her skin, brushed against the petals, the slippery folds of her tender womanhood; two digits enter, curling inside her beautifully slick, warm walls.

“You’re gonna remember me for days, princess. Gonna wreck this pretty pussy of yours, show you what it means to be alive.”

In this moment, she’d swore she belongs to him. She’d permit his pessimistic soul to do whatever he sought, with her frail body.

“Gonna pull it out or what, coward.” She allows, that familiar confidence she’d so desperately tried to hold true finding light once again.

She tries, she pleads to be strong. Yet she knows, she’d be sure. She’d crumble under him; she’d fall mercy to his mechanical touch.

“Patience.” He sneers, motorized hands unzipping. “Patience is virtue, darling.”

Somewhere along the way, she’d gotten accustomed to snarky remarks, egotistical transcriptions.

His cock falls out of his pants, heavy, thick, big, beautiful. She swallows, intrigued by the grandeur, a rosy tip swells with beads of wet pre cum, seeps. A thunderous vein runs down a curved shaft, copious balls surrounded by a jungle of dark hair.

She swallows at the sight; his words stay true. Intimidated, she’d for sure remember him, for days. The ache he’d leave would triumph for days to come.

“On your back.” He demands, pants long forgotten to the flat below, a few meagre tugs jerked to his raw, throbbing member.

Johnny Silverhand had fucked countless women, yet none made his cock as painfully erect, tender as she did. In the most sinful of ways, his cock would become her prisoner, and they hadn’t even started yet. With a rock hard cock digging into the skin of her stomach, he takes positon above her, towering. The scent of need fills the air as silky legs spread for his taking,

She spreads for his taking. A gasp dies in her throat as his cock springs, the deep baritone moan in his chest grumbling as his erection dips forcefully into her tiny mouth, impeding down her throat with a sole thrust. His hips buck forcefully in her wet, tight mouth, lingering as his jaw tightens, before plummeting out.

He’d primed himself in her throat, preparing to be buried between feeble legs, drowned inside her tender cunt.

Glancing between sweat stippled bodies, she stares and stares when his hands line a pulsating cock up with her entrance, firm hands planting to her hips, his massive member sinks inside her, rough, robust. A heavy thrust implores, big, warm, beautiful. One deep, harsh thrust was all it took. All it took for her to ascend, a loud moan of pure pleasure let off her lips at the sheer weight of him inside.

The bass of his voice moans harsh, sucking in a sharp breath to the feel of her wrapped, glistening his cock with her creamy, wet releases. His pace proves animalistic, hard off the get go, minimal time for her to adjust before he pounds her hastily, laboured breaths and quickened heavy exhales channelling out both their bodies. Delicate, weak arms desperately hold his broad shoulders as he drills into her needily, sloppily, the sound of thick balls slamming her core echo grey walls, dark eyes and enticingly deep grunts kissing her ears as he takes her body whole. “Fuck…you’re...” He breathes, rugged, harsh. “You’re…so fucking tight. So fucking wet.” Growling, he watches her become a whimpering, disorderly mess under his weight as beautifully plump breasts jerk hastily to his hostile pace. Her eyes flutter closed, lips slightly agape as she breathes tiny, gasped moans, fingernails clawing into his fleshy shoulders.

His hips rock expertly, so rough, so quick she feels warm tears singe in he corners of her eyes at how well he fucks her, how guttural his moans fall. Praises for her pussy dawdle his lips in hasty exhales, chasing his orgasm as her cunt cocoons, moulds to his cock so perfectly; as if a glove, as if she’d been made just for him. Solely for him to use, for him to fuck. His hold on her tightens, hands kneading tantalising hips as one moves to squeeze her breast, tough. The stretch he leaves proves incomparable, eyes widening when the curve of his cock hits her G spot repeatedly, hisses of her name and rapt desire overtaking. A selfish pace conjures, her body jerks, stifling moans with each imperative thrust.

The pain, the pleasure. The unholy pleasure of this parasite splitting her inch by inch. His cock glides easily, slips in and out gratifyingly; whimpers and yelps brew her voice, a chant of his name desperately recited as if a prayer she’d held, punctuated by growls and throaty gruffs of his. With her tits bouncing vigorously to his pace, Johnny’s need only cultivates further, and he drowns in the feel of her heavenly cunt.

His, all, and only, his.

Her legs tremble, a bite sinks into her arm covering her mouth to cage particularly gruesome moans. The violent labour of his hips, over and over, and over leave every vein inside her snapping, every nerve ending sparking with lust, she feels him all. His entire cock barely fitting; she squirms under him, his buttery voice filtered with demand. “Tighten up for me. Milk this cock like it’s the last thing you’ll do.” His moans fall heavier, as his thrusts; sultry, stiff voice surging her ears as he shudders, shivering, buried deep, deep inside. A cocktail of glossy, creamed releases they’d create together drip to the sheets below, although neither cease to care.

A joint euphoria builds, something they’d needed dire. Her limbs wrap his frame, his muscles cage her tight. He pounds, he thrusts, he jolts, he relishes in the tender haven she’d given him to spoil in; the sound of his cock slicking in her wetness through unaltered thrusts proves far too much, she feels each ridge, each inch of his godly cock assaulting her core.

“Gonna cum,” Johnny asserts, pace never faltering. She jolts, and jolts, and cries, and whines to his speed, to his feel. Within a few particularly intense thrusts, lewd moans drive out her lips in frantic succumb, her pussy throbs for him, skin colliding, arousing him further. Holding dearly, she practically melts into him, hips bucking to meet his as a blissful, earthshattering orgasm washes over her in currents; in oceanic waves, a tsunami of all things good, all things filthy.

Her pussy falls sore, aching, delicate from the action when he grunts imperatively, the sound of hammering hips into her heat dying down when his cock twitches within her, slipping through silky arousal easily, slamming relentlessly when his high comes. It comes, he cums, deep, deep inside her trifling cunt, swollen thick and jerked as spurts of hot, scotching cum coat the insides of her pussy. The groans he lets out prove impatient, hoarse, coursing, currenting through her ears. She beats with his succulent release inside, a cocktail her juices and what he’d left behind coating the insides of her thighs.

In sex gratified bliss, her eyes widen when he collapses on top, thunderous arms holding her still, cock excruciating felt within. Tonight, she’d been told. She’d been shown,

Johnny likes it

Sloppy. Vulgar. Tight.

pornographic.

       Johnny likes it rough, hard.

Ruthless, and she’d crumbled in each inch of it. Addicted, long gone. He’d sworn the same, intoxicated by her unrivalled cunt, those soft, whingeing moans that flee her lips;

With their skin sticking together through beads of peppered exertion, laboured puffs and heavy huffs pound in their chests, bodied still fitted together as if a puzzle piece, cock still sheathed inside. Simpering, smirking, his cold, contemporary finger lifts the faint of her chin,

the world seemed to have ended in this moment.

her world had ended, shaken.

But time still passed, it passed, it tightened, clawed in her chest.

Nothing compared to him, nothing tasted as sweet.

“We are bound, kitten. This pussy is mine, and mine alone.”

       A declaration, a fate written.

He’d taken over another part of her; and this time, she let him.

Her body belongs to him, in all forms.

His fuck doll, she’d be.

And she knows, she feels it in her bones. He’ll be the death of her through what comes;

       he’ll love to ruin her.

 and she’ll love, to be his.

➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴➶ ➴

My taglist will be posted in reblogs, let me know if you want to be added or removed! :)

[sallyf4ce]

wolves

chapter II

-> sally face x f!reader

-> enemies? to lovers

-> previous | next

cw: drugs, cigarettes, abuse, panic attack

*does not follow original plot of sally face*

summary: larry knocks (y/n) off her feet, literally. later, him and sal come to apologize, bearing a gift of homemade lasagna. sal and (y/n) bond over their similar bodies. his eyes look familiar.

The sound of your skateboard and the wind brushing past your ears practically deafened you, which allowed you to think in peace. Maybe you’d survive in Nockfell.

Maybe it wasnt as bad as you made it. You’d grow close to the old apartment, push through school, leave your mother as quickly as possible, and start fresh somewhere across the world. The only thing that you wouldn’t get close to is the forest surrounding Addison. It loomed over you, day and night, dewy pines poking out at you like a warning sign. Maybe mom moved here just so she could torture you with the forest. Remind you of what happened.

Loud footsteps joined the wheels of your skateboard. You looked back, and on your trail were those two kids from the apartment. The tall one’s face was almost right in yours. You let out a small yelp as your skateboard hit a rock and sent you tumbling to the ground, completely destroying your knees in the process.

“Shit!” larry yelled out in surprise as he dodged the skateboard that went right between his legs.

You quickly reached out to your head, trying to calm the searing pain pulsing through it. What the fuck just happened?

“What the fuck?” you groan. The blue haired boy, sal, grabbed your skateboard and came up close to you. pulling down his sleeves, he quickly grabbed your knees and covered them, soaking up the gushing blood.

“Larry!” sal turned around to face him. You winced as the fabric of his sweater clung to your knees. Your hands grabbed his to pull them off but you froze. They were soft and cold, almost like snow. How would it feel to hold them longer? Would you warm them up? or would they freeze you?

What the fuck?

You snapped out of your trance and moved them off your knees. You scowl at larry and pick your skateboard back up.

“Nice job, asshat.”

His face flushes at the insult and he moves back. Sally stands up and offers you his hand, but you dont need his help (obviously a lie, your entire body was aching like a scale 8 earthquake). You shove yourself up and wipe your burning palms on your jeans. With your feet back on the skateboard (it took a few tries to get up because your knees kept buckling), you flip them off and begin skating back to addison. You just wanted a nice fucking stroll alone, why were these fucks literally everywhere you went?

It’s around 12:45 now. You came home, took a bath, bandaged up your knees and took some tylenol. Mom was already in her bedroom and there were some leftover beer bottles on the coffee table, so she probably wouldnt wake up anytime soon. you quickly trashed the bottles and decided for a quick nap on the couch, since your room was… occupied. your pyjamas, for now anyway, consisted of an oversized grey ac/dc shirt and some soft-ass spandex shorts.

“finally, a fucking break from this shit.” a content sigh escaped your lips as you threw yourself onto the cold couch.

a few knocks sounded at your door.

“(y/n)? it’s uh, it’s sal. and larry.”

“fuck.”

THEY’RE LITERALLY EVERYWHERE WHAT THE FUCKKKK AGGHHH WHY CANT THEY LEAVE YOU ALONE THEY ALREADY BUSTED YOUR KNEES LIKE WHAT

“coming.” you mumbled angrily even though they couldn’t hear you.

the blinding fluorescent lights of the hallway hit you as you opened the door. along with them came the smell of freshly baked lasagna. your eyes widened for a second, before looking up at sal. he stared at you, taking in your appearance. your hair was ruffled, eyes blinking sleepily as they adjusted to the light. your shirt had ridden up and showed a bit of your stomach. he blushed as you pulled it down and glared at him, a slight tinge of red on your own cheeks.

“larry.” he nudged his friend. the brunette walked up in front of sal, holding a pan of lasagna.

“listen man, i’m sorry. i didn’t mean to fuck up your knees n shit. jus’ got excited cause of your sanity falls shirt. can we, uh, can we come in?”

Slam.

larry quickly jumped back in surprise.

“i guess that means no.”

you yelled out a quick ‘wait!’ as you cleaned up your apartment and hid your mom’s weed and other things. god, for a grown woman, she didn’t know how to clean for shit.

opening the door back up, you waved them inside.

“god, you smoke a lot.” larry coughed a bit at the smell of your apartment, which earned him a shove.

“sorry! god, sal, so mean.” he mumbled.

“s’ my mom. i only smoke outside. uh, take a seat on the couch, i’ll warm up the lasagna.” you pulled it out of larry’s hands as they both took a seat on your makeshift bed.

sal shifted. “you sleep here?” he asked, confused. maybe your room was being used as storage.

“for now. there’s some weird ghost shit going on in my room. some fucking preppy ghost woman keeps squealing when i come in.”

ghosts? you believed in ghosts? maybe they’d be able to take you on their expeditions! sal perked up at the thought of you becoming friends.

“you believe in ghosts?”

“well, i saw one, so what else could it fucking be?” you chuckled as you shoveled the now warmed up lasagna onto three plates. sal noticed and his eyes widened.

“oh, no, i- i don’t want any-” he waves his hands.

“you’re having it, i don’t care.”

larry laughs as you shove it into their hands.

“feisty, aren’t ya?” he stabs some and shoves it into his mouth. you sigh and lean back into the couch.

“you guys go to the school here, right?”

larry nods. “yeah, there’s only one school in nockfell.”

“eww, larry face, don’t chew with food in your mouth.” sally laughs. in the corner of his eyes, he thinks he can see you smile.

“yeah, we go to nockfell high. i’m assuming you’re going there too.”

“mhm. starting monday. hurry up and eat, i’m not warming it up again.” you grumble. sal doesn’t move. “god, okay, i’ll look away. i have to go clean this thing anyway.” you wave your prosthetic’s fingers.

“oh, yeah, you also have a prosthetic!” his face shifts into a child-like curiosity. it’s a face that you’ve seen before, and it makes you giggle a bit every time. you place your hand on his lap. sal does a double take and his mask raises a bit.

“you wanna touch it, don’t you. go ahead.”

“damn, sal, you get all the ladies. leave some for me.” larry chimes in, hand on his forehead in mock sadness. he chuckles.

“you gonna touch it or what?”

“uh, yeah.” sal slowly lowers his hands onto it. he traces your fingers, flexing them every once in a while. he flips your palm and looks at the graffiti ‘s’ you drew on it.

“when was this?” he looks back up at you.

“grade 10, two years ago. got bored in class and accidentally took out my sharpie instead of a dry-erase marker. god, my mom was mad.” you chuckle at the memory. she didnt let you back in the house for two days. you had to camp out in the shed, where you stored your extra food so she wouldn’t steal it.

sal hummed. “what about this one?” it was a big ‘SF’. was it for his name? of course not, she didn’t know you back then, moron. still, it warmed him up a bit.

“not for you, that’s for sure.”

“damnnn, savage!” larry put his plate down. “mind if i get more?”

“larry, we brought it for (y/n).” sal scolded.

“nah, i don’t mind. knock yourself out.” you nodded, continuing your conversation with sal.

larry trotted towards the kitchen.

larry’s point of view:

sal and (y/n) seemed to be getting along quite well. good for him, really. we might be able to coax (y/n) into our friend group. i didn’t like her at first, but i think she’s just a little stand-offish. anyway, back to the lasagna. man, i wish mom would make it more often. she only makes it for guests. where is it? oh, there. (y/n)’s going to nockfell high, right? probably should tell her about travis.

your point of view:

sal was still tracing your arm, running his pale fingers over where the prosthetic connected to your skin. the doctors could have chopped your arm off completely, up to your elbow, but you wanted to salvage as much as you could, so it stops mid-forearm.

“do you take it off often?” sal hummed. it felt a little intimate, tracing your prosthetic. it was like soothing a part of your body that was already gone. what? what was he thinking?

“mmm, i take it off every night. if i leave it on, i could get rashes ‘n shit. rashes aren’t fun. ‘m assuming you take yours off every night too.” he nods.

“i don’t like taking it off during the day. phantom limb shit, you know? it hurts a lot.” you grumble.

“got the lasagna. since you’re going to nockfell, ‘should probably tell you about travis.” larry sits down. “he’s your typical stick-up-the-ass bully. doesn’t really like sally face ‘n our crew.”

“yeah. just ignore him and you should be fine.”

“we‘ll protect you.” larry swings an arm over your shoulder.

huh? you can protect yourself. does he think you can’t? is it because of your prosthetic?

“i can do it myself, you dimwit.” you push his arm off your shoulder.

“time for you to leave.”

“woah, dude, calm down-” larry’s eyes widen in panic. he didn’t mean to offend you.

“i’m sorry!”

“i’m not hurt, just need my sleep. it’s 1:30. go on now.”

sal sets down his cold, uneaten lasagna and larry takes a quick bite out of his.

“see ya!” he mumbled, words muffled by food. you click your teeth as he walks out of your apartment and towards the elevator.

“(y/n).”

you spin around to face sal. his hand lingers on your counter.

“your knees. how are they?”

you look at his eyes through his mask. they’re light blue. like the lake that you so dreaded. like the sky that morning. like your dad’s shirt. he blinks.

“uh, f-fine. they’re fine. they should heal in a few days. time for you to go.” you grab his shoulders and shove him through the door.

“see you tomorrow?” he stumbles.

“yeah.” the door shuts with a slam and you’re filled with an overwhelming sense of dread.

oh god, not this again. your vision blurs as you try to grasp onto your breath. you can hear the blood rushing in your ears. your heart thuds like it’s going to break through your rib cage. it feels like someone is strangling you, coaxing the last breath of air from your lungs. your nails scratch at your throat desperately, your salty tears only making the marks burn more. at least the cold metal of your prosthetic cools you down a bit.

shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up. you can’t wake anyone. you bite down on your lip to suppress the strangled cries leaving your mouth. god, not the lake, please. not the forest. not the huge, dirty, rabid wolf-looking creature behind your father. not his cries. please, just make it shut up. SHUT UP.

you wake up the next morning to your alarm ringing.

taglist: @purelydarling @ghostfacefricker6969 @deadpoetsandhoney

[thesupersaiyanprincess]

So yeah, here we go again, a highly slightly revised version of Splits' Chapter 1

It's set in some kinda AU where you're a saiyan and there are other saiyans alive and on earth, as if more than just Gokus parents sent them off to earth as babies to start a better life not just to destroy it. Perhaps part of the resistance against Frieza?

I'm expecting this to top out at like 10 ish chapters, if anything probably less, i don't want it to stray to far from the plot or spend another 6 months on it lmao

Warnings include: violence, emotional abuse, very dark Vegeta, sexual themes, choking but not in a good way

Word count: ~1,600

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                      Chapter 1                      

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You’re sitting in the living room, bored, surfing the channels on the TV when you hear the front door click. Your face lights up at the sound that you know means your boyfriend is home, and you run to the hallway to greet him. 

“Hey 'Geta,” you say with a smile as you plant a kiss on his cheek. You know he hates it when you’re cutesy like that, but you like riling him up. Little did you know, today was not the day for it.

“Get off of me, woman.” Vegeta shoved you away from him harshly and made his way to the bathroom after taking off his shoes at the door, he didn’t even look at you as he barged his way down the hall. There was definitely something wrong, even if he didn’t like kisses he never reacted like that. Something was up, and today you were feeling especially brave so you decided to follow him down the hall and grab his tail. Bad move. He swung around in an instant pinning you by your throat to the wall.

“Don’t. Touch me.” he said with a growl in his voice before throwing you to the ground and continuing down the hall. 

“'Geta that hurt, what’s the deal with you today Mr. grumpy pants?” you said in a huff as you picked yourself up from the ground, patting down your jeans. “I thought we talked about this; no aggressive wall pinning unless I ask for it.” He didn't stop or turn around to look at you. “Oh, so you're just going to ignore me then, that's great, I guess I'll just go back to watching TV since you’re being a big grump.” you waited a second longer to see if you'd get a reaction, but no, he just kept walking and eventually made his way to the bathroom, locking himself inside as you walked back to the living room.

You wondered what could've happened today to make him so irritable. When he left this morning he wasn't mad, so something must've happened while he was out training with Goku. Maybe Goku reached a new form and Vegeta was jealous? No, that's happened before and all he did was rant about how it should be him who gets to unlock new forms, not that stupid, low class, pathetic excuse of a Saiyan, Kakarot. He was the prince of all Saiyans after all, and he should be the one with all the power. No, this was something else entirely, and you were starting to worry what could have made the mighty Vegeta so angry. 

Against your better judgement, you decide to go knock on the bathroom door. “Vegeta! Open up! What's the matter?” you shout through the door, hoping he can hear you over the running water of the shower.

“Go away! Go make yourself useful and cook me something, woman” of course that's all he would say. Damn these Saiyans and their insatiable appetites. 

“No, I’m not going anywhere until you tell me why you’re mad.” you plant your feet outside the door as you hear the water shut off. After a moment he unlocks and opens the door with a towel around his waist. He always looked so good right after a shower, silky hair wet, tangles framing his face, water droplets glistening across his gorgeously broad Saiyan chest. He truly was a sight to behold. 

“Get out of my way” he said to you as he tried to emerge from the bathroom, you were blocking his way and he really didn't like that. “Move now, or I’ll move you myself.”

“And what if I don't, what’re you going to do to me?” you said with a smirk on your lips as you stared seductively into his eyes. Usually when he was mad you could make him forget about it for a while with sex. Today was different however, and instead of pinning you to the wall and devouring your mouth with his, he gave a blow straight to your stomach, instantly knocking the wind out of you and making you crumple to the floor. He stepped over you and headed to the bedroom to get dressed. 

“Food woman. Now. Don’t give me more reason to be mad at you.” he called over his shoulder as he entered the bedroom. As you were curled up on the floor, clutching your stomach and gasping for air to finally reach your lungs, you couldn’t help the thought that maybe he didn’t love you anymore from crossing your mind. A thought that threatened to bring tears to your eyes. But you were stronger than that. You stood up shakily clutching your stomach for a moment before straightening up and walking after him into the bedroom.

“What the fuck 'Geta!? What's wrong with you? Why’d you punch me in the gut like that!?” you yell at him with an anger that made the air crackle with energy. “I thought you loved me 'Geta! How could you hurt me like that? What did I ever do to you?” You hated to admit it, but you're an angry crier, and the hot tears came spilling from your eyes as your hair flickered flecks of blond. Even though you had reached Super Saiyan form yourself, Vegeta was still 100x stronger than you on a good day, let alone when he was angry.

He ignored you completely, dropping his towel and putting on a fresh pair of briefs. He acted like you weren’t even there at all actually as he picked out some clothes to wear. Taking his time to sift through his messy chest of drawers to find his favourite shirt. Black and skin tight with Shenron and the DragonBalls printed on the back, it hugged his muscles in all the right places. It was your favourite on him too and for a split second you forgot your anger and stared at how the fabric clung to his still dewy skin. It all came flooding back when he turned to face you.

“Did you not hear me? I said food. Now.” he snarled through gritted teeth. He hated it when you didn't follow his commands, but right now he wasn't your master, and it was so not sexy of him to treat you like this. 

“If you want food you'll have to make it yourself. I'm not cooking for you until you tell me what's wrong.” you say back to him, with the same amount of force, trying to make your voice sound as demanding as his to no avail. No matter how hard you try, you'll never get his aggressive tone of voice down pat, you just sound like a pissed off chew toy and it makes you even angrier. 

“Whatever.” He grumbles just loud enough for you to hear as he continued to search for some pants. 

“Whatever?! That's all you're going to say?” you yell as you stare at him in disbelief, one more dismissive or demanding word from him and you were going to snap. “What about an apology? For shoving me, then throwing me, then straight up punching me!? Are you even listening to me, Vegeta?” You pause for a long second to see if he’ll say anything, and when he pulls up his pants and heads for the door, that's it. You power up to Super Saiyan and block the doorway, glaring at Vegeta, daring him to step closer. 

“Silly woman. You think that just because you're a Super Saiyan, you can stop me? How pathetic.” he said, his voice hollow and cold as he goes Super Saiyan Blue and picks you up with one hand by the throat and holds you off the ground. “You couldn't stop me with both my hands tied behind my back,” he sneered at you before throwing you into the wall outside the bedroom door, almost knocking you unconscious as your head hit the wall at full force, leaving the plaster cracked. Your energy faded and your hair returned to its regular dark colour as your vision blurred and your ears rang from the impact. 

He walked over to stand above you, laughing menacingly. “You're weak and pathetic. The only reason I kept you around was so that you'd cook and clean for me. Oh, and so that I can fuck that tight little pussy of yours.” The edges of your vision started to go dark as he picked you up against the wall by your throat again. “You are nothing but a toy for me, a sorry excuse for a Saiyan. So low class I wouldn't let you shine my shoes with your spit. But you cook good and don’t complain whenever I want to fuck, so you’re not completely useless.” he squeezed your throat tighter, “I want you to know that I don’t want you anymore. I never loved you, not one bit. I was only using you for my own satisfaction. And now that I don’t want you, there's no reason for you to keep breathing.” as he said this, he was gradually squeezing your throat tighter in his grip. You didn't understand what was going on, Vegeta had never been what you'd call affectionate, but he was never so mean. The Vegeta you love would never say such harsh things to you, or hurt you in any way what so ever unless you were fucking and asked for it. In fact, he put several higher ranking Saiyan's in the med pods because they were antagonizing you for being the weakest Super Saiyan. The sudden change in him had tears pouring from your eyes as you tried harder to keep from passing out. “Now be a good little weakling and go to sleep for me.”

“'Geta… p-please… d-don’t… hurt… m-m…” You managed to spit out between desperate gasps as you faded from consciousness. 

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So whatcha think? Please leave comments and likes, I'll also be posting this over on my AO3 when i can figure that out haha

Always remember, reblogs>likes <3

[wonder-womans-ex]

One Word Answer

Luke won’t even try to deny it—he’s fighting back tears as he pushes the screen door open. The house is so silent he thinks it might be empty, and, quite honestly, that’s probably for the best. If he tries to talk to anyone right now, he actually is going to start crying. 

All he wants is to curl up on the Lupins’ sofa and think about whatever the fuck it was he did wrong; whatever he did to deserve this. 

But he has no such luck. 

The instant he enters the living room, he’s met by an onslaught of noise. There are streamers hanging from the ceiling, and the smiling faces of his friends—James, Remus, Sirius, Logan, Leo, Finn; he even thinks he might see Lily in the corner—are there to greet him. Remus approaches first, and presses a glass of champagne into his hands. 

He passes it right back, and the noise stills, and Remus’s face falls slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” 

“Obviously something’s wrong.” 

Luke sighs. “Just forget it.”

“What?”

“Forget it. Forget this.” He gestures around them, at the people, the decorations, the alcohol. “There’s no point.”

“What are you talking about?” 

Isn’t Remus supposed to be the smart one? Is he really going to make Luke say it? “He said no, Remus.”

If the room was quiet before, now it’s unbelievably so; painfully so. “He said no,” he says again, this time more to himself. 

He barely feels himself slump against the doorframe, sliding down to the floor with a slight thump. His head falls to the side, and he squeezes his eyes closed in one final attempt to stop the tears. 

Somewhere in the back of his mind, though it feels, in a way, like he’s dreaming; he hears Remus’s voice, determined and far, far too loud: “Okay, everyone out. He needs… he needs.”

There follows the all-encompassing silence of a party ended too soon. Footsteps pass by him, going out into the hall, but Luke doesn’t have the energy to try to put gaits to faces and faces to names. He doesn’t have the energy to do anything but sit there and feel the uncomfortable warmth of his tears spill from his eyes and trail down his cheeks. 

“I’ll go,” he hears Sirius say, once there’s no one left but the three of them, “and talk to…” he trails off, perhaps not saying the name for fear of it killing Luke just a little more inside, but it does nothing to help. All he can think of is hazel eyes and blond curls and gold, gold, gold. 

And then it’s just them there: Luke, who needs to be comforted, and Remus, who hasn’t had to comfort him in so long that he’s forgotten how to—or maybe he never knew at all. 

“I’m sorry,” Remus says. 

“Don’t be.”

For the first time since it happened, Luke opens his fist. He opens his eyes, too, and he stares at the glint of metal. He bought the ring so long ago; he spent hours deliberating, trying to find the perfect one, and now it seems it doesn’t matter after all. 

“He said no,” he whispers again, and this time it feels, even to him, like he’s just trying to convince himself of that. He looks up, meeting Remus’s gaze, and he brings his knees up to his chest, curling himself into a ball, into a defense mechanism, and buries his face in his hands. “I love him.”

“I know.”

“It hurts.”

“I know.”

“But you don’t know!” This—this anger isn’t like him. Or, well, it is like him—it’s how he was before the treasure, when they were just Gods and Hollows. It’s how he was before Saint. 

He feels one of Remus’s hands grasp his, and he thinks of all the times they tried so hard to be in love. For years, they thought that it had to be each other; that they would never have anyone else. But it never worked out, because Remus needed Sirius—brave, easy Sirius—and Luke needed Saint. 

Saint who was harsh like ice and warm like sunlight. Saint who loved like he fought. 

Saint who said no. 

Gently, Remus pries the ring out of his hand. He hears the click as it’s set down on the floor beside them, and he lets himself be enveloped in the arms of the boy who was his only friend in the world for so very long. 

*

The apartment is empty when Luke gets back. The lights are off; the door is locked; Saint’s wallet is still on the counter here he left it. He wonders where Saint is. He wonders if Saint is going to come back. 

He wonders whether he wants him to. 

Well, that’s not quite right. Of course he wants Saint to come back. What he’s not so sure about is whether he wants Saint to acknowledge any of this. 

He’s been hurt in a way he didn’t know he could be hurt. He has his defenses—he always has—and he took them down for the boy who was somehow both wild dreams and harsh reality all at once. For the first time in his life, he saw he was falling in love, and he let himself. He had no idea that that love would ever—could ever—destroy him in the way it is now. 

Saint loves him. Luke knows this. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have pretended to, because while Saint is a good liar, he is not a happy one. He’s lived far too much of his life surrounded by half-truths, and he would never willingly do something that would hurt himself. 

Hurting other people, yes. But Saint is not self-destructive. He’s just reckless. 

Luke sets his keys down on the coffee table. He stares at the sofa—the sofa he and Saint bought together—and he clenches his jaw. His fist flies, practically of its own accord, into one of the couch cushions, and he feels his anger hit boiling point. 

Just as quickly, it cools. 

He’s not so much mad at Saint as he is mad at himself for wanting to be mad at Saint. He’s always known himself to be a paradox, and now, here, in the semi-darkness of the place he calls home, he finally understands that now is no exception. 

When he enters the bedroom, he reaches out blindly with one hand for the light switch. To an outsider, it would seem like nothing has changed at all, but in reality, Luke’s entire world has been flipped on its head. It feels like it, anyway. 

He goes through the motions. He brushes his teeth; he changes into his pajamas; but all the while he’s teetering on the edge of a precipice. 

Climbing into bed and smelling the briny tang of salt water that Saint always carries with him is what finally tips him off the edge. He becomes lost in the memory of this afternoon, and it’s like Crucio all over again; he’s drowning in the past and the present and the future—

“Do you recognize this place?” Luke asks, hands in his pockets. 

“Of course.” 

The sun shines off Saint’s hair, bright and beautiful, and Luke tells him, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” It’s natural—they’ve said it a hundred thousand times by now, and, as Luke squeezes the ring he’s holding, he hopes beyond hope they’ll be able to say it a hundred thousand more. 

“Saint?” 

When Saint turns around, his eyes go wide. Luke tries to keep his balance—his jeans are already damp at the knee from the still-dewy grass, and the faint warmth of the noonday sun does nothing to calm his nerves. His breath shakes; he almost drops the ring as he holds it out. 

“Hey,” he says, trying to smile. Inhale, exhale, he tells himself, and starts over again. 

“I think you know why I’ve brought you here, but I’m going to say it anyway. 

“This place, right here, is where we were when I finally fell in love with you. Sure, I’d been falling for a long time, but it was here that I hit rock bottom and realized I wanted to stay there.” 

Saint must know where this is going. There’s no way he doesn’t. But his expression is unreadable, and Luke has to force himself to look away in order to keep going. 

“I love you, Saint. I have for so long it scares me to think about and I will for the rest of time. You mean the world to me—I hope you know that. You are, without a doubt, my everything, and I want more than anything for you to remain my everything forever. 

“You’ve spent years without a last name that truly feels like home. What I’m offering now, what I’m laying my heart bear in the hopes of, is that you can take mine. Will you—” he swallows, finally focusing his gaze; finally meeting Saint’s eyes, “—will you marry me?”

It’s like time has forgotten where it was going before—or perhaps even that it was ever going anywhere at all. Luke waits, biting his lip and trying not to smile, for an answer.

Saint turns his head away; he’s looking at something in the distance. His fingers are twitching ever so slightly at his side, and Luke’s heart falters. 

“I’m sorry,” whispers Saint, still looking away, and Luke doesn’t need to hear any more. It’s as if someone has taken an axe to the very fibre of his being; his dreams of the future are being chipped away at in front of his very eyes. 

Luke clears his throat. “Right.” He stands up, and his leg hurts like a bitch from kneeling, but he won’t say anything. The last thing he can do right now is show weakness. The last thing he can do is prove to Saint that he, Luke Deveaux, isn’t worth it. 

“Wait,” Saint calls after him when he turns to go, but Luke isn’t listening. Of course Saint has his excuses, and, knowing Saint, they’re probably damn good ones, too, but he doesn’t want to hear them. Not now, when the chasm down the centre of his heart is still fresh and bleeding. Not now, when it hurts to take even a single step away from the man he loves, but he has to anyway. 

Maybe not ever. 

Luke isn’t asleep. He’s caught in the half-place—the place you go when you’re not there, not yet, but you aren’t quite here, either. So he feels the mattress dip beside him, and he feels the breath on the back of his neck, and he feels the hand curl protectively over his waist. He hears Saint say “I’m sorry,” in that quiet, desperately painful voice he has. 

“You’re not,” he says into the silence, and he waits. 

“I am,” Saint tells him. “I really am. I’m sorry I can’t want that. I’m sorry I can’t be that. I’m sorry I’m not enough.”

The last part is raw and full of emotion, and it would kill Luke completely if he was to say anything but “You are enough.”

“Not for you, I’m not.”

He still doesn’t turn over to face Saint—he’s not ready for that—but he lets himself relax slightly into his arms. “You are. You’re enough. You’re more than enough. Sometimes—sometimes I think you might be a little too much, actually.”

Saint’s other hand slots quietly over his. It makes his breath catch in his throat, but he can feel, in the thrum, the ever-constant ebb and flow of Saint’s very being, that it makes all of this so much easier. 

“What I wanted to say,” Saint starts—tentatively, as if he’s scared that at any moment Luke is going to decide he doesn’t want to hear it—“earlier today, is that I don’t want that. I’ve never wanted that. I’ve never wanted a wedding and a certificate and a house and a family and honey, I’m home. That’s… that’s not for me. 

“The way I see it, marriage is an anchor. It’s there to make sure you never stray. It’s a choice you make once, and it’s a choice that stays with you forever.”

Exactly, Luke thinks, but he says nothing. 

“What I want—what I’ve always wanted, I just never thought it was within any realm of possibility until I fell in love with you—is a hundred choices. I want freedom in the fact that there isn’t really freedom at all. I want two boats, floating freely, that always find their way back to each other. I want to wake up next to you every morning knowing that I could leave if I wanted to but make the choice not to. 

“And I know that’s not what you want. But I can’t make myself play happy families because the truth of it is that that isn’t me. I’m a wanderer. I want a reason to stay in one place, not a rule to keep me there. I’m sorry.” 

He can feel Saint’s mouth moving against the place where his spine meets the cords of his neck. He can feel Saint’s tears, but it’s okay, because he’s crying, too. 

“No.” His voice is far too loud for the weighted silence of the room. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I tried to make you choose between yourself and me. I’m sorry I didn’t realize that I don’t want marriage; I want you. I want you in your entirety; I want you in your all-encompassing happiness. That’s all I want. I want what you can give me—nothing more, nothing less.”

Slowly, Luke turns over onto his back. Saint immediately tucks his face into the space between Luke’s shoulder and neck, and this, this feels right. 

“I love you,” Saint whispers. “I’ll always love you.”

“And I you.”

Saint laughs, a quiet noise that sounds like it’s half sob, as well. “And I tried to want that. I really did. At the wedding, I looked at you in that suit and I tried so hard to imagine if that was, well, us.”

“But you couldn’t.” As he says it, Luke presses a kiss to the crown of Saint’s head—the curls tickle his nose, and he closes his eyes for a moment and lets himself just be. 

“I couldn’t. And I thought that was okay, because I never even considered that you could love me enough to… to want that with me.”

Luke pulls back, propping himself up on one elbow and creating enough space between them for him to look Saint in the eyes. They haven’t properly looked at each other since this afternoon, but that particular shade of hazel is all Luke has been able to think about. “It has nothing to do with how much I want you,” he says, and then he realizes how that sounds. “Or, rather, it is no indicator of how much I want you. It’s like you said—marriage is like an anchor. Sure, I haven’t always wanted that anchor, but that doesn’t change the fact that, anchor or no, I’ve always known, somewhere, that I’ll never let us drift apart.”

There are a few moments where they simply stare at each other. Luke runs his tongue along the edges of his teeth, pressing it into the sharpness of his canines just to feel something. Then Saint smiles that half-smile of his—the one he only ever wears when he and Luke are alone—and reaches up to cup Luke’s cheek in his palm. 

“Fucking hell, Tweedle,” he says, in a soft, gentle voice that doesn’t at all match the words coming out of his mouth, “that might be the sappiest shit I’ve ever heard you say.” 

Luke rolls his eyes and grins. He leans down, brushing his mouth against Saint’s. Their lips are barely touching, but, even so, Luke feels himself smile into the kiss. He’s at home here. 

“You know,” Saint says later, when they’re simply lying in the dark, Luke’s head resting on Saint’s chest and one of Saint’s fingers tracing circles in Luke’s back, “there is one downside to the whole ‘not getting married’ plan.”

Luke wonders if he’s walking into a trap. “What’s that?”

“The last name thing.” 

“Mm hmm.” Luke yawns. “Saint Deveaux does have a nice ring to it.”

“That it does.”

There’s another minute or two of comfortable silence, before Luke speaks up again. “And the second thing?”

“The second—oh.” Saint waits half a second before, “No divorce jokes.”

Luke laughs despite himself, relishing in the way Saint’s chest moves as he laughs, too. Saint, he knows now, is his choice. Saint is everything. Saint is home.

Saint is forever. 

characters are by the incredible @lumosinlove

thanks to @im-oknutzy-trash for betaing

[slashssunglasses]

Mafia Slash- “Craving” P1

okay so the concept of “mafia slash” is something my friend Lily introduced to our friend group and since then we’ve all been building off of this, Mafia Slash will most likely appear several times here so be read ;)

✧༺♥༻∞　　∞༺♥༻✧ ✧༺♥༻∞　　∞༺♥༻✧ ✧༺♥༻∞　　∞༺♥༻✧

Slash: early 2000s end of snakepit- beginning of velvet remover Slash.

Backstory: (a/n I’ll do a full imagine solely on the origin story if y'all would like :}) 

Anywho, Slash was the most well known, ruthless, and feared mafia boss in the entire city- hell the entire state. His entire bloodline being gangster royalty. He never really wanted this life but after the tragic murder of his father his heart froze, a wave of pure power washing over him as he was forced to lead the “family business” at such a young age. You, see now you knew all about him, you’ve heard the stories, I mean cmon everyones heard the stories: the knives, the guns, the beatings…this guy enjoyed getting his hands dirty. It’d been rumored that Slash had been eyeing you but you never gave him attention, you didn't fear him. maybe it was because you knew he’d never hurt you. 

Unfortunately, your father-that bastard- used the common knowledge that Slash fancied you to his advantage when he found himself in some hot water with the Hudson family. It’s common knowledge that in the mafia life, fathers tend to offer their daughters as sort of “peace makers” the idea always disgusted you but you never thought that your father would be so quick to give you away like that, as if you were property. That fucking coward. But, a deals a deal, and growing up in this life you know that you never break deals, no matter how hard it’s gonna be or how much youre gonna suffer you never break a deal…especially with guys like Slash. It was done, as much as you hated it- you were now his. 

It’s been some time since you moved into the Hudson residence, Slash had been giving you your space because he understood how unfavorable it was for you to be forced into a relationship with someone you didn’t love but he was determined to make you fall for him and that you were. 

You’d never tell him of course.

 You slept in different rooms and you stayed away from his business even though you were quite used to it and even a little good at handling said business thanks to your father. You didn't think he noticed but he definitely did and it took every ounce of willpower to restrain himself from drooling right in front of you. Day and Night he fantasized about the business endeavors you’d go on, how good you were at talking your way out of things. Yet, you still had this sort of ‘dependance’ (?) on him, I mean you were one bad bitch- you did everything for yourself but you still found a way to make Slash feel like you needed his protecting or that you just needed him in general, no matter how hard you tried to push him away he still felt it, he felt that buzz in his tummy, he felt needed.

He thought you didn’t see him pulling knives and beating people up, he had this facade going on: the nice misunderstood gangster. 

Part of it was true-except the nice part, only towards you was he ever ‘soft’ and caring.  You were getting sick of him trying to act like he wasn’t evil, plus the months you’d gone without any contact other than your fingers and a few toys you’d manage to slip in. Boy oh boy, the more you were around him the more you wanted him, the more you fantasized about him using those same toys on you. It was becoming unbearable you held a grudge against him at this point. You didn’t want to want him! God it was just something abut the way he growled angrily through his teeth, laughed in the faces of petrified snitches, was just a scary guy but then would turn around and try not to stumble over his words when talking to you, he would rock on his heels nervously, he was a wreck! 

You enjoyed the power trip you got from having so much power over one of the scariest guys you’ve met. But you just wanted him to quit the act, show his true colors. What? Was he scared? Maybe then he’d know how it felt, you were scared a little at first too, living with a man in his 30′s while you were just starting to enjoy your 20′s. The hate bubbled into horniness but, you wouldn’t admit just how badly you wanted him, never! You did however watch from afar and look back on the memories your brain kept while you worked yourself on the silk sheets of the room you’d been living in. 

Riding the dildos suction cupped to the floor of the bathtub, spreading your legs under the faucet. like an animal in heat, you did anything and everything to get yourself off, the idea of it all being under Slash’s nose sent sparks of adrenaline through you. You smirked every time you two had a ‘lovers spat’ -as his men called it- because you saw his patience wear thinner and thinner each time, his desire to hide his nasty side evaporating. 

It was only a matter of time before one of you snapped 

You two had gone out for some business thing, you had no clue what it was for and frankly you didn’t care. All you knew was that you had to be done up real nice. You felt adventurous wanted to give yourself a little ‘foreplay’ beforehand by putting on the sluttiest lingerie set you owned. equipped with a garter belt, stockings, a g string, and transparent bra. It was beyond skimpy. You truly only wore it for yourself, and the idea that you’d have it on under whatever dress he bought for you for the night and he’d have no clue, was beyond thrilling. Gosh if he were to catch a glimpse what would happen? You didn’t even know. 

The night went by slowly so you decided to entertain yourself by actually speaking to the other people in attendance. A line of men drooling for you seemed to work. 

After finishing up another painfully boring conversation you slumped in your seat at the bar signaling for the bartender to bring you another whiskey. “On the rocks please” you sighed leaning on your elbow. “Whiskey? i’m sorry but you’re a woman?” a voice chuckled from behind you. 

You couldn't believe what you just heard. 

Turning your head around you scoffed, “and you’re clearly a misogynistic asshole. look at us both stating facts” you sarcastically smiled before turning back around

“No, I'm sorry I didn't mean it like that” the man chuckles awkwardly sitting next to you, “it was my lame attempt at a sarcastic joke” 

“Oh yes very lame” you giggle turning to face him, “sorry, usually I do see most of the women drinking the fruity cocktails” he awkwardly rubbed his neck, “it’s ok, don’t worry” you smile warmly. “Uh I'm Mike” he extended his hand out, “I’m y/n” you giggled. 

You two began chatting and hitting it off. 

He provided a tasteful change from all the boring drooling duds that usually attended these functions. You payed little to no attention to where Slash was and what he doing, you were too busy enjoying your time with your new friend Mike.  

“Who’s this honey?” You heard Slash’s voice perk up as you felt his arm snake around your shoulder. His touch burning your skin as you felt that thick sexual tension from these past few weeks resurface again. You tensed- an action that was supposed to keep you from melting under his rough touch. Clearly it didn't work since you could feel that familiar horny buzz in your panties. 

You looked at mike, absolute panic laced his face. 

“Oh uh, I’m sorry I didn't know I- uh ok” he scrambled away in pure fear. “Why would you do that” you jolted angrily out of his hold. Your arms crossed as you tried not to fall to your knees. God why was he appearing so sexy lately? “Why would you flirt with another man?” he snarled lowly, trying to contain his anger as to not set you off. He hated seeing you with another man, he wanted you to be his and only his. 

“I was not flirting” you scoffed, “oh yeah? I saw you, touching his arm and giggling. that man was drooling over you!” he whisper yelled, “he was?” you smirked, you did this as an attempt to make him rage, you were so tired of the fake face he put on, you wanted to see him get mad. He clenched his fists stretching his neck out, “what're you gonna do? you gonna beat him up?” you pouted, “no” he scoffed, “good. I didn't want him anyway, he was a coward. Pfft scared of you, scurrying away like a scared little mouse. I can’t with such wimps” you sighed walking away from him. 

You could feel his eyes burning into your back as you hips swayed, the clacking of your heels giving you a nice rhythm. 

Some time had passed and you were exhausted. You hadn't seen slash again for a while which normally wouldn't strike you as odd but for some reason you didn't feel okay about him being gone. On top of that you wanted to go home. Growling to yourself in annoyance you begin your trek to go look for him. 

Searching throughout the building, the front door, the bathrooms…nothing. 

Finally you exited through the back door thinking he probably stepped out for a cigarette or something. That’s when you were met with an angered Slash surrounded by his men. His fists flying up and down as he beat the absolute living shit out of some poor soul. His Blazer off, sleeves rolled up showing his tattoos, skin dewy with seat as he grunted between punches. Your brain managing to make the situation filthy.

It was then that you caught a glimpse of who he was destroying.

 Mike. 

“Slash!” you screamed and everyone’s heads shot towards yours. Mike was dropped onto the ground, his bloody face weakly crawling away. Slash stared at you, his chest rising and falling quickly as he panted. “I thought I told you to make sure she stayed inside” he grabbed one of his men by the collar

“Hey stop it!” you pushed him off, the men around you gasped quietly. “God you’re such an asshole!” you growled storming off towards the car. You didn't want him to beat someone who was innocent up, someone who didn't deserve it. You wanted him to be angry with you, that was the thrill you got, you enjoyed seeing him get angry at people who deserved it, although he was a scary guy he was also a just one. 

Slash couldn't help himself though, he wanted to make that guys face unrecognizable, he wanted him to be unable to attract anyone. 

He followed you towards the car. “Hey wait” he called out from behind you. Finally he grabbed hold of your arm right in front of the trunk of the limo you two had arrived in. “Don’t fucking touch me!” you ripped your arm from his, “I'm sorry okay, I don’t know what came over me” he sighed. The words flowed unnaturally from his lips, he was trying to keep the nice guy facade. 

“Oh my god give me a break already! Yes you do, you know exactly what came over you! Stop trying to act like this nice guy okay? Because I know you’re not” you yelled in frustration, all he did was shake his head. 

“Oh my god spare me please! I'm so sick of you acting like you’re this sweet guy. You’re a fucking pussy” you tugged on your hair. 

All of the sudden you were pushed against the car, Slash’s face close to yours, your noses touching as you felt the cool metal of his knife against your neck. “This is what you want? hm? you want me to hurt you?” he snarled tapping the cold blade around your skin. 

An orgasmic rush coursed through you as your adrenaline pumped, you could feel the blood speeding throughout your veins. Your breath shocks the flicked the knife back into the protecter. 

Once the blade was out of sight he pushed off of you. All you did was stare at him absolutely breathless. “Fuck you” you finally pushed him harshly, all he did was look back at you with that cocky grin of his, the one that would spread across his face when he knew he was winning. You didn't know what came over you but you grabbed him by his collar pulling him close to you as you leaned on the car. 

Your lips crashed in a desperate sloppy make out. You didn't care that you'd just caved, the way his hands explored your body overtop the tight black dress made your knees fall weak. 

You wanted him. 

You needed him.

 You craved him.

Your fingers tangled into his curls as you pushed his face closer to yours smushing your lips together as his tongue explored your mouth. Big ringed hands squeezing your lower back pressing you close to him. You could feel his hard pressing against your thigh. God you were soaked. The horniness taking over you, turning you into the filthiest woman he’s ever encountered. 

You pulled a hand away from his shoulders and palmed him through his pants. “This, this is what I do to huh?” you panted in between kisses as he groaned into your mouth. “Mm fuck” you whined as you felt him pulsate through his pants, “take me, take me home and do all the things you think about doing to me while you pump your cock, I want you be the big bad man you are” you whispered desperately in his ear as you stroked him through his pants. 

He looked at you with nearly blacked out eyes, full of lust, full of desire, he was like an animal in heat. “Take me home big guy” you giggled squeezing his muscles. 

“Fuck me” he growled grabbing you and throwing you in the car…

TO BE CONTINUED...

[n-miri]

Spirit-touched!Tommy AU where Tommy sees what should not be seen. And, by being himself, circumvents the natural world order. 

-

Exile is fine. Living alone on an isolated piece of land, occasionally seeing the amnesiac ghost of his dead brother figure, having his items and hardwork blown up every week by his supposed ‘friend’.... Life in Logstedshire has been surprisingly peachy, all things considered. If Tommy closes both eyes, he may even say this is a vacation. Kind of. It could be an unpaid holiday, where he lost his job and cut off all ties with his family. It could be a- a retirement arc! An obituary about an ex-soldier’s cottagecore lifestyle. Except there isn’t a cottage. Plus, with a lot more TNT and ghosts over his shoulders. 

Literally. 

The summer sun beats down his back, filtering through floating particles of dust and ash. Tommy refrains from sighing. Another day, another stack of items destroyed. It’s annoying. He wakes up, goes through the repeated motions of create and destroy, ignores the ringing in his ears, and. Rinse and repeat. That’s all there ever is to it, right? He needs these tools to survive, and Dream wants the entertainment. He fights with his lives on the line, and Dream spits in his face. 

That man hides it well, but he can’t quite mask the glee that rattles through his collar bones, stifled pelts of laughter shaking his core. Dream is a master of deception and Tommy is far too perceptive—they see right through each other. If Dream is stained glass, unseeing eyes becoming windows to a desolate soul, then Tommy is tulle fabric, pulling back the veil between life and incorporeal. 

Dream is his friend, but Tommy doesn’t trust anyone with phantom arms growing out of their face. When they first met, there was a plain-drawn face upon a porcelain mask. A pair of inky hands peeked out from where the cheeks were supposed to be, patting his back when the two passed or brushing ghostly fingers through soft tufts of hair. It was endearing at first. The boy wondered why fucking ghost hands were glued to his friend’s face, but eventually grew used to the sight. They exchanged harmless jabs; Tommy called out Clay and Dream returned with Tomathy and things were good before Wilbur joined. 

Then Wilbur joined. During the first war for L’manburg’s independence was when the limbs started growing in length and joints. Hands covered the mask whole, spiralling darkness that ensnared nearby shoulders within a ferocious grip. However, most recently, the appendages have taken to growing eyes. Fucking eyes. Like some eldritch horror monster with bloodshot eyes crinkled mid-laugh. It was ugly. It was stupid. Worst of all, it scared the other ghosts away. Not fucking- whatever Ghostbur is, but the actual spectators. Stalkers. Weirdos (affectionate). 

Say what you want, but Tommy enjoys the company. Not that he would willingly admit it. 

“Good morning,” Tommy says into the empty field. There is no response. He sighs, then proceeds to hack up the inhaled soot. His throat is hoarse and his voice cracks at uneven intervals; he is thirsty but there’s no drinkable water left. Dream found his filter -wasn’t that a fun conversation to have-and he isn’t desperate enough to drink sea water. So, dehydration it is. 

Peering up into the cloudless sky, the male squints through the sunlight and bright blue vastness. Looks like there’s no chance of rain. 

Shame. 

A chill spreads across the skin of his elbow, despite it being wrapped in gauze. Tommy looks down and grins. “Hey, River. Nice day, innit?” The child gives him a watery smile, little twisted fingers curling into his tattered shirt. When a gust of wind breezes through Logstedshire, only the teenager’s blonde hair rustles along. “Sorry I can’t play today. I need to find water.” With a tilted head, they point towards the sea behind him. Tommy smiles wryly. “Preferably something less salty.” 

River tilts their head, contemplating. Choppy bangs hide their pupil-less, hollow gaze from roaming around the land. Then with a determined nod, they gesture for the male to follow. “Oh,” he says. “Hold on! Let me grab my things first.” 

Turning towards the bed of water, Tommy takes a deep breath and sinks into the shallow area. There’s some seaweed growing inconspicuously nearby, which acts as a marker for where he buried his chest. Funnily enough, Dream is a pretty easy person to hide valuables from. Or maybe that’s just Tommy being the biggest man ever, outsmarting the traceur in a battle of schemes. 

His fingers slip a few times while prying open the chest, but the inventory menu pops up and Tommy is quick to take the furnace, crafting table, half a stack of glass, an iron bucket and an iron pickaxe and sword. The downgraded version of the barest essentials. It’s safer to keep them here obviously, but it would be nice if Dream stopped destroying his items during every goddamn visit. Destroying them with TNT, of all things. Why not something quieter, like lava? Lava is nice. Lava doesn’t knock you off your feet if you are caught in the blast range. Lava doesn’t shatter your eardrums or destroy the ground underneath you. At least lava destroys objects completely, without any trace left behind. 

Yeah, okay. Maybe he still feels bitter about the diamonds Dream found and shattered, showers of crystalised pieces glinting against the firelight. The shining particles can still be found scattered across soil, if he looks hard enough; instead Tommy digs his hands into the dirt and covers up his blunders. It doesn’t help, not really, but seeing a physical reminder pains him. 

When Tommy breaks the water’s surface gasping for air, River stares at him worriedly. “I’m o-okay,” he coughs. “Let’s… let’s go.”

-

The first time he notices River, it’s a few weeks after being prosecuted and exiled; only a handful of days after WIlbur’s shadow gives him a compass. The compass, with a simple two words engraved into the cover. 

Placing the gift atop his open palm, Tommy walks in the direction a glowing arrow points at, only stopping at the sea line. Water laps frostily at his ankles, bare feet digging into coarse sand. Still, he fixes his stare onto the lonesome horizon. He won’t admit it now, or ever, but he desperately wishes that a wooden boat will creak upon this shore, paddles splashing hardly against the lulling waves; even the warping of the Nether portal would be welcome. Anything at all.

 He yearns for company, for companionship—Your Tubbo, the sea soothes. Your Tubbo, his heart beats for. Yours. 

Standing resolute, the boy imagines a crater and a country and a White House that stands still. The bench would feel firm under his fingertips, Cat humming its gentle tune by his side; his best friend would look around, fixated on the bees mulling about; and a red flower sprouts from the cracks of the Prime Path, dancing daintily with the wind. The boy would close his eyes, taking in the dewy air, and laugh at happiness itself. All would be good. 

Tommy stands until his arms shake and his legs quiver with loss. His eyes water and he wonders what the point of seeing is, if not to witness the conditions of his loved ones. 

In his hands, the compass point is nimrod straight. 

The next day, he finds himself drowning. A ghost’s freezing hands slap his cheeks, brittle arms wrapped around his torso, and frantically pushes him up, up, up. 

They don’t talk, or tell him their name, so Tommy calls them ‘River’. It’s only a little spiteful. 

[witch-and-a-half]

let’s run away

first time writing angst? not sure if i like it much, but i wanted to give it a try and i’ve been in a Draco mood

notes: reader x Draco, sixth year(ish), angst (i hope), could be any house

words: 1.4k

- - -

Draco tugged his girlfriend’s hand gently, “This way darling. It’s just a bit further.”

[y/n] had been staying at Malfoy Manor for a week now. She would leave tomorrow morning to spend the rest of the summer with her family, but she was grateful to have gotten to spend so much time with her boyfriend. The idea of not being near each other until September made her heart hurt.

[y/n] had been disappointed when Draco cut their usual morning lie-in short, insisting they go for a walk off the Malfoy property instead. She felt robbed of the cuddles and tender morning whispers that she’d have to go without for the rest of their holiday. Any lingering dismay faded as Draco led her into a clearing in the forest.

Dewy grass spread between willow trees whose branches swayed in the wind. There was a brook nearby; it was out of sight but it’s calming burbles could be heard intermingling with chirps and whistles of birds in the trees. One end of the small meadow was lined with a patch of purple and blue wildflowers. Draco reached into the basket slung over his arm and laid out a patchwork blanket in front of the flowers.

“Oh…” [y/n] gasped, “Love… this is beautiful.”

They sat there, sprawled on the blanket and nibbling on little snacks until the sun was high in the sky. [y/n] sat in front of Draco, nestled between his legs, and leaned back on his chest. They didn’t chat much, but, instead, basked in the feeling of simply being together. In that moment, everything was peaceful and serene. It felt as though they were the only two people in the world.

“Let’s run away.” [y/n] said dreamily. Draco pecked the top of her head and took a deep breath, “Oh, love, you have no idea how badly I wish we could.”

~ ~ ~

“I don’t understand.” [y/n]’s voice broke, but she regained her composure. She didn’t want him to know that she was just as heartbroken as outraged. “You stop sending letters halfway through the summer, you spend the first two weeks of school avoiding me, and then you make Pansy bring me a note inviting me to come meet you? In the middle of the night no less.”

She finished with a huff, but her nose still tingled with the threat of a sob. When Draco’s sullen eyes met hers, she started to feel tears gather in the corners of her eyes. His face was unreadable. He didn’t look sorry or angry or hurt. He just looked cold and stoic. It reminded [y/n] of the Draco she knew before she loved him; he was the Draco everyone else saw.

They sat alone in the cold, dark courtyard. The same courtyard they used to spend spring Saturdays in. The same courtyard where Draco had first laughed with [y/n] and she caught the first glimpse of the boy she quickly fell in love with. But she was with a different Draco now. She was staring into the eyes of the unfeeling Slytherin Prince, not the caring man who’d surprised her with a picnic only a few weeks earlier.

Just as [y/n] was about to break the silence—either with sobs or more frustrations, she wasn’t sure—when Draco slowly rolled up his sleeve. [y/n] watched the heinous mark on her boyfriend’s forearm appear from beneath the fabric. She was stunned. Of course she knew this was always a possibility, but she had tried not to think about it. Maybe a tiny bit of her wanted to believe Draco would never allow such an image to be etched into his skin. Maybe she thought they had more time, or things would change and she would never be in this position.

Still dazed, she slowly reached out to touch it. But Draco pulled his arm away and his sleeve fell back over it. That’s when she met his eyes and saw how his stony facade had crumbled. Now [y/n] could see pain etched in his face. He wore a familiar scowl, but his lips quivered and eyes narrowed.

She took his hands into her own. All she wanted was to pull Draco close. She wanted to tell him everything would be alright and she still loved him, but she couldn’t. She couldn’t lie to him.

They sat in silence for a bit. Neither one knew quite what to say. [y/n] thought about all the things that symbol meant. She remembered the first time she saw it, trembling behind a destroyed tent at the Quidditch World Cup. She remembered seeing Death Eaters’ mugshots in the Daily Prophet. She remembered all the people who had died at the hands of You-Know-Who and his followers. She remembered the horrible feeling when Harry Potter returned from the Triwizard Tournament with Cedric’s dead body.

Up until tonight, she had been able to separate her love for Draco from his intermingling with those… people. But, as [y/n] sat with the boy she’d once loved, she couldn’t find it in her to sympathize anymore. Surely Draco had no choice in this, but she wasn’t sure if that truly changed how she felt.

That’s when she noticed Draco’s shoulders trembling with silent sobs. Her body wouldn’t move though. She couldn’t make it. She just stared numbly at his scrunched up face. Perhaps she was still hurt that he hadn’t confided in her earlier, or maybe she was realizing what she had to do.

When Draco finally spoke, his voice was a deep tremble. “We can’t be together anymore.” His eyes stayed glued to their hands.

It wasn’t a question, but it wasn’t really a statement either.

“No,” [y/n] said. The calmness in her voice surprised her, “we can’t.”

Draco looked up at her again. The dark circles under his bloodshot eyes made [y/n]’s breath catch in her throat.

Her grip on his hands tightened, “I’ll always love you, Draco. But I can’t help you through this. And I don’t think it’s fair to either of us to string the other along while we take opposite sides in… in this.”

Draco loved how strong and practical she was. She said what he was too afraid to.

“I’m sorry.” He choked out weakly. Then, in a barely audible whisper, he said, “I never deserved you in the first place.”

That’s when [y/n] finally pulled him close. Her hand pulled his head into her shoulder. His chest heaved against hers and she felt her sweater grow damp with his tears. Her eyes remained painfully dry. She had to be the strong one right now.

The smell of his eucalyptus shampoo made her heart falter. She hadn’t smelled it since she had shared a bed with him during her visit to the manor. It brought her back to his silky sheets and the lovely things he’d whisper in her ear when he thought she’d fallen asleep.

Draco’s breathing steadied after a few minutes. [y/n] felt so broken by his pain that it was making her nauseous. The whole situation was too far out of their control.

He pulled away so his face was just a couple inches from hers. [y/n] thought for a moment that he might kiss her. And she thought for a moment she might let him. But instead she spoke, “It’s okay. It’s nobody’s fault. It’s just how it is.”

Draco nodded. He wished he had made a different choice, but he also knew this was really the only choice he had. The decision was virtually made for him. He wished he would have found another way. He wanted to keep [y/n]. He wanted her more than anything else in the world. But it was too late. He already had the Dark Mark, and he had already committed to do horrendous things that he couldn’t bear to tell [y/n] about.

The two hugged again briefly before heading back to their dormitories. That’s when [y/n] finally let a tear slip. Her heart ached for Draco, and her heart ached to imagine life without him.

She crawled into her bed and the tears stopped. The numbness returned, and she started to realize that, soon enough, she may find herself fighting against her first love.

As if to exacerbate her pain, her mind wandered back to the sunny day of the picnic.

If only we’d really run away.

[michaelbogild]

Quotes by Lord Byron

Adversity is the first path to truth.

All farewells should be sudden, when forever.

All who would win joy, must share it; happiness was born a twin.

Always laugh when you can, it is cheap medicine.

And dreams in their development have breath, And tears, and tortures, and the touch of joy; They leave a weight upon our waking thoughts, They take a weight from off our waking toils, They do divide our being.

And gave no outward signs of inward strife

And mind and dust- and passions and pure thoughts

And when we think we lead, we are most led

As long as I retain my feeling and my passion for Nature, I can partly soften or subdue my other passions and resist or endure those of others.

Be thou the rainbow in the storms of life. The evening beam that smiles the clouds away, and tints tomorrow with prophetic ray.

Being of no party, I shall offend all parties

Between two worlds life hovers like a star, twixt night and morn, upon the horizon's verge.

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

But what is Hope? Nothing but the paint on the face of Existence; the least touch of truth rubs it off, and then we see what a hollow-cheeked harlot we have got hold of.

But who, alas! can love, and then be wise?

But words are things, and a small drop of ink, Falling, like dew, upon a thought produces That which makes thousands, perhaps millions think

Come, lay thy head upon my breast and I'll kiss thee unto rest.

Dark-heaving; boundless, endless, and sublime, The image of Eternity, -- the throne Of the Invisible! even from out thy slime The monsters of the deep are made; each zone Obeys thee; thou goest forth, dread, fathomless, alone

Death, so called, is a thing which makes men weep, And yet a third of life is passed in sleep.

Eat, drink and love...the rest is not worth a nickel

Eternity forbids thee to forget.

Even innocence itself has many a wile, And will not dare to trust itself with truth, And love is taught hypocrisy from youth

For Earth is but a tombstone

For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul wears out the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.

For there was soft remembrance, and sweet trust In one fond breast, to which his own would melt, And in its tenderer hour on that his bosom dwelt.

For truth is always strange; stranger than fiction.

Friendship may, and often does, grow into love, but love never subsides into friendship.

Had they been wisely mingled; as it is

Hath all the energy which would have made

he knew how to make madness beautiful

I am ashes where once I was fire...

I am so changeable, being everything by turns and nothing long - such a strange melange of good and evil.

I can never get people to understand that poetry is the expression of excited passion.

I do not believe in any religion, I will have nothing to do with immortality. We are miserable enough in this life without speculating upon another.

I feel my immortality over sweep all pains, all tears, all time, all fears, – and peal, like the eternal thunders of the deep, into my ears, this truth, – thou livest forever!

I had a dream, which was not at all a dream.

I have a great mind to believe in Christianity for the mere pleasure of fancying I may be damned.

I know that two and two make four - and should be glad to prove it too if I could - though I must say if by any sort of process I could convert 2 and 2 into five it would give me much greater pleasure.

I linger yet with Nature, for the night Hath been to me a more familiar face Than that of man; and in her starry shade Of dim and solitary loveliness, I learned the language of another world.

I only go out to get me a fresh appetite for being alone.

I slept and dreamt that life was beauty; I woke and found that life was duty.

I suppose I had some meaning when I wrote it; I believe I understood it then.

In secret we met - In silence I grieve, That thy heart could forget, Thy spirit deceive. If I should meet thee After long years, How should I greet thee? - With silence and tears

In solitude, where we are least alone

In vain!—As fall the dews on quenchless sands, Blood only serves to wash Ambition's hands!

It is an awful chaos-light and darkness-

Life's enchanted cup sparkles near the brim

Love will find a way through paths where wolves fear to prey.

Mix'd, and contending without end or order

My pang shall find a voice.

Oh too convincing - dangerously dear - In woman's eye the unanswerable tear

On with the dance! Let joy be undefined!

One certainly has a soul; but how it came to allow itself to be enclosed in a body is more than I can imagine. I only know if once mine gets out, I’ll have a bit of a tussle before I let it get in again to that of any other

Opinions are made to be changed – or how is truth to be got at?

Prometheus-like from heaven she stole The fire that through those silken lashes In darkest glances seems to roll, From eyes that cannot hide their flashes: And as along her bosom steal In lengthened flow her raven tresses, You'd swear each clustering lock could feel, And curled to give her neck caresses.

Roll on, thou deep and dark blue Ocean - roll! Ten thousand fleets sweep over thee in vain; Man marks the earth with ruin - his control Stops with the shore

She walks in beauty, like the night Of cloudless climes and starry skies; And all that's best of dark and bright Meet in her aspect and her eyes

Sigh to the stars, as wolves howl to the moon...

Sleep hath its own world, A boundary between the things misnamed Death and existence: Sleep hath its own world, And a wide realm of wild reality, And dreams in their development have breath, And tears and tortures, and the touch of joy.

So, we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright.

Sorrow is knowledge, those that know the most must mourn the deepest, the tree of knowledge is not the tree of life.

Start not—nor deem my spirit fled: In me behold the only skull From which, unlike a living head, Whatever flows is never dull.

The best of prophets of the future is the past.

The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars Did wander darkling in the eternal space.

The dew of compassion is a tear

The drying up a single tear has more of honest fame than shedding seas of gore.

The great art of life is sensation, to feel that we exist, even in pain

The great object of life is sensation—to feel that we exist, even though in pain. It is this ‘craving void’ which drives us to gaming—to battle—to travel—to intemperate but keenly felt pursuits of every description, whose principal attraction is the agitation inseparable from their accomplishment..

The heart will break, but broken live on.

The morn is up again, the dewy morn, With breath all incense, and with cheek all bloom, Laughing the clouds away with playful scorn, And living as if earth contained no tomb,— And glowing into day.

The power of thought is the magic of the mind.

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

There are four questions of value in life... What is sacred? Of what is the spirit made? What is worth living for, and what is worth dying for? The answer to each is same. Only love

There is a pleasure in the pathless woods, There is a rapture on the lonely shore, There is society, where none intrudes, By the deep sea, and music in its roar: I love not man the less, but Nature more

There is music in all things, if men had ears.

There is no instinct like that of the heart

There is the moral of all human tales: ’Tis but the same rehearsal of the past, First Freedom, and then Glory - when that fails, Wealth, vice, corruption - barbarism at last. And History, with all her volumes vast, Hath but one page

There's music in the sighing of a reed; There's music in the gushing of a rill; There's music in all things, if men had ears; The earth is but the music of the spheres.

Think you, if Laura had been Petrarch's wife, he would have written sonnets all his life?

This should have been a noble creature: he

Those who will not reason, are bigots, those who cannot, are fools, and those who dare not, are slaves.

Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

Tis sweet to know there is an eye will mark our coming, and look brighter when we come

To have joy, one must share it.

To him the magic of their mysteries; To him the book of Night was opened wide, And voices from the deep abyss revealed A marvel and a secret.

Truth is a gem that is found at a great depth; whilst on the surface of the world all things are weighed by the false scale of custom.

We of the craft are all crazy. Some are affected by gaiety, others by melancholy, but all are more or less touched.

Who knows whether, when a comet shall approach this globe to destroy it, as it often has been and will be destroyed, men will not tear rocks from their foundations by means of steam, and hurl mountains, as the giants are said to have done, against the flaming mass? - and then we shall have traditions of Titans again, and of wars with Heaven...

Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to inquire - in the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?

With just enough of learning to misquote.

Yet he was jealous, though he did not show it, For jealousy dislikes the world to know it

You don't love a woman because she is beautiful, but she is beautiful because you love her. Never underestimate the power of love. The way to love anything is to realize it may be lost. The heart has its reasons that reason does not know at all. Music is love in search of a word. There is pleasure in the pathless woods; there is a rapture on the lonely shore; There is society, where none intrudes, by the deep sea, and music in its roar.

[heli0s-writes]

summer skin

Summary: A road trip with friends towards new beginnings and endings. Based off this ask (thank you for the inspiration, even though it... is different)! Part 2  Music: Death Cab for Cutie- Summer Skin

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

A/N: 2.2k words. Soft Bucky. Pining. Yearning. A little angst.

Dewy with sweat. Briny with exertion. Sweet and tangy and whipping through the car, chased by dry wind. Steve in the driver’s seat, Nat riding shotgun. Shades perched on her nose bridge, red pout gloriously bright against the sunset backdrop.

There’s something poetic about a mid-June drive in a rickety car from 1992. Maroon burgundy with the paint peeling off. Dry snakeskin ridged cellophane on rolled down windows, crinkling a static refrain as it flaps violently against the glass pane.

The air conditioning doesn’t work, so you all make do with dry Arizona wind sweeping through. Blessedly, if it pleases, surging down the neckline of your shirts, cooling your backs for only a second. A small ice chest is under your foot, full of popsicles and Gatorades. The trash bag is shoved next to Bucky, overflowing with crushed plastic and stained wood sticks.

“You alright?”

A bead rolls down your brow, gets lost in the damp hair coiled by your ear. Bucky reaches over, taps on your foot and you pull back, letting him dig around in the icebox. He tears open a packet with his teeth. “Here.”

A small smile as you take it from his slack grip. Electric blue like the way he shocks you with his touch.

The sugared ice slides right down your throat and soothes the fever in your fingertips. A clatter of the visor’s mirror slides open and Natasha looks at your reflection before she pushes her glasses up again.

Bucky is already returned to his side, staring out the gaping window, hair rushing over his beautiful face.

-

She did it on purpose.

Worse than the barrage of personal questions to pass time on a long drive.

Worse than the idea of possible bed-sharing—the suggestion that turned you hotter than the solstice itself until you ducked your head behind Steve’s seat.

Natasha purposefully arranged for a stop at dusk.

A little cabin by the lake, overgrown with wildflower and cattails, buzzing alive with nighttime insects and the siren call of gentle waves. Three single beds. Irritatingly odd-numbered.

Natasha suggests a swim before disembarking and how can they say no?

Steve dives in first, stripped down completely to his boxers. He’s been burning up, he says. Can’t stand it anymore. His blonde head looks ash-brown in nightfall, breaking the water with a joyful gasp and then he’s off, streaking through ink with long strokes.

“Come on!” Natasha’s fireside voice rings with invitation as she wades into the deep.

Dragonflies hover over their sopping heads. Under the rising moon she grins dazzlingly. A gesture from her pale hand before it wraps around Steve’s chest and he glides off with her pressed to his back, sharp profiles catching dim refractions.

On the dock, you warily dip your feet, waiting for a little privacy to stoke your confidence.

The night air is sludge and heat. Humid and thick. Sweet like molasses warming in the oven. You want to tumble in, too. Desperate to flood the oppressive weight of perspiration out of your pores, but the luggage is still in the car. There will be no towel to conceal your modesty afterwards. Who knows where the keys are.

A creak of the wood panels alerts you to his arrival. Bucky is quiet when he sits, one knee pulled up to his chest while the other leg slinks down by your side, ankle brushing yours in the water. A pleased sigh rolls through him at the temperature.

There is discomfort. His foot retreats with the shift of your atmosphere. Always too itchy in your own skin. Afraid of being seen, noticed, thought about. He’s good at hearing your silence. Good at reading your language.

Bucky hums a patient tune, leans back on both palms and you watch the moonlight drape his bare chest like a shroud. Glowing the palest of blue as if it’s transmuted from the hue in his very eyes. He slips in before turning back to where you sit.

“Will you swim?”

He glistens like a god come to drown you in the sweetest of dreams. It makes your heart plummet to its death on the heels of his departure when you shake your head.

-

They float lazily around each other while you lie on the dock, contemplating under Orion and Canis Major if the next swath of clouds might be enough cover. Your tummy quivers at the thought, memory from the car ride mounting together with dread.

Next to Natasha, you feel little more than an eyesore. Hair never settling right, body too little or too much in places, complexion dotted with flaws and scars and how could—

“Hey.”

He’s peering up beneath the slits of wood, single cyclops eye finding you through a perfectly sized hole. You turn on your tummy and blink, looking back down. “Hey.”

A blue marble floating in the lake. A glittering star in outer space. He blinks at you from one end of the telescope. You blink back from the other. And then Bucky pokes his finger through the groove and skims your eyelashes with a gentle brush.

A scrunch of your nose and you sit up with a giggle, quieting to listen to the noise of laughter and conversation in the distance. Steve and Natasha are far off. Bucky wades back up to grab the edge and yanks himself out, muscles flexing as he lifts effortlessly. Cool trails drip off his shoulders and plunks on your exposed knee, frayed edges of your shorts catching wet.

He is dewy with moonbeam. Beautiful in his summer skin.

Soft and aglow, squeezing the water from his tresses, he looks over at you.

Your breath rushes out like a current as Bucky turns, reaching in slow-motion, or what feels like it as your blood thumps in your ears. The first button of your sandy linen shirt squeaks through its eyelet. He’s close. Nose nearly touching your cheek, hair centimeters away from your jaw.

The wind gusts by, lifts wet tendrils of his locks onto your newly exposed collar, pulling forth a shudder. Under the night, your goosebumps prickle awake, stinging your chest with apprehension.

“Did it get to you?”

He’s careful with the next one, tugging on the fabric just so, keeping his head still, eyes focused on the task at hand. You can feel his breath on your shoulder and wring your hands nervously in your lap.

“A little.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

“Yeah.”

The personal thing. The question that clung to you worse than the sticky aftermath of sweat. The settling realization of something unrequited. Have you ever been in love?

And everyone else said, yes.

The slip of your shirt from both shoulders draws your attention back to him, fingers faithfully working on the last clasp. Bucky swallows when he looks up, softness sweeping over his features at your expression. A lopsided smile begins to bloom first on the left side, then the right until it becomes the perfect symmetrical curve you adore.

His fingers brush over your bare collar and down your arm. Not the first time he’s helped you undress. Missions with bullet wounds in your side have seen to that practice more than once. Destroyed all the magic an intimate moment could have had with the ripping sounds of your suit between his panicked hands.

But there is magic, now. Suddenly. Mid-June under a cacophony of sizzling wings. A slow swelling of it like the crest of a wave as it licks your ankle, asking to submerge you entirely.

Bucky places his hand on your chin, a light stroke of his thumb and pointer, and it feels like a firework. Scorching hot, igniting every nerve ending. He doesn’t wait for either protest or approval. Instead, he slides back into the darkness, extending only his hand. The surface glistens like a beacon, slivers bouncing light over his eyes. His left shoulder even brighter.

Have you ever been in love?

You wanted to say yes. Yes. Yes. Yes. Of course I have. He’s right next to me and of course I am.

“Will you swim?”

A gulp. Nerves caught like an enormous dry pill stuck in your throat, but both feet dip slowly. The water reaches your calves soon enough, and then you’re moving to the edge, arms shaking not from holding yourself up, but from the fear.

He splashes forward, laughing a little because you’ve still got shorts on. Treading effortlessly, one hand reaches under your thigh, arm bent ninety degrees to sit you into the lake.

Down, down, until the both of you are submerged to your shoulders, limbs keeping bodies afloat with gentle motions. The heat leaks from every single pore, melting right into the waves oscillating from two suspended bodies. He strokes the wet hair from your forehead.

Shyly, with his hand still by your ear, eyes glowing the deepest of blues underneath the night, he whispers, “I would hang the moon for you, you know that?”

And it’s just his way, isn’t it? To smile and wait, look so peaceful while your heart howls for him. To say I love you without ever having to say it at all.

You alright? Will you swim? Did it get to you? Have you ever been in love?

I would hang the moon for you, you know that?

Summer skin and magic. A mess of freckles on your shoulder and back, and Bucky traces them with his eyes and fingers. Steve and Natasha race each other to the shore and scoop clothes into their arm. “First come, first serve on the beds!”

With a holler, they tear away, feet padding over the grass and dirt.

The too much or too little, soft flesh or not, flaws and scars drop into the depths when Bucky splashes you with a sweep of his hand. Returning the favor, the wave you push forward crashes over his head and then the fight ensues. The lake is disturbed with shrieks and sputters—you, ducking under to grab his legs, him, pulling you up to kiss your mouth.

Briny. Wet. Lake water and spit exchanged, Bucky holding you close so that the current between churns balmy with his heat. Then, a parting.

“I don’t want you to sleep on the floor.”

He quiets your worries with his lips once more. A low purr.

“Stay awake with me. Won’t need to fight over it if we don’t sleep.”

A press of his stubble to your neck and then more kisses follow. You don’t quite know what it means, this affection. Transient poetry, at least. Requited love, if only.

The last stop of Arizona is the punctuation mark on your time with the Avengers. Returned to the human world with an ailing father and two younger sisters. Your closest friends fulfilling your parting request: a road trip. A single human artifact to herald the beginning of your civilian life.

Only a few more hours until the car brakes and he’s gone for good. Back into the fray.

Only a few hours until sunrise. You’re counting them along with your heartbeat.

Under the moon, his eyes sparkle like gems.

“Stay awake with me.” Bucky pleads, linking fingers through yours in the darkness. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

His quiet way, his patient way, his careful way. Loving you without loving you. Telling you without telling you. Secret languages finally understood.

-

The axels squeak when Steve pulls into the fast-food drive-thru. Try as you might to stay awake, to watch him a little longer, the rocking lullaby of the car on the road is too much to fight.

Morning broke over the treescape early, shone white and livid into your tired eyes. Steve found the two of you lying on the dock, fingers entwined and in conversation at the end of his morning run. Grinned down his sweat-slick nose and jerked his head in the direction of the car. Bucky tapped on your hand, pulled you up with him, and let you shower first.

The intercom sputters to life—a young boy’s voice greeting mechanically but trying nonetheless to adhere to southern hospitality best he can. Your neck is stiff and aching, but you can’t bring yourself to fully wake. Against his shoulder, Bucky’s shirt rubs your cheek, smelling like the compound’s crisp detergent.

The morning is warming, chasing away the night’s cool salve. The first filmy layer of sweat begins to condense on your brow. Steve orders four breakfast meals but your stomach sours at the thought of grease. A tiny groan as you ponder it, stirring when the car lurches on toward the window.

The arm around your body shifts, fingers stroking your elbow lightly.

“You alright?” Soft. Quiet. A language only for you.

A shake of your head, because you’re not. He smiles into your hair, scrubs his growing beard playfully over your scalp. Bucky leans slowly, keeping you steady against him, reaching beneath his foot where the icebox sits. A crinkle and a tear. He spits the plastic from his teeth.

“Here, sweetheart.”

Another kiss pressed to the top of your head and you don’t know if you should laugh or cry when he places the popsicle against your lips. Like yesterday, it’s blue.

Blue like his summer skin under the moon. Blue like the salt pooling in your eyes. Blue like how you’ll miss him.

-

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