#I love Crown and Bolt’s good too

[fierykitten2]

The Paradox Trio polls both currently have two votes and for both of them both votes go to the event one (Wake and Leaves)

In other news, tumblr has finally learnt I love Iron Leaves and very quickly learned I love Iron Boulder

Also I made one post about Iron Maiden why does tumblr suggest it?

[naffeclipse]

Forget-me-not

Reader x Sun and Moon

Commission Info

Thank you for @robinette-green for the lovely request! I adored writing this and making the boys so sweet to the reader! The reader is a clockwork animatronic who's trapped in an abandoned circus, and Sun and Moon step foot onto the forgotten ground and find someone in need of their help.

———

You watch another golden glow creep into oblivion upon the abandoned carnival and its sad, lonely inhabitants. The sun withdraws soundlessly like a stranger passing by. The Freak Show sign slumps, depressed. The once golden and galloping horses in the carousel have rusted into cruel, dark hues and no longer stamp or throw their wild manes back while children ride their once beautiful, gleaming saddles. The big tent—it hasn’t been big in years. It lies in sore tatters, wet from yesterday’s rainstorm with poles sticking up high and stringing along broken bulbs of once bright, yellow lights illuminating the darkness, promising fun to the humans who stepped onto the fairgrounds. 

You hate the darkness. You hate it more than being bolted down in place and left to host a game of ring toss no one has played in years. Your right arm is still extended in invitation over the green and brown bottles. The carnival owner couldn’t even allow you both of your arms, pinning your stance into place with bolts and leaving only your left hand to occasionally wave and flutter to catch the attendee’s eyes. 

After all the trouble he went to steal you away from your creator, you thought he would at least have taken you with him when the bright, colorful lights and happy, bouncing music came to a halt.

The soft words of your creator ring distantly, like a voice calling out through fog. You are—were his most beautiful creation. He whispered the words to you while he painted your lips red and bid you to take a look in the mirror.

You agreed. You were so, so pretty.

Perhaps it’s for the best that you don’t know what you look like anymore. You don’t want to look upon how rusted your clockwork inner workings have become. Your once pale and milky porcelain skin might be gray and slushy as the dirt along the pathways guests took, and that is not something you wish to know. There’s no doubt your red lips and silky red hair have been forsaken to the elements. You fear you are ruined. 

You are now worthy of abandonment.

In the darkness, you truly are forgotten. A hitch within your clockwork chassis catches and grinds before continuing, but the scraping pain remains.

Your attention is drawn back to the front entrance, a good distance away from you. Half crumbled with support beats cutting over the access in an ‘X’ shape, like a warning to not trespass this decrepit lot, shadows slink over the splintered and rotted wood. Long, lanky umbras move with a silence that is so strange and careful.

You squint your eyes. The urge to tilt your head slightly to peer better at the disturbance is cut short by the bolt in your neck, refusing to let your head tilt save from a slight side to side to give an enthralling smile.

You shouldn’t get too excited. It’s likely mere animals. A pair of raccoons or a stray dog who has lost its owner. Once, you watched a doe deer step softly through the wretched ruins, big wet eyes turning to you for one moment before the blurt of your automated voice lines jumped from your throat and sent the creature bounding away.

Nothing is yours here, not even the moment of daydreaming of you prancing out of this forsaken carnival like a doe deer. Free.

The shadows mingle into the dusky darkness. The blue-gray twilight reveals figures, and your mechanical heart chokes.

Two personages creep along the path winding from the entranceway. The same path leading directly towards the ring toss game; towards you. One dons a thick hood and cape, dark blue like midnight. The other’s head is sharper and unconcealed. A crown of jutting points frame the figure’s disk-like face, and a thick deep brown shawl gathers at his throat and falls down his chest and arms. 

As they pass into a silvery slant of budding starlight, metal glints on the crowned one’s face and the other hooded person’s hands spray out while scanning the darkness for threats, silver digits curling and uncurling.

Two automatons. Like you. But not.

A whirl in your servos thrums a loud, exhausted sound, and you stiffen—as much as you can while bolted in place. 

What could two automatons want with an abandoned circus? You were never familiar with the world outside of your creator’s home before you were smuggled out against your will by the circus owner, but at the circus, you learned much. 

You learned of scavengers and automatons gaining their rights. You always wonder if that’s partly the reason you were left here to rot too—are you too human now to own but robotic enough to be neglected? 

They could spy on you in the darkness and decide to strip you for parts. Your clockwork clanks heavily within you like a clapper within a bell, beating against your brass heart. Can they hear it? You have to stop. Be quiet. 

The two automatons prowl forward. Their optics and audio processors strain not unlike hounds searching for a fox. What do they prey upon? The crowned one gestures towards the carousel, the ride well within distance to your ring toss game, and you must clench your jaw tightly to keep from whimpering. The hooded one dips his head but keeps moving forward. Your gears crank in jarring motions, jolting and jerking while you hope they take the parts they desire from the circus and leave.

The hooded one continues down the path. Your chassis tightens, and your fingers tremble in place while you keep your eyes averted, held above the automaton’s head but keeping him in the unfocused corners of your optics.

Please. Please, don’t. Your bottom lip quivers.

“Step right up and toss a ring to win a prize!” The words blurt from your mouth and startle all the ruins and everyone within.

Two pairs of glowing eyes fall upon you. Straightening and alerted, the shrouded automatons stare into your fluttering eyelids as you attempt to beg them to leave you alone. A spark burns in your throat. Your voice lines refuse to give.

One stops and reaches silver and blue digits up and lowers the hood slowly. A face gazes at you, scarlet eyes glowing in the darkness with a face like a crescent moon. A blue nightcap, slightly frayed and worn, and decorated in yellow stars, covers his circular faceplate. 

The other steps closer with a curious tilt of the sharp points framing the automation’s head, and enters the last of the blue-gray darkness before night completely takes over. A yellow face, grinning with round cheeks, observes you. Pale optics beam. 

“Hello, friend,” he speaks, voice bouncing low but with intrigue. “Why don’t you come on out? It’s alright, don’t be afraid.”

Your optics dart side to side. Helplessness settles over you, pinned in place by rusty, dark shame. 

“Do you need help?” The one with the pale yellow sun rays steps closer, his eyes narrowing in the slightest. “Are you stuck?”

The moon-face automaton slips closer. The glow of his gaze sweeps over the game you’re bolted in front of, and he fixates on your right arm stiffly held out in invitation as your fingers curl and clench. You glance down at him, wondering if your eyes plead in the way your mouth cannot.

Biting your bottom lip does not prevent another voice line from bursting forth, and inwardly, you crumple.

“Try your hand! One ring around the neck of a bottle wins a prize!” 

“Not stuck,” the lunar automaton turns to his accomplice. His cloak shifts like shadows under the arc of the moon. “Trapped.”

“Oh, you poor thing! Here, let us help.” The sunny one steps forward, his hands raised as if to pacify a wild creature. “And, if I may be so bold, your voice box sounds like it’s not your own.”

You wish to nod but only succeed in cranking your head halfway to the right, as if in a gesture towards your hapless situation. 

You wonder if they can see the ugly, rusty bolts pinning your body in place, holding you shackled to the ring toss game. They must, for the lunar face man slips closer, stooping down by your feet behind the barrier as he inspects the heavy metal securing you in place. The solar gentleman energetically leaps over the barrier and stops right beside you, hand on his hips. His shawl drapes darkly around him but his grin is bright like a new dawn.

You don’t dare hope. The niceness will fall away like a curtain to reveal the snarling, roaring beast behind it. They will strip you for parts or worse, mock you, revel in your helplessness, and slip back through the night, leaving you with only the daydream of a rescue.

Facing the sunny one, you hold your metaphorical breath as he pauses. He stares deeply into your optics. You stare back into the foggy gray irises he possesses, like a cool, misty fog gathering in the night only to be touched by the sun’s first rays of light. 

“Your eyes are beautiful—the same color as forget-me-nots.” The sunny automaton smiles.

Your servos slow to a calm hum.

“Come on,” he says and carefully reaches for your neck to begin unscrewing the bolt stuck in your throat, “You won’t be left to rust here anymore, starlight.”

Your insides melt, touched by their generosity.

Below, at your feet, the dark blue and silver automaton begins to unscrew the bolts holding your feet down. Rust scrapes away and a harsh squeak of metal echoes. You grunt, jostled but, strangely, you hold to hope like a feathered, tiny thing in your hands, hoping to watch it fly again. 

“We can fix your voice box,” the lunar one speaks in a slight rasp you find endearing. His gaze remains focused on setting you free. “We have a shop. We repair things sometimes.”

“That’s right,” the solar one chimes in, “We scavenge as well. Don’t worry, we’ve repaired a few automatons or two. You can trust us.”

When he pries the bolt from your neck, you can dip your head in acknowledgment. A strange sensation burns through your wires, heating you from the inside out. Emotion. You wish you could ask for their names.

“You look very delicate.” The one at your feet finally frees one of your porcelain slippers with a slow, cautious tug. “We’ll be gentle.”

He tilts his head upwards and flashes a grin. You find yourself warming in the face. Is he being a tease or does he not know how he sounds? By the mischievous glint in your eyes, you fear he knows exactly what he’s doing.

You try to pry your lips apart to find the right words, but all that leaves you is “Enjoy lots of fun! For a small price, of course!”

The automaton of yellow and gray hues glances briefly at you, tilting his heading in confusion while he begins to loosen the bolt stabbed into your right elbow. Holding his gaze, you speak with your eyes, almost pleading.

What are your names?

A spark of understanding answers in his pale optics, and he gasps.

“Moon, where are our manners? I’m so sorry, starlight! My name is Sun, and this is Moon.”

You dip your head again, bobbing up and down in excitement. You know their names. You haven’t learned anything new about anyone in so long…

When they free you from the ring toss game, you can hardly believe how the muddy path now leads you to the outside of the circus as Sun holds you gently in his grasp, how their strides are sure-footed and smooth, and how they look at you with concern.  

You vow silently to speak their names the moment your voice is free too.

*

You haven’t seen anything outside of the carnival in so long, you’ve almost forgotten the sight of dark, shiny paved streets and the lone lamp posts that light the way. Gray and dreary buildings line the streets. One, however, is cheerfully plastered in wooden stars painted bright yellow, and the door is a soft, sky blue with white fluffy clouds along the very top. 

Sun and Moon take turns carrying you. Their hands are careful, cradling you close against their cloak and shawl while murmuring that it’s alright. You’re safe. They’ll get you fixed up in no time. Moon cradles you in his arms now as Sun unlocks the door, and holds it open so you can be carried over the threshold. 

For an odd reason, it triggers your faceplate to heat up more than the colored rouge on the porcelain should allow.

Through the door, the interior of the workshop is set with tools ranging from smallest to biggest, shelves containing boxes marked, and small containers with different, shiny nuts and bolts. There are even some small containers with shiny, bronze gears. You haven’t seen a spotless floor in so long. There were always leaves and mud staining the path serpentining through the carnival. 

A table, coppery under a work lamp, awaits. 

“I’m setting you here,” Moon murmurs close to your audio processor before he lays you softly down with a gentle click of your frame against the metal. 

“I worry about how long you were left there.” Sun loses the shawl and locates a brown leather apron. Tools line the pockets as he swiftly ties it behind his back. His eyes are creased though he still smiles reassuringly. “By the amount of rust, I would guess years. For your sake, I hope I’m wrong.”

The answer is on the tip of your tongue. What comes out instead is a showy voice declaring “Whoever can ring three bottles wins the ultimate prize!” 

A whirl in your servos practically screams out your embarrassment. You lower your gaze. The stiffness in your joints is almost as unbearable as the voice lines the circus owner forced upon you. 

“Shush,” Moon says, his cloak falling away as he snags an apron similar to Sun’s off of a hook. “Wait for a moment, pretty thing, then you may have your words back.”

“That’s right,” Sun nods and shifts to stand close beside you. He grows still for a moment, his bright disposition falling behind a somber cloud. “We’re very lucky to have found you.”

You smile—not the forced, showy smile that has been plastered on your face while you lie in the ruins, but a true smile for the ones who rescued you.

Moon moves to the other side of the table. His hands, now gloved in black leather, hesitate. 

“We will open you up now.” The automaton turns flush along the spindle support of his neck. “Is that alright? It’s the only way we can fix your voice box.”

Sun leans forward, his smile still cheery while he modestly averts his eyes, “As well any other damage done from being exposed and negligent for… however long you were out there.” 

You never thought the solar automaton could be shy, and yet. 

You nod your head as it rests on the table. You feel safe, so much more so than when you were bolted in place. The circus owner did not ask you what you wanted then.

Moon and Sun move in tandem. It’s strange and beautiful, how effortlessly they weave their fingers to begin work. Sun unlocks your chassis and Moon gently lifts it open. You throw your gaze to the ceiling. You don’t want to know. You know they will find it horrible and awful, but you don’t want to see it and have it seared into your mind.

“You’re beautiful,” Moon utters.

You blink, as breathless as a machine can become.

“Your clockwork—is very beautiful,” a slight stumble from his raspy voice seals your fate. You say nothing. You press your lips together and wonder if you might overheat right here and now. 

“You are pretty,” Sun continues effortlessly, though there’s a slight trill to his voice that may give away his nervousness or bashfulness, you can’t decide. “Clockwork automatons are rare.”

The circus owner made mention of that.

You close your eyes as Sun and Moon narrate their every movement. Hands held down by your sides, you only occasionally shift or softly buzz as they clean and fix your voice box nestled within the bottom of your throat. They are so gentle. You never knew hands could be so kind, even if they are rummaging through your inner workings. 

Could they possibly let you stay?

The absurd thought enters your processor and you almost immediately shove it into a box and bury it deep into cold, black soil. 

“You’re doing so good.” Sun grins as he looks down into your chassis. “There. That should do it. Moon?”

“I’m done.”

Slowly, carefully, as if finishing a sacred rite, the two close up your chassis and tighten it back into place. You haven’t opened your eyes yet. A part of you wonders if you’ll only look out into the ruins of the circus again, and find this was all one blissful moment of a daydream. 

“Can you say something, starlight?” Sun’s voice washes over you.

“It’s alright if you’re not ready,” Moon answers in a low sound of comfort.

It falls past your lips before you realize you are not ready, but you so terribly want to speak anyway.

“Thank you.” Your eyes flash open, and you gape—the echo. Your soft, demure tones no longer strained into shouting and calling attention. 

It’s you.

Your hand touches your lips, and a sound between a laugh and a sob emerges from your voice box. 

“Thank you! Thank you!” You look between the two of them, overwhelmed. With the overhead lamp now touching their features as they sit back, grinning, you get to admire their handsome features. 

You two are very striking.

“Oh, my,” Sun chuckles, bleeding red in the cheeks, “Thank you!”

“You’re very sweet,” Moon murmurs, touching his nightcap with a slight bashfulness.

And you realize you spoke your thoughts out loud. You called them striking.

“Oh,” you begin to burn.

“It’s alright,” Moon says swiftly, interrupting your apology. “We would like to know what your plans are after this. Now that you’re free.”

“Free,” you whisper back. You clutch at your chest, over your clockwork heart, and marvel. “I…”

You have your voice back. Use it.

“I—if I may be so bold, may I ask to stay with you both? I won’t be a burden. I won’t stay longer than you will allow, and I—”

Sun sighs, dramatic and cheerful, as he finds your hand to hold it. 

“I thought you would never ask, starlight!”

Moon’s hand slips under your anxious fingers. His nod echoes his solar counterpart’s enthusiasm. You turn your head between both of them, your lips parting in awe.

“Thank you,” you whisper. “Sun. Moon. Thank you.”

[sophvilla]

Make it Good

°°°°°°°°°Enha Series°°°°°°°°

Part 1

Pairing: Bf! Lee! Heeseung x Gf! Fem!reader

Synopsis: After you stormed out the apartment made Heeseung realize his mistake as he runs after you, asking for forgiveness from his Idiotic actions towards you.

Warning: Soft fluff, Heeseung Realising his mistake and asking for readers forgiveness, reader gets called Baby, my love etc, Heeseung begs on his knees on the streets for the reader to forgive him, Happy ending.

LEE HEESEUNG | 이희승

Heeseung watched as You stormed out of the apartment, tears streaming down her face. As soon as the door slammed shut, his words echoed in his mind, and he realized the gravity of what he had said.

His heart sank, and a wave of regret washed over him. "What have I done?" he thought, running a hand through his hair anxiously.

Without a moment's hesitation, Heeseung grabbed his coat and bolted out the door and ran after you. "Baby Wait!"

As he spotted your retreating figure walking down the street, he quickened his pace. He shouted after you, hoping to catch your attention.

You turned around and saw him coming towards you as His face is full of guilt and worry, but you keep expression guarded, hurt still evident in your tear filled eyes.

Heeseung reached you, panting slightly from the effort of running. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean what I said earlier. I was just frustrated, but that doesn't excuse my harsh words."

"Please baby, I swear I didn't mean any of those words at all, and I'm an asshole for that .... please please just forgive me" he said, eyes frantic at the thought of you not being there.

He knelt down in front of you on the streets, continuing "Take your time but still baby I can't bear the thought of me losing you, I'm a jerk, an absolute jerk for saying those words to you my angel but please just forgive me" Bambi eyes looking up at you.

You listened, expression softening a bit but still holding back your emotions at the bay, wiping away your tears as you ask him to stand up, as there's people watching you at this point, as he stood infront of you, you inhale sharply as you gauge at his words, seeing if there's sincerity behind his words.

Heeseung took a deep breath, "I realize now how much you care for me, and I appreciate it. I was just so focused on the upcoming comeback that I didn't see how my actions were affecting not only me but you too."

To which you nodded, He reached for her hand, her heart fluttering at his touch. "I promise I'll take care of my health better, and I'll make sure to not take my frustration out on you, you didn't deserve those words I said, my love"

A small smile tugged at the corners of Your lips. "I'm glad you understand," you replied, voice barely above a whisper.

Heeseung holds his arm out for you, asking your permission to pull you in his embrace as you nodded slowly before he pulled you into a hug, burying his face into your shoulder. "I really am sorry," he repeated, holding you tightly like you're gonna disappear any second.

You wrapped your arms around him, feeling the weight of his apology. "I forgive you," you murmured, a small sigh of relief escaping from his lips, his lips find your forehead as he kisses your crown of your head tenderly as you allowed yourself to melt into his embrace.

[petcr3]

don't shed no tears | bradley bradshaw x reader

summary: you have a terrible day. bradley has a plan.

word count: 845

warnings: bradley calls the reader my girl, this one is very short lol!

You almost hold it together. 

Really, you almost do.

But your work day seemed determined never to end. Each time you thought you’d gotten on top of what you needed to do, there was a new fire to put out. It was as if everything that could have gone wrong did, and just about everyone you encountered during your day was in a foul mood. 

Even so, you had pushed through frustration after frustration, and finally made it home. It’s your day off tomorrow and you get to spend the rest of your night with your boyfriend. Things are looking up.

Any other day, you would have laughed it off. But when you finally let yourself plop down on the couch that’s flush with your living room wall and bang your head, the dam just breaks. 

The sound of a particularly forceful “motherfucker!” sends Bradley bolting downstairs, and when he sees you crouched forward, your face in your hands, he’s on his knees in front of you in seconds.

“Honey? What happened, are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” you say miserably.

“You don’t sound fine.” You don’t respond for a moment. The rough pad of his thumb wipes a wayward tear from your cheek. “You’re crying, hun.”

“I’m fine,” you repeat, voice wavering, “I just hit my head.”

“You hit your head?” You want to curl up and wither away. This is so embarrassing. It’s only the worry in his voice that makes you look up.

“Not hard. I just clonked it when I sat down. I’m… I had a really bad day. I’m sorry.” 

“Hey,” he says softly, “don’t apologize. Not your fault you had a bad day. C’mere.” Bradley leans forward, still kneeling in front of you, and wraps you in his arms. You sag into his embrace, and tears begin to darken the fabric of his sweatshirt. 

“Do you wanna talk about it?” he asks. A little sob works its way out of your chest.

“Not–– not really.” You feel Bradley’s mustache before his lips as he turns to press a kiss to your temple.

“That’s okay,” he coos, “It’s okay.” He’s quiet for a moment, and then: “I have an idea.” 

You aren’t particularly pleased when he gets up, but you don’t have it in you to complain. His footfalls are quiet on the carpet as he pads over to the record player and starts fiddling around.

“What are you doing?” you hazard after a moment.

“I can’t tell you,” he says. “Just hang on a second–– this is gonna be romantic as shit.” You let out a little giggle through your tears, and he grins over his shoulder at you. Leave it to Bradley to make you laugh when all you want to do is crawl into a hole and never come out.

A little flash of blue catches your eye as he finds whatever album he’s been searching for, but you don’t get a good enough look to suss out what it is. Finally, he drops the needle, and you hear the opening notes of No Woman No Cry. The organ plays softly, and you sniffle as a fresh wave of tears hits you. Bradley holds out his hand. 

“Dance with me?” You wipe your eyes and nod, shuffling into his arms. He presses a kiss to the crown of your head and draws you in, settling you against his chest with a hand at the nape of your neck. Relief floods through you at the warmth of his touch, the slow and comforting beat of the music, the sway of your bodies.

“I love you,” you mumble into his chest.

“I love you too, baby. I’m sorry you had a bad day.”

“It’s much better now.” That makes him smile. The rest of the song plays out to comfortable silence as you rock back and forth together. It’s a longer cut–– the live version Bradley is playing is a little more than seven minutes–– and eventually, you find that you’re cried out. As the song ends and the crowd on the recording begins to cheer, you tilt your chin up to look at him.

“Thank you,” you whisper.

“Hey, anything to see my girl smile.” And you do, tilting your head down bashfully. 

As the cheers fade, the next song on the record begins to play and the plucky guitar of Could You Be Loved fills the room. Unable to help himself, Bradley begins to bob along with the rhythm. He withdraws a little from the embrace and takes your hands, bouncing your arms back and forth. You feign a pout, but it’s useless. As usual, Bradley Bradshaw is sunshine, fending off the gathering clouds until all you can see is him. You relent and begin to match his movements and he breaks into a beautiful, enormous grin.

As you dance late into the night, you remember that this is what it’s all about. That no matter how awful your day is, you have someone to come home to that knows, without fail, how to lift you up.

[pellucid-constellations]

angstober (3)

Prompt: "But I love you"

Pairing: Bucky x Reader

A/n: This takes place at the beginning of civil war :) ANGST!! I love angstober <3

You can also read my angstober drabbles here and here (if you wanna)!!

~~~

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. 

God, how things were supposed to be different. 

Bucky rummaged through a backpack he’d thrown in the corner of your apartment sometime last month. You hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now, you were left wondering just how many items he’d strewn about his life, a randomized placement of his belongings all ready for him if he needed to bolt. 

Would he take you, too? Were you not something he considered his? 

“Bucky, talk to me. What’s going on?” you tried. You’d already asked that same question in three different ways. After he’d barged through your door with his hoodie drawn up to his chin and his hat low on his forehead, you’d bombarded him with questions. He hadn’t answered any of them. 

And he was wearing gloves. He hadn’t worn gloves around you in a long time. 

“I can’t tell you. Can’t stay here.” 

You were grateful for a response this time, at least. You tracked him with your gaze as he zipped up his backpack and moved through your kitchen, removing pots and pans from your cabinet in a loud, clattering motion. He reached his arm in until his elbow disappeared within the wooden doors and then pulled it back out, a gun now firm in his grip. 

“When did you put that in there?” you startled, uncrossing your arms from your chest. You were still in your pajamas. Bucky had gone to get breakfast and left you in bed. And now he was leaving. 

“A while ago,” he responded, the words barely forming on his lips.

He was moving again before you could truly voice your bafflement, shrugging the bag over his shoulders and readjusting the straps. Panic surged through your chest and up your throat. He really was leaving. You knew he’d been running from something when you met all those months ago, but there had been nothing wrong when he left this morning. You made him feel safe. He wanted to stay with you. He’d told you that himself. 

You reached out a hand and he jolted at the contact, gaze shooting up to meet yours. Your eyes flickered between his own, desperation clear in your expression as you pleaded with him. “Don’t leave. Tell me what’s happened.” 

Your hand burned on his shoulder but you couldn’t remove it. 

He looked almost as ruined as you did, but there was something else behind his eyes. Determination, maybe? Resolve? 

“I can’t.”

It was the shortness that ultimately broke you. You heaved out a pained breath as your waterline filled, letting your hand drop. Your arm swung uselessly down to your side and you bit into your lip as your eyelashes gathered moisture.

Bucky’s stoic demeanor fractured, a tiny sliver showing you the man you’d come to know. The one you’d carved out from cold, hard stone. It had taken you weeks to get him to smile, even longer to get him to finally kiss you. When he spent the night for the first time, he was too stiff to hold you. But that was all different now. He was different now. 

He had told you he wanted to stay. That he wanted to keep you safe. 

You saw that part of Bucky as his lips twisted into an uncomfortable grimace, his arms reaching out to haul you into his chest. 

“C’mere,” he grunted out, chin resting on the crown of your head. “C’mere, honey, I’m sorry.” 

You cried into his chest, hiccuping as you asked, “Why are you leaving? I can come with you. I want to help you.” 

He shushed you, running gloved hands along the back of your head. “Can’t, baby. Where I’m headed isn’t safe. I’ve been real lucky for a while but that luck’s run out.” 

“Bucky, you can’t—” 

“I’m not good for you here. I need to keep you safe and I can’t do that while I’m being selfish. I’d give anything to bring you with me, but I won’t put you in danger.” 

You pressed your nose into his chest, willing the feel of him into your memory. You could hardly breathe like this, but that didn’t matter. When he left, when he was really and truly gone, you probably wouldn’t be able to breathe at all. 

Your hardwood floor creaked beneath your feet as Bucky stepped closer and burrowed you further into his body, his lips pressing hard against your forehead. You hated this apartment—this tiny, cloistered space in Romania. It would only serve as a reminder of him once he was gone. 

Maybe you would move. 

But would he be able to find you, once it was safe? Would he come looking? 

The thought made your chest constrict. What if he never came back? 

Bucky pulled back from you, taking your face into his palms. His face scrunched up in displeasure at the tears still glistening on your cheeks, and he tried to remedy them with the pad of his thumb. They kept coming, even when you’d stopped crying. 

“I have to go. Longer I stay here, the more danger you’re in.”

Your next words fell from your lips without hesitation, tears thick in your tone as you stressed, “But I love you.” 

Bucky froze, mouth parting. You’d said it with so much sadness, so much heaviness in the words he’d been aching to hear for so long. You hadn’t said them yet because you didn’t want to scare him off. 

But he was leaving now. There was nothing to lose. 

The kiss he pressed to your lips was hard and rushed and a breath left his nose with so much tension a low groan accompanied the action. His fingers were gripping your jaw and desperately trembling. His feet were slotted between yours and you tugged at his jacket to bring him closer, closer, closer. 

“That’s why I have to leave,” Bucky huffed out against your lips, eyes closed. He couldn’t watch as he left you. “I’m gonna find you again. Even if it’s in another life.” 

[lucygxybaird]

warning: caliente cowboy content

your first time (ever) with billy

You had been so shy to tell Billy that you were a virgin. Although Billy is your first everything — your first date, your first kiss, your first proper relationship— you know that isn’t the case for him. Sometimes, the thought of him with other woman makes your heart ache, just a little; it’s beneath you, and you know that, but you can’t help it. 

It isn’t jealousy, so much as…as a longing to have him all to yourself. Your time with Billy is so precious; both of you are achingly aware, like two tightrope walkers balanced precariously in midair, that Billy can be taken away at any moment. 

You fully believe he’s doing the right thing, fighting against Riley and Murphy, against Jesse and his infernal gang. And you’re proud of him. But it means he draws danger down on himself as surely as a lightning rod will draw down a blazing bolt from the sky. 

Which, in turn, means that every day — every moment — with Billy is like a gift, eked out from a world which has shown time and time again that it did not care about the two of you. But you don’t care if anyone else in the world gives a damn about you, as long as you have Billy. 

So — not jealousy, but a febrile, futile wish to hoard as much time with him as you could, even if you have to reach into the past to do so. As selfish as it is, you have no compunctions with the thought of clawing his memory away from others, women you don’t even know, just so you don’t miss a thing.

You remember the way you blushed, hiding your face against his chest, as you admitted that you had never…been with a man like that. His chuckle reverberated against your cheek, his arms still snug around you. Your hair had fallen forward like a veil,  and you made no move to brush it away; but he did. His fingers gently tucked a sheaf of strands behind your ear, craning his neck to try to catch a glimpse of your expression. 

“Baby, it’s not anythin’ to be embarrassed over.” He’d pressed his lips against the crown of your head. “You just gotta tell me what you’re ready for. I don’t wanna push you.” Another soft kiss against your hair. “I want you to feel safe with me.” 

You had lifted your head then, peeking up at him, and you were rewarded with his smile. “I do feel safe with you, Billy.” 

“Good.” Another kiss. “You promise you’ll tell me if we get too close to somethin’ you don’t comfortable doin’.” 

You’d promised, and he’d kissed you, over and over again until you were supple underneath his hands, molding yourself against him. After that, you kept your word, putting your hands against his chest to gently press him back, or turning your head so that his kiss landed on your cheek instead of your mouth. He never once intimidated, by so much as a sigh or a downward twitch of his mouth, that he was disappointed — let alone angry — that you wanted to stop. Instead, he would just lay back against the pillow, drawing you against his chest and holding you there. 

He would stroke your hair, or run the heel of his hand up and down the length of your spine, and the two of you would just talk. About nothing, about everything. If you hadn’t already been head over heels in love with him by then, those soft, meandering conversations would have pulled you under completely. 

You aren’t sure what makes tonight different. Maybe it’s because it’s the first cool night after the merciless, broiling heat of summer, where the air feels like a gentle caress, and you can smell the comforting scent of woodsmoke on the breeze. Billy has built a fire and laid out your dinner on a blanket in front of the hearth, and now the two of you are nestled together on the flannel, your bodies twined together. You look up at him and realize it’s not the beautiful night, or the romantic dinner, but just the fact that you love him so fiercely and can’t get enough of him.

You want him to know that. 

“Billy,” you murmur against his lips. You finger one of the buttons at his collar, slipping it open. “I…I want you. Tonight. Now.” You look up at him, undoing another one of his buttons. “Please…”

He freezes for a moment, as if unsure he’s heard you right. Pulling back just a little, propping himself up on an elbow, Billy frames your face between his hands. “Are you sure? I need you to be sure. Don’t just say yes cause you think it’s what I want.” 

You draw your fingertips over the angle of his cheek, although your gaze falls on his lips. Those impossibly plush, soft lips. “I’m sure.” 

He looks at you for a moment more, as if measuring the strength of your certainty. And then he stands up and draws you to your feet, pulling you flush against him. “Listen,” he murmurs. “If you wanna stop, you tell me, okay? No matter what we’re doin’. Just say the word, and we’ll stop.” 

You nod. “I’ll tell you,” you say, because it seems like he’s waiting for confirmation right from your mouth. “I swear.” 

His hands find your waist as he leans down to kiss you again, this time even hungrier than before. And you thought you knew the passion in his kiss. You had no idea. He must have been holding back, tamping down his own desire just to make sure you were comfortable. His kisses have always made you burn in the most delicious way, but now — it’s like comparing a candle to a wildfire. 

You wind your arms around his neck, fitting your body against his. It’s almost physically painful, like tearing a bandage away, to pull back just enough to keep working on the buttons of his shirt. Your hands go to the bare skin of his chest, and he lets out a soft sigh against your mouth, the sound of someone returning home after a long journey. A sound of relief and an intense happiness that’s as keen as a knife’s edge. 

Your fingertips brush over his ribs, and you’re surprised when he huffs out a laugh. “That tickles,” he mutters. Of course, you do it again. He giggles, the sound deep and husky, but undeniably a giggle for all that. You smile as you reach up to slide his shirt off his shoulders. He lets it fall to the floor before he reaches up to grasp the shoulders of your dress. 

“Can I?” His expression is earnest, his eyes beseeching, and you know he’ll only keep going if you give your assent. So you nod, keeping your gaze on his, and his palms gently caress your shoulders as he slides the dress off, exposing your from the waist up. He waits, looking at you; when you nod again, he reaches down and pulls the material around your waist down. The dress pools at your feet.

“Let me look at you,” he pleads. “I just wanna look at you for a minute.” 

“You can,” you say. 

Only then do his eyes leave your face. You can almost feel his gaze as if it’s a physical caress, brushing your breasts, your waist, your hips. He lingers between your legs, his lower lip catching between his teeth. He’s looking at you as if he’s fighting the urge to drop to his knees, the pose of a man worshipping at the feet of a goddess. 

“C’mere,” he says, his voice rougher than before, rumbling deep from his chest. He takes your hand and leads you to the bed. He wraps his arms around you, drawing you against him and kissing you hungrily; the sensation of your bare skin against his sends such a strong sensation surging through you that you gasp softly against his lips. “Billy…God, I want you—”

“I’m right here,” he promises you, lifting his head to look you in the eye again. “You’ve got me, honey, I promise. You have all of me.” 

You lay down against the pillows, fighting the urge just to part your thighs in invitation. He must read something in your expression, because he grins at you, and you grin back, a nervous giggle bubbling over your lips. He moves over you, holding himself up; he kisses your lips again, feathering kisses over your jaw, down your neck. 

Billy trails kisses down your body, starting at your collarbone, his tongue darting out to taste the hollow at the base of your throat. His hands brace themselves against your hips, and his grip tightens as his mouth ghosts over your breasts; you feel his breath shudder against your skin, and you think you can see a quick thrust of his hips as he grinds against the bed. “Billy…” 

He looks up at you from underneath his impossibly dark lashes, a question in his eyes. 

“More,” you breathe. “Please…” 

In response, he wraps his lips around one of your nipples, sucking as his tongue flicks against the sensitive bud. You moan softly, encouragingly, one hand coming up to tangle in his hair. The other reaches up to grip the pillow behind your head. You’re already aching, yearning to touch yourself, but you want him and only him. Even your own fingers would break the spell. 

He moves to your other breast, and when you whimper, you see his hips rock again. Billy kisses each rib where they press against your taut, feverish skin, and when he reaches your waist, his hands move down to your thighs. His fingers dig into the flesh, massaging, thumbs brushing over your inner thigh. The thought of him touching you there has your back arching, the ache only building. You think soon it will be unbearable. 

“I wanna put my mouth on you, baby,” he says, his voice low, throaty. “I wanna make you feel good.” He nips gently at your hipbone. “Can I?”

“Yes,” you say, without hesitation, which makes him grin. “Yes, Billy, please…”

He smooths his hands under you, gripping your ass and lifting you up to his mouth as he settles between your legs. Billy keeps his eyes on yours as his tongue sweeps over your slit, and you cry out, your head falling back. He starts up a rhythm, tongue lapping at your core, sucking, kissing, and then— 

“Oh, God—” 

His nose brushes that bundle of nerves you’ve shyly explored with your own fingertips before, as his tongue delves into you. Your mouth falls open and your eyes scrunch shut, and you grip his hair tightly, hardly aware of the way your hips are bucking frantically. “Fuck! Oh, God — oh, Billy — Billy, Billy, Billy…” 

He moans against you, which only intensifies the almost agonizing pleasure surging through your veins. You open your eyes, looking down to watch him devour you. He keeps grinding against the bed, fitful thrusts, before he stops himself, as if he’s trying to keep control but he can’t hold onto it. “Oh, Billy — I — I’m — oh — ”

You can’t speak anymore. The only sounds falling from your mouth are desperate, raw cries, and everything is building, building, building, until — 

A wordless scream tears itself from your throat as you reach your peak, an animalistic cry that trails into desperate whimpers, almost sobs, as you come down. He keeps swiping his tongue against you, as if he’s drinking in your peak, and you keep rocking your hips to meet his tongue. Finally, he lifts his head, and you fall limp against the bed. 

“Fuck, honey, you taste so goddamn good,” he groans. The evidence gleams on his lips, his chin, even his cheeks. He moves over you again, leaning down to kiss you greedily. You barely have the strength to wrap your arms around him, but you do, holding him as tightly as you can. 

When you feel his fingers brush against your inner thighs, you give a soft moan. He meets your eyes again. “Can I touch you? I gotta get you ready for me.”

You whimper softly. “Yes,” you whisper. “Yes, oh, Billy…I want you inside me so badly…”

With a soft groan of his own, he drops his head to your shoulder, tucking his face against the crook of your neck. “You have no idea,” he breathes, “how bad I want you. Shit…”

His fingers stroke your folds, thumb moving in gentle circles over your clit, barely applying pressure. But it still doesn’t take long for you to start whining, gasping against his lips. He kisses you over and over again, almost in rhythm with his touch, and then you feel him brush against your entrance. 

“Baby?” he whispers, and when you nod, he slowly, slowly, presses a finger in. 

It burns, but his lips moving against yours and his thumb working against your clit help to relax you.  “More,” you breathe, and he adds a second finger, beginning to move them in and out. You moan as the stretch becomes less of a surprise and more of a pleasure, and you feel yourself clenching around his fingers, your body acting independently of you. 

“Billy,” you gasp out. “Billy — I need…I need more…” 

He groans, immediately starting to move his fingers faster. Harder. You cry out, head pressing back into the pillow. “Yes! Oh, yes, yes, like that, just — oh, Billy, just like that — don’t stop, please, don’t stop, don’t stop…” 

Your only answer is another groan. When your gaze flashes to his face, you think his beauty alone might be enough to drive you over the edge. His cheeks are flushed, his blue eyes burning, his lips swollen and deliciously pink from your kiss. You reach up one hand for him and pull him down, the gesture almost rough, certainly possessive, and you kiss him again as if you would pour all the passion filling you up right back into him. 

“Oh, God — ” It’s building up again, the throbbing ache in your core, and all you can think about is having his length buried inside you. You can feel it against you every now and then as he moves over you, a hard ridge pressing against his pants. God, you can only guess at how big it is; the very idea makes you rock your hips down on his fingers. 

“I’m gonna come,” you mutter. “Billy — Billy — fuck — oh, I’m gonna — ”

He nips at your earlobe, sucking against the skin. “Come for me, baby,” he whispers. “I love you. I love making you feel good, I love you, I love you so much…” 

His pace intensifies, and your back arches, your legs trembling. His thumb presses harder against your clit, still moving in circles, and you let out a helpless half-sob, half-moan as your second orgasm hits you like a thunderclap. All you can think of is wrapping your legs around Billy’s waist, digging your fingernails into his shoulders, marking him up, writing on his skin in a language that only the two of you can understand. 

Billy carefully pulls his fingers from you, and as you watch, he lifts his hand to his mouth and licks his fingers greedily, like a starving man will like a plate free of crumbs. This time, your thighs do part, and you whine helplessly. You never imagined you’d be like this, wanton and needy, barely aware of yourself as anyone or anything more than Billy’s lover. It’s like desire and pleasure — and love, God knows — have merged into a great ocean, and the waves have closed over your head. But you don’t mind sinking into it. 

He groans at the taste of you, and then moves back, getting to his feet. You watch with ravenous eyes as he undoes his pants, shucking them in a moment; you swear to God, your mouth waters at the sight of him. He is big — and he’s so hard for you, his length laying flat against his stomach. 

“Shit,” he breathes, looking down at you. “Baby, I — I need to be inside you so fuckin’ bad, please, tell me I can…”

As if he really needs to ask by this point. But you love that he asks, anyway. You reach for him. “Please, Billy…” 

He moves on top of you again, urging one of your legs up over his hip. Without prompting, you wrap the other around his waist, lifting your hips to him. “Ready?” he murmurs, and you nod, so desperate for him that you might actually begin to weep if he’s not inside you in a moment. 

And then — 

Oh. 

Your lips part in a silent moan. The head of his cock presses inside you, and then he stops, watching your face. You nod, and he presses in a little more — slowly, slowly, pausing every now and then, always waiting for you to signal your assent somehow before giving you more of him. When he’s pressed in to the hilt, you grasp at his shoulders, writhing a little beneath him. “Billy, fuck me,” you whisper in his ear, and you’re rewarded with an immediate thrust. 

He presses his cheek against yours as he starts to move — again, slowly at first, a gentle, exploring motion of his hips. You gasp out, encouraging, pleading, tugging at his hair with one hand and raking your nails down his back with the other. Billy grunts softly with each snap of his hips, an animalistic sound, rich with pleasure, with possessiveness. It’s like he’s saying mine — mine — mine — with each rough, deep noise. You rock against him, your cries intensifying as your body becomes used to him, and the only thing you feel is a pleasure so intense you find your eyes stinging. 

“Harder,” you beg. “Faster. Fuck me.” 

The groan he lets out rumbles up deep from his very core, and he obeys you instantly. He takes one of your hands, and then the other, pinning them above your head as his hips slam into you, over and over. His cries get louder and so do yours. You’re so close, and as yet another orgasm races toward you, you whimper in his ear: “Billy, Billy, I wanna ride you.” 

He whimpers, and rolls the two of you over, settling you on top of him. “Baby,” he breathes, looking up at you as if you’re made of starlight and lace, something beautiful and delicate, and more importantly, all his. “Fuck — like this, like this — ”

His hands on your hips guide you in a rocking motion, and it isn’t long before you find the rhythm yourself. Billy’s eyes shut tightly, his brow furrowing, his mouth falling open. He braces his feet against the bed and rocks up into you. “That’s it, baby, just like that — fuck — you’re so fuckin’ perfect — ”

You want to warn him again, tell him you’re about to come, but the only sound you can make is a desperate moan, repeated with each movement. You brace yourself against his chest, working your hips on his length, feeling every inch of him so deliciously deep. In another moment, you’re coming hard, your thighs shaking as your throat goes raw from crying out. Billy keeps rocking up into you, both of you gasping, and then he rolls you onto your back again. 

You go to cling to him, not wanting him to leave, but he pulls out and strokes himself once, twice, before he’s coming all over your stomach -- up to your chest — with a cry of your name. “I’m — I’m sorry, baby,” he blurts out. “I didn’t…if I’d…” 

“I know,” you manage, despite still struggling to catch your breath. You smile sleepily as he digs a rag from the bedside table and cleans you off, before pulling you into his arms, burying his face against your hair. 

“Did I…did I hurt you?” he murmurs, his tone soft and shy. 

“No,” you assure him. 

You snuggle closer. There is an ache between your legs now, but you find it easy to push to the back of your mind. More important is the contentment washing over you, loosening your muscles, making you melt against Billy’s chest as you wrap an arm around his waist. Not that you ever wondered, but now you know for sure Billy is the one you’ve been waiting for all your life. Your first, your only, your everything. 

You lift your head and smile at him. Relief washes over his features as he smiles back. “I love you,” you tell him, and he reaches up, brushing a strand behind your ear. 

“I love you, too, darlin’.” 

[gosmigenergy]

KINKTOBER 2023 / Day Fifteen

( Francisco ‘Catfish’ Morales x F!Reader )

BOOT WORSHIP / SPANKING / LACTATION/BREASTFEEDING

Summary: After wanting to spank you for months, Frankie finally shares his desire.

Day Fifteen of @absurdthirst's Kinktober list.

Rating: Mature 18+

Warnings: Language, spanking, hair pulling, Dom!Frankie turns Soft!Frankie, P in V, unprotected sex (use protection irl please), no use of Y/N

Word Count: 2k

If he’s ever given the opportunity, Frankie’s hand will meet your ass and you give him too many opportunities to count. He thought you would have realised by now that he was an ass man but apparently not.

He pats you on the butt while you wait for your coffee, holding onto the counter top, bleary eyed. When the boys are over and you climb over their splayed legs to take a seat, he has a playful swat. He grabs handfuls upon handfuls of you when things heat up between the pair of you.

And it’s not that you haven’t notice, you just haven’t said anything, the notion has always felt somewhat loving.

There was one time however where he wasn’t so gentle.

You were on your hands and knees, searching for something under your bed. He clocked you, ass up in those ridiculously short pyjama bottoms and the temptation was too strong. You weren’t even aware he was in the room until the heavy handed smack. The force sent you forward, the shock causing you to hit your head on the slats.

“Francisco!”

That’s when he learned you only called him by his full name when you were pissed. He’d already bolted from the room when you managed to worm your way from under the bed. You rubbed your butt.

Sure it hurt but fuck, did it turn you on.

There was always an anticipation in you when his hand came to your ass, yet a slap like that never happened again.

“You missed a good fight,” he let you go in the house first.

“You all keep telling me that but I can’t watch him get beat up like that.”

The scrapping, the kicks and the punches were fine at first but the more time you spent with Benny, the more it hurt to watch him in the cage. Instead you waited outside or in the locker room for everything to be over.

Frankie plucks off his cap, throwing it aside with his jacket.

“He’s a big boy,” he cups your cheeks, “he can handle it.”

“I know. I just don’t like seeing him get hurt.”

He let you wrap your arms around him where you press your ear against his chest and listen to his heart beat. He kisses the crown of your head.

You yawn.

“Tired, querida?”

“No, just in need of a pick me up,” you stretch, walking away from him. “I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Want a late night snack?”

“I’m ok, thanks babe.”

You’d started to get into the habit of calling them all babe, he still wasn’t used to it.

After your shower, you gravitate towards his wardrobe, flicking through his shirts to choose which one to wear. You always went for the softest, the one that had clung onto his sandalwood scent even though he’d washed it hundreds of times before.

He’d just thrown the last piece of a grilled cheese sandwich into his mouth and was sucking the grease from his thick fingers when you join him. He looks you up and down, taking his finger out with a pop as he puts the empty plate on the table.

“So you’re the one who keeps stealing my favourite shirt.”

It was obviously you.

You pout, “Don’t you think it looks better on me?”

He watched as you smoothed the fabric over your figure, purposefully showing glimpses of the bare skin hidden underneath. You turn around just so you can lift the hemline enough for him to see the curve of your ass, no knickers in sight.

He leans back, arms blocking his chest.

“Of course it does.”

His eyes focus back on the television.

Playing with the cuffs in your fingers, you tentatively join him on the couch, knees to your chest.

“Are you mad with me?”

He looks at your doe eyes.

“A little…”

Sighing, he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“All I want to do is throw you over my leg and spank you but you don’t want that.”

Your heart skips a beat, the thought of it pooling in your belly and spreading between your thighs.

“When did I say that?”

“You didn’t,” he took his hand away from his face. “When I smacked you on the ass a couple of months back, you weren’t pleased.”

You take his other hand, “Frankie, that was just bad timing.”

“It was? You seemed angry.”

“It was the shock and the head bump. If I’m honest, I’ve kinda been waiting for you to do it again.”

His mouth was hanging open, brows knotted, “Really?”

You hum, nodding, teeth grazing your bottom lip.

“Huh.”

He stops talking, his mind working to formulate his next move.

The expectancy was tortuous, the passing seconds making you squirm then suddenly, everything went fast.

Frankie grabbed you firmly around the waist and hauled your body off the cushions. Intuitively, you went limp and allowed him to position you on his legs, your stomach pressing into bone. The shirt had already ridden up, the chill wafting onto your warm pussy and once you’ve caught your breath, you lift your head to look at him.

He stares at you hungrily.

His broad palm rubs gently, getting you used to the feel of his hand on your ass though you were pretty used to it being there. He waited for you to settle before he slaps you a few times but you barely flinch.

“You can go harder.”

He starts rubbing again.

“This is just the prep,” he gives some more slaps before groping, sinking his nails into the meat of your ass. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

You scoff, “I thought that was the point?”

“Put it this way, I want you to be able to sit tomorrow.”

That you could agree with.

There’s a couple of final swats before he soothes you one last time. You swallow as you hear him take a deep breath, his hand no longer on the flaring skin of your ass. Closing your eyes, the impact comes fast and you yelp in response.

“You alright?”

His hand relaxed.

You nod enthusiastically, rearranging your position a little to get your ass up higher. He smirked at your eagerness, his other hand running up your spine and he watches the shiver take your whole body.

Then he gives another, then another over and over.

You happily take every welt, the heaviness rippling through your ass and your juices begin to flow. Each slap is met with a honeyed moan, your toes beginning to curl as your desire rushes through you.

Frankie is relishing in it.

How dutiful you are, taking it as hard as he’s giving.

As he continues, your nails claw into his jeans as you try to steady against the brunt, your head lulling as your head fills with nothing but him. The air as it’s puffed from his nostrils, his eyes observing every minuscule response and making the hair at the back of you neck stand on end, his cock growing and hardening into the side of your chest.

His next smack hits different.

It stings, the prickle spreading across your ass cheeks.

“Fuck,” you say through gritted teeth.

He does it again and you gasp, your chest shuddering as you breath.

“You good?”

You nod but he doesn’t see it.

Instead, his free hand trails towards your neck, fingers locking into a fistful of your hair. He pulls your head back and you feel the strain in your neck, you mewl.

“Querida?”

“Yeah,” you say breathily. “I’m good.”

You look to him out of the corner of your eye, heavy lids. He has to smile at how you appear, cheeks flushed, bottom lip swollen from your own teeth, drunk off his dominance.

“Tell me to stop and I’ll stop.”

You hum.

He slaps your ass and watches your facial features go slack.

Carrying on his thrashing, he can see how your legs splay, how your pussy glistens, twitching as the ache travels. He knows you’re enjoying this yet your ass is beginning to disagree. It’s scorching under his touch, handprints blending into the same raised mark that spreads the width of your ass cheeks.

Your scalp was tingling as his fingers still pulled, the sensation flooding your back. It dispersed, vibrating through your limbs until you were vibrating.

The next spank hurt, your senses overwhelmed and then the next.

“Stop.”

He raises his hand but doesn’t swing.

“Stop,” you tap his leg, “stop, please.”

His hand loosens on your head and you turn to jelly, legs buckling as you fall onto your knees, forehead pressed to the outside of his leg. He lets you catch your breath, stroking your hair delicately.

You took your time, your presence coming back to the room, to him.

When you look up at him, he’s already gazing down out you, straight lipped but soft behind his brown eyes.

“Thank you.”

He chuckles, “You might not be thanking me later.”

You smile, knowing that that wasn’t going to happen.

Helping you up off the floor, he lays you out across the couch and tucks himself in behind you. He props up on an elbow, his other hand, running up and down your side in a soothing manner. You could go to sleep, if it wasn’t for a raging boner.

“What are you going to do about that?”

“Ignore it,” he grumbles.

“It’s pretty hard to ignore.”

“That sounds like a bad pun.”

“It wasn’t meant to.”

You work a hand behind your back, cupping his bulge through his jeans. 

He groans, eyelids fluttering shut as he felt your fingers pull at the zipper. You coil a hand through the opening and knead his length, a spot already present on his underwear.

“Fuck me, Frankie.”

It’s what he needed to hear.

Opening his eyes, his hand fights to undo his belt and unfasten his button. He frees his cock from his briefs before hooking your leg over his, spreading you wide. Shuffling, he lines himself up, taking his cock in his fingers and pushing through your folds. He slowly rolls his hips and fills you to the hilt.

You sigh.

He slides back with ease, your juices helping him glide through your walls. He takes his time, thrusting you at a languished pace. Two of his fingers dance across your navel before pressing on your clit, your head falling back and he delivers kisses underneath your jaw.

Your hands come to the back of his head and you kiss him squarely in the lips, nudging your chin for entry. His tongue slips into yours before you get chance, stealing the moan that escaped you. Your tongues twist and curl together, chasing the taste of each other.

He circles your clit in rhythm to his thrusts, the bundle of nerves pulsating to your inner walls that clench around his length.

You chase his lips when he takes them away but your easily distracted when he snaps his hips a fraction harder. You cry and he only smiles, eyes dark with heavy lids. He drops his hand from his head and works it under your neck, hand slipping underneath his shirt to your breast. Your head falls back as he squeezes your breast and clit in unison.

You cry, eye screwing shut and you feel his breath hot by your ear.

He shushes you, holds you while your body convulses in orgasm, his t-shirt bundling in your hand.

Your cunt contracts around his cock.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he says gruffly, working against your walls.

With your tightness, he was far from finding release himself. A couple more deep thrusts and he felt his balls recede as he pumped into you, filling you with every last drop of his seed.

Sinking into the couch, his body loosens.

You scramble to unbutton the shirt and throw it open to feel the cooler air hit your skin, your stomach rising and falling as you catch your breath. The pair of you lay there, lost for words, unable to move in the afterglow.

After a while, he nudges his nose into the crook of your neck.

“Love you, querida.”

“Love you too.”

Frankie kissed your shoulder, his hand skimming your body before coming to rest on your ass.

[2demondogs]

Dutch x Reader. just pure heartbreaking, soul crushing, stomach aching angst you can write where Reader gets killed by Colm , making them yet another lover of Dutch’s fall victim to him.

We never see Dutch have a breakdown, and not a "Oh my God, we need money or else we all die" breakdown, but a "Oh my God, my whole world just got taken away from me and there's nothing I can do to save them" break down (maybe with Hosea but I need this man to UGLY CRY)

Doesn't matter how you get reader in Colms hands. That's completely up to you! They could be kidnapped and killed, caught in a shootout between Dutch and Colm, perhaps a ransom situation gone wrong! I'm just throwing ideas out there, but I'll say it again it up to you!

I love your writing so much, thank you :))

Thank you! This one got the Evil Gears working. You guys never fail to complete my villainous whump urges. I be like "cut his arm off with a boulder" and y'all are like "he will never love again."

Hosea's there and so's some others... it takes a village. Thank you to my platonic husband once again for some ideas because the block on this one was tuff. I'm sorry if the execution is not that good T-T.

Words: 3.7k Tags: canon typical violence, grief/mourning, trigger warning Micah (and I guess the rest of it)

The muscle memory kicks in before his consciousness does: the boom of a rifle — Charles' bolt-action, Dutch knows in his veins, can usually tell each of his men's guns apart by report — and then instantaneous sit up, find his gun, rub his face into some semblance of wakefulness as he storms half-dressed out of the tent, canvas flapping. Chilly midnight air is hitting his skin before the echo of the shot has faded into the treeline surrounding camp.

The stillness wakes him up the rest of the way. At least, the stillness of the woodlands, eerie-quiet as they always fall after fire. For the camp's part, men are stumbling out and tripping over themselves, tents rustling, and the women are getting up, Abigail shushing a too-loud Jack. Susan nearly beats Arthur to meeting his stride, her kerosene lantern roving light over the dying grass on the ground.

Micah is always first, a dark shadow already standing at the perimeter where Charles is looming over two shapes heaped on the ground. He doesn't think that man ever sleeps.

"Charles!" He calls, and the two turn from talking hushedly. "What's goin' on?"

Charles tenses up, and Micah speaks before he does, face clearing as Dutch squints the blurriness from his eyes. "Your, ah," — throwing a hand up at Charles, starting towards Dutch with his hands out to grab his elbows — "You oughta be warned, sir."

His brows furrow. Micah of all people is not one to beat around bushes, let alone with him. It gnaws at him, some, a vague sense of dread. It passes his mind where you are, but you had a habit of staying nights over in town if it got too dark to ride comfortably.

"What the Hell are you talkin' about?" He repeats. He shrugs his hands off, pushes past him, hears his gunbelt clinking as he stumbles a step. "Charles, what—?"

"Ain't no one else," Charles starts, not stepping from where he stands in front of the tree they'd assigned as an unofficial camp outpost. That's odd, too, and he has a feeling the man doesn't believe there's no one else, not with his gun clenched in his hands like that. No one else? "But there was an O'Driscoll with—"

And then Susan's lantern swings once across the start of the brush, throws light against hair and a fallen hat, laying on its crown. His fingers ready at his trigger, eyes hardening. "How did they find us this goddamn time?" Dutch asks the air.

Unlike usual, Charles does not keep talking once he's put his two-cents in the pot. He has that tension about him that he always does when there's something he would prefer not to say aloud, a habit that scratches Dutch raw in the wrong ways. He's about to spout off some aggressive twist to avoid the one in his gut, something about I'm the fucking man, Thomas, why are you not explaining this to me? until Susan steps the few paces ahead of him to meet the tree, and the warm glow of her lantern lands on familiarity.

His finger slips from the trigger, all curling bone-white around the grip instead.

Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, and he waves at the heap with his gun, throat clicking loud enough he thinks he may have cocked it on accident. When he turns to him instead of the ground, he can't make out his son's face in the shadow cast by his own head, only sees glints off his eyes in the darkness.

"You... you take care of this, Arthur," Dutch is saying, feels a hand on his elbow, curling into the inner of it to hold him back, and brushes Micah off once more. Micah, or someone else— the fingers were thinner, but his ears are starting to ring. His throat feels clogged, sticky.

"Dutch," a voice says, and he isn't sure who it is through the roar of blood.

Sanguine is seeping into the ground that Susan's lantern reveals, sliding over the dirt from a gaping hole in the skull of an O'Driscoll. Always goes for the instant kill, Charles does. Green bandana, green vest, dressed like a big green clown by his standards — an imitation of uniform, all of them wannabe munton-shunting clowns wear green, munton-shunter wannabes is all those men are at the end of the day: swine united under one God, hollow be His name — and flailed onto the dirt by the rifle blow. Not from this close, no, he'd be gone from the shoulders up, which means the bastard had almost made it past the perimeter, unnoticed. Dutch can't find it in himself to tear Charles a new asshole for that.

You lay there, too. Unbleeding, but shot all the same.

"Dutch," comes again. He listens this time, because it's Hosea's sleep-ridden nasal and his cool fingers on his burning wrist, pulling him away as his mind grows louder. "Let Arthur handle this."

And he listens to the words this time, because it's Hosea.

He won't think of why Charles is good at fashioning these wooden crosses. Perhaps it's selfish to think that, and to neglect most anything besides the blackness eating at himself— but you are gone.

If he were a different sort of crier, maybe he'd turn to him now and tell Hosea he's lucky to have lived through two. That Arthur and John are, too, and especially Susan— but you are gone, and Dutch only finds one thing funny, in the sour way men laugh over spilled blood and ashes and misfires.

It's own his negligence that must've led to this. Letting you do as you wished, wanting you to be happy instead of entirely safe. If he had only listened to that little voice in his head, surely, you would have come back from town alive and well and pressing some little jewelry piece you'd stolen into his hands like some of promise, the way you always did.

But no, that's not right. The regret is talking now that something has happened, trying to paint over the simple fact that Dutch trusted you enough there were no nagging inclinations when you went out on your lonesome. He wouldn't have liked you this much if there weren't that ability to hold your own, how you offered him some semblance of safety in every regard that he hasn't felt in a long, long while. Give and take.

There is, too, the wish that he had been with you in your last moments. If he were, they wouldn't have been your last; but even if things went the way things always do — which is the end, eventually — he would've liked to have been there, holding you, the way lovers die.

Susan did her best to clean you off and freshen you up. Charles' crosses, and her mortuary sciences. They're both skills that shouldn't be held. Dutch kneeled by your side and gripped the stiffened hand as if the warmth of his skin could've made the flesh tender and rosy once more.

The work is done by the time the sun reveals itself over the treeline. A patch of clearing near camp holds you now, in the grave Charles and Arthur have dug. The two strongest, as reluctant as he was to ask anything of them knowing they were his first choices for scouting a new campsite. He was reluctant to even consider the fact that as soon as you were buried, he might have only a few minutes with that sorry, scored cross that now claims to be you.

Dutch wasn't sure what to do with himself when the work began, and he isn't sure what he spent the hours since midnight doing now that they've passed. He doesn't think he's moved from the spot he stepped into, and Hosea's arm linked through his is so burning hot in the crook of his elbow that he believes maybe he hasn't even breathed.

A respectable distance, in front of the boys. Arthur offers him the last shovel's-worth of dirt, and it means something that Dutch will probably soon regret shaking his head to. His brain skitters at the hard casing of his skull when he does, eyes backed up and stinging. That pain started sometime while he knelt beside you, which seems so long ago now.

Once Charles and Arthur leave, he crumbles onto Hosea, and it all feels very far away. Enclosed in it, locked outside of it; his nostrils burn as if he's snorted capsaicin, mucus coming to his throat without any tears.

"I know, Dutch," Hosea says, voice so weary that Dutch feels his fingers grow stiff and numb with it.

Here he is, and there goes his knees, Hosea stepping back once under his weight but holding him up, in the end, arms tight around his ribs. He realizes it hurts because he's talking, that Hosea has spoken in response to him.

"I should've—" He's starting, but now that he's listening to himself he does not know what he was going to say, and grows frustrated enough that he only groans, inhales a mouthful of the half-dirty collar of Hosea's fur-lined coat.

Here he is, and how he has forgotten what the shards of a broken heart feel like stabbing into a man's lungs.

Dutch has crumbled two sets of tobacco leaves in his fingers, blinking the sun out of his eyes where it crawls up and beneath the overhang of shading the folding chair beside his tent. He sighs sharply, hanging his hands and head between his knees. At this rate, he'll crush every last leaf in his rolling tin and still be out the soothe of nicotine.

Months have passed, but still he struggles to grasp himself again. The idea that you were gone for a job was a lie so clear to him by the end of that first week, Dutch could no longer fool himself on why his cot didn't smell like you anymore. He packed your things alongside his own, but they stay in the crates they were placed into — not stuffed, not like his possessions were — since the gang moved from Blackwater, to Colter, to here.

God, you're all the way back there.

Why did life not cross the border with us? He wonders, at times. He then remembers that it's little use to think that way, before he continues to do it.

There was no use toting a — as impersonal as it sounds, he has no other words for it — corpse around. If he could have, he would've buried you where he believed they might stay for a while. That place hasn't come to him yet, either, as quiet as the overlook seems to be, and so who knows how long he would've been playing that sick game. A proper graveyard was out of the question, if it even could've been done; the only usefulness in such a burial is a relatively sure landmarker by which to find you. Dutch has never been one to go back to the past.

But it's you. He did not go to his mother's grave, and he wouldn't go to hers now. You're more than the past, though. He wishes he could have buried you somewhere beautiful, at least; he wants to go back and sit with you. He doesn't think you will ever be so little as the past.

Dutch doesn't realize he's been mumbling these things to himself until Arthur's voice breaks through the drone of his own, rumbling murmurs and brings them to light amongst the ambiance of camp that he had tuned out.

"You okay, Dutch?" Familiar, gritty like his own voice. Lighter, and concerned.

Dutch looks up at him and sighs, seeing the draw of his brow. His hand raises to gesture before he can think of what he should say— what he even can say, or if there's anything that needs saying to begin with. Finally, the struggle exhausts his mind too much to do anything beyond summarizing his thoughts.

"How many more people I love?" He muses, flicks his wrist and lets it fall back to limply resting on his knee. The sentence cracks and falls between them, Arthur shifting on his feet uncomfortably.

Everyone has been uncomfortable around him, as of late, and that's getting on Dutch's nerves more than it is depressing him. He supposes it does its fair share of that, too. He believes that he does a fine job of swallowing himself and giving them what they need: a leader, strong and shiny and well-groomed, who knows what he's doing, what they're all doing. A man to be proud of, and to make proud.

A man who feels very unlike the way Dutch feels behind that blank expression he lets them paint something better onto in their heads.

Arthur is nodding, looking both ways as if clearing the camp of witnesses before he lays a hand on his shoulder. Lord, Dutch remembers when his hands weren't so meaty and rough. Near dainty, spindly fingers on some teenaged mutt that could barely lift an arm long enough to wave, hands that always seemed too-cold and clammy. That— now, that is the past.

"I know, man," he starts, and says something else he does not hear. All he can think of is when Arthur used to call him Dad, every now and then. "—have to move on," he's saying.

Dutch assumes what needs brushed past, and he has never been a man to agree with the truth, so he asks of Arthur the least he can imagine asking of him. "I know, son," he interjects, gently moves his hand from his shoulder to raise. Arthur steps back, sighs. "Can you...?" Dutch aches, he does; aches for something here that he cannot put a name to, unsure what would soothe any part of him that's currently stirring. He doesn't find the answer as his eyes search the collar of his red workshirt, the treeline past his shoulder where the horses are grazing on the sloping ground. "I need to be alone. Please."

Arthur's jaw clicks as he moves it, then nods and steps away. He pauses before he obeys.

"I..." — that pregnant, lingering thing comes between them again, keeping Arthur's chin raised as he hesitates — "Sure, Dutch," he says, and leaves him to picking up the larger crumbs of tobacco that fell to the ground.

Bitter brown and orange scattered through green grass and patches of raw dirt. In the soil, he figures out that, foolishly, he wanted to be embraced.

Not much more can be done about you. Not now.

It's been burning his skin, this need to be held. It's less than that, Dutch thinks, maybe just a desire for a vague thing like the right kind of comfort.

What can fill a hole this vast?

What can mend a man?

"What's wrong?" Hosea asks, and it's the only what Dutch knows the answer to.

He must know, too. In the lantern light inside Dutch's tent, his face is sliding away from even into one akin to the expression men turn on kicked dogs. They've grating on one another since abandoning the Overlook, and it's been too long since he's seen that much warmth in his eyes.

If only the kinship didn't come from something so terrible. Dutch hasn't pulled him aside this late into the evening since Annabelle's death sent him to nightmares. How strange it feels to taste her name in his thoughts again. Slowly, you've come to stand beside her, to be dead just like her. Nor with as much haste, with hands that shook so hard gripping Hosea's shoulder that he followed without a question.

"I just," — wringing his hands, pacing around the sprawling bear rug thrown over the ground, seems so gaudy now, all of it seems gaudy — "I don't know what to do with myself."

"Ah, Dutch," Hosea says, voice soft. His face grows hot with the sting of oncoming tears. "I know."

His hands are shaking before the words have fully left his mouth. It comes to him that he hasn't cried in the months since you've passed, and suddenly the wave of it hits him at once. He didn't cry for Annabelle until a year had gone by and Arthur had asked, unknowing, if he'd felt the same way with her as he was feeling with that Linton girl.

He had, was the worst part.

He had felt it with you, too. That youthfulness, the carelessness, let them all know; the way his eyes would soften and give him away before he could ever hope to hide it; the burning of loneliness without you, your hand on his arms or how right your skin felt under his palms; how he liked the way you laughed and smiled, so much that it left him bristling with an energy he didn't know how to waste. Dutch was always bad at hiding himself away, in anger or love. His breath never steadied, 'round you. Nothing was even, nothing was ever as clean-cut as he wished it to be. He realizes he's thinking as if he is dead, and stops himself.

It's almost more than you, now. The weight of it takes him to his knees, all the while ashamed in the back of his mind of what he's come to. Hosea follows. Grunting when his knee joint pops, but follows instantly all the same. For some reason, Dutch's face scrunches up harder at that, and he lets it happen when arms link around his shoulders. He remembers the cold of the air the morning you were buried, and lets out a whinging, broken noise.

Time lapses fast and slow. He's unsure how long he spends crying, or how pitiful it must sound. He's unsure when the last time he even cried was. There's not much to mourn in a life spent living amongst the dead, not really— and not much else warrants tears, not out of a man like him.

They come hard, and then dry up enough his head throbs with the strain to find more with which to release himself. His heart races alongside, pounding hard in his wrists where they are both pressed between their stomachs, fingers clenching and unclenching, rings making divets in the webbing that ache. Nose pressed to the breast pocket of Hosea's shirt, gasping breath in between sobs, Dutch comes to a semblance of his senses, to consciousness. It's still difficult to think through the migraine threatening to take out his vision entirely when he attempts to crack his eyelids. It's almost like a first hangover.

Whiskey would do me much better than bawling, he hears himself pondering.

There's nothing more to think of, not about that evening nor the ride you took. There's nothing he has not thought of on the matters of what those groveling weasels may have done to you before they took your life, and there's nothing he has ever doubted on what information they tried to extort from you.

It was personal, it was. No point would have been had in ratting Dutch out to the law, no safety in sending one of his sniffling newsies to the cops only for that one to be extorted and take everyone down with them. Nothing is fair in love nor war, and this feud has always been made of both.

Your death was a chess piece to Colm. If he really meant it, really wanted Dutch to do anything but get pissed off and show his soft belly while struggling to retaliate— Colm would have brought himself and his best men, and he would have dumped your body before him. Personally, like a real bastard. At least, this is the fantasy Dutch imagines in a world where revenge is feasible, and smart.

There's nothing he hasn't done for you in this world besides cry, and if he doesn't stop this heaving, he'll suffocate. His temple is scorching, burns worse when he tries to pull his head away and he cringes, fumbling for his handkerchief to get rid of the mucus sticking his nose to Hosea in thick strands.

"God, I'm sorry, this is— I'm disgusting," he groans, throat clogged. He's on the brink of tears again just from using his voice. It's thick, and he squeezes his eyes shut trying to fix the mess he's sobbed onto him.

Hosea's hand smooths over his shoulder blade. "No, you're grievin'," he says. "You're lovin'."

Curse him and how— how open he is in being kind. Dutch's feverish forehead falls onto his shoulder, but at least these new tears well up right into the handkerchief instead of all over the already soaked patch on his friend's shirt.

Friend. Brother, really. Hosea must be a brother to hold him this quietly as his organs try to squeeze out his body, to give him this thing he never could have asked for in a silence so much more tolerable than lies of how things will be better soon and reminders that men do not show their pulse points like this.

He is getting old, and Dutch doesn't know what he will do. He thinks the last piece of his soul will die with the man.

His mind thrashes so violently inside his head, he thinks it may come out in bloody chunks as he blows his nose. The skin is screaming and raw by the time he can wrangle a bit of air through his nostrils again. Once hot and writhing, he feels his body going numb, painfully empty. His fingers lock up where they cling to each other at Hosea's chest, and it grows hard to breathe; he slumps against him, rakes in air until his stomach feels connected to himself again, and lets out a shuddering sigh that sinks his shoulders back towards the ground.

Wherever he had been, it was very far away. Maybe it was closer to you.

"When does it stop?" Dutch asks, moving to lay his mouth hard against Hosea's collarbone through the shoulder-seam of his shirt. It's sharp and he leans hard enough to feel as though the bone is grinding on his teeth.

He opens his eyes, though it feels more like prying with the drying tears on his lashes, and— looks at the tent, he supposes, but doesn't see much. A crate of your things stares back at him.

Hosea sighs. "It doesn't," he says, pats his shoulder once. "You'll hurt until you join them."

Dutch hates that he's right.

[lil-vibes]

Hi! Sorry for notification spamming you but wanted to tell you that your TROD tags made me lol, I LOVE your art so much and I’m interested in your AU too. Anyway, love your blog!

P.S. maybe I missed it but you said somewhere that your Narinder was pretty messed up for a few years post revival. Could you give some more details on that? Did he try to hurt them? Who had to take care of him, the lamb? What’s been the downstream effects? Basically, how is this cat still messed up lol.

dont be! everytime i get a notification i go yuppiee!!! im glad you enjoy my art :DD

okay okay its prime yap time under the cut oof i love my fucked up cat sm

Lambert, mainly, took care of him! They made sure that every comfort he needed was provided and were worried out of their mind the entire time. Their disciples helped watch over Narinder when he was unconscious, just so he wouldn't bolt the moment he awoke, and Witness Allocer stitched some of his wound and prepared a special painkiller blend for him. (in my au the high priests, aka the mini bosses, and the witnesses were very close to the bishops! Allocer made the same painkillers for Shamura as well.)

Okay so obviously his wrists and ankles were pretty fucked up from being chained for a thousand years and he's got a lot of internal damage as well bc some of the chains went through him (og Stychu hc that I adopted bc it's so good). Also just general wounds from the final fight and the unfathomable pain of shrinking down from his godly form.

Upon being spared, he did attack them in a post battle adrenaline and hate fueled delirium, right on the indoctrination stone and not only broke his arm (bc he put too much weight on it), but probably gave himself a heavy concussions by slamming his head on said stone seconds after the break happened lmao. After waking up in,,, just a Haze of agony he tried to get up and run away bc he was scared that the lamb would just keep him existing in this special Purgatory and shattered his opposite calf so there's that as well. Unlucky tbh

He bleeds like,,, constantly. All of the time, for literal years on end. From his eyes mostly, but also nose and ears and he throws up ichor a lot in the beginning as well bc his body is adjusting rapidly to being smaller and there's just No Space for the ichor to go, other than out. He’s constantly exhausted and spends a lot of time sleeping, and is very frail physically, if snapping two bones by simply putting weight on them didn't make it obvious enough lol

All and all not a great shape to be in, but! His wounds aren't actually what caused him to be bedridden for so long. It was the fact that he no longer saw himself as a god while still being one and suffering injuries befitting of one!

His body/the Red Crown isn't healing him as much as it’s literally regenerating parts of itself while he suffers everything that comes with that, alongside being out of the Veil/Gateway for the first time in forever and emotionally dealing with the deaths of his acolytes and the supposed betrayal of the one he allowed himself to trust after his family. In fact, Narinder barely heals at all for a while bc he was just mentally stopping the process. And also unconscious for a lot of it.

The other big reason is that god hearts are a great power source, but his heart has been in Lambert's chest since Silk Cradle. So he is Struggling ™ but he’d actually rather die than take his heart back he’s a simp like that smh

After he inevitably breaks and he and Lambert finally talk, he gradually starts seeing himself as a person again and his healing process gets easier. He still has chronic pain for his joints but eventually everything else heals alright :3

On a side note, his siblings bleed excessively and are disoriented for the first couple of days but are ultimately fine within the week. They are kind of horrified to learn that their brother is STILL struggling with the side effects of his imprisonment

[disgraceful-writings]

Meant To Be

Chapter 6

Y/n and Aegon were born on the same day, with velvet eyes and white crowns. Y/n is sent to Oldtown by their mother to keep her pure. What happens when she doesn't return so? How will her twin react?

Y/n was laid in a field of wildflowers. The wind dancing through the tall grass and flowers. The sun kissing her cheeks. Suddenly, a tightness overtook her throat. She began clawing at her throat in an attempt to relieve the pressure, but it seemed in vain. When her vision went black, she rose in her bed, sweat dripping from her hairline. She gasped and looked around her room for reassurance. When she realized she was in her room back at the Keep, she relaxed a bit. Still, she decided to request some wine be sent to her room and put her housecoat on to speak to the guards. However, when she opened the door, Xavier was waiting for her. She screamed and stumbled backwards, crashing into the table. He lunged at her and his hand encircled her throat. “You will never escape me”, he whispered in her ear. 

The princess bolted upright to find a maid trying to shake her awake, “Your grace, are you alright?” Y/n pushed her hands away and tried to adjust her eyes to the morning sun. “How long was I asleep”, the princess asked, while the maid wiped her forehead with a cool cloth. “You slept through dinner and the night, your grace. Your mother asked we let you rest.” Y/n nodded and stood up to be washed of the sweat and dressed by the maids. Afterward, still shaken from her dreams, the princess visited her mother’s chambers. “Y/n, how are you, my love?” Alicent raised both arms to her elder daughter. Y/n sunk into her mother’s hold, “y/n? You look white as a ghost.”

“Mother…I-”, y/n was interrupted by a guard entering the room. “Your grace”, he bowed, “the maester has asked for you in the king’s chambers.” She nodded and looked to her daughter, caressed her cheek, “We will speak later, dear.” Alicent kissed y/n’s forehead and stood to follow the guard to Viserys’s chambers. Y/n watched her walk out of the room and sighed. Will he haunt her forever? She knows she is safe, her uncle made sure of his death, and now she is with her family. Her mother wouldn’t let anything happen while she is within her grasp. She decided to go to the Sept, maybe the gods will bring a sense of calm to her. 

“Stupid, stupid, stupid”, Aegon gradually shouted in his chambers, kicking a candle stand over, then falling onto his bed face first. Why did he have to open his mouth? It isn’t like anyone was asking him to say those things, especially y/n. Y/n…he doesn’t deserve her. She’s too perfect and proper for him. He should just put an heir in her and stick to the whores of flea bottom. That’s all he’s good at. He looked over to the drawer that held his peasant clothes. Not that he needed them, with the white hair and all, and the whores always welcomed their favorite cock…at least the coin that had come with it. He rose from the bed and changed into them. Before climbing out of his window, he secured a pouch of coins to his belt. Tonight, he was going to do as he pleased. 

The prince made his way to flea bottom, specifically one of the more curious whorehouses. After fucking two women, he laid on his back with them cuddled up to his sides, feeding him and keeping his goblet full. He was curious of the woman on display, nude, and inserting the handle of a blade into herself. She was loud and fake, but that didn’t stop his mind wondering how y/n was in bed. “Shall I suck your cock, my prince”, one of the girls asked. He grabbed her by the throat and kissed her deeply, when departed, he whispered, “I’ll put a prince’s bastard in you.” At this she climbed onto his lap, lined him up, and sunk herself onto him. She let out a fake moan like the other girl had been doing, and Aegon huffed, putting his hands on her waist to quicken her pace. When she let out another exaggerated moan, he picked her up off of him and shoved her to the floor, where he stuffed his cock down her throat. 

“Now I don’t have to hear you”, Aegon grunted out, the sounds of her choking being music to his ears. When he finished, he pushed her off of him, collected his clothes, dropped a bag of coins, and left the whorehouse into the morning sun. “Always happy to house our favorite prince for the night”, the madam said as he walked out. He walked towards the Keep, however, he felt the need to go to the Sept. He had never cared for the gods, why would they be calling him of all people? At the last turn, he decided to go to the Sept. The room was dark and musty smelling. People shuffled around like they couldn’t make noise for fear the gods would strike them where they stand. Then he saw her, y/n was on her knees, praying to the gods. What would she need to pray to the gods for? 

Then he noticed the tear stains on her cheeks and the quiet sobs threatening to leave her mouth as she whispered her prayer.

Y/n heard someone walking in her direction and suddenly turned to them. Aegon. What is he doing here?

“Y/n”, Aegon looked puzzled, “are you alright?”

Y/n hadn’t noticed she was crying until he changed her thoughts. She turned back to the candles and said, “yes. I just felt the power of the gods come over me.” She wiped her tears with the backs of her hands. 

“I don’t believe you.” She looked scared and small to him. He decided to sit beside her with his back to the table holding all the candles. She looked into his eyes, but stayed quiet. His hand reached to wipe her cheek of a fresh tear, and she fell into him, sobbing. He just held her, not knowing what to do for her. 

When she had calmed a bit, she pushed herself off of him, “Sorry, I-.” She couldn’t finish her sentence, or she would cry again. She stood and started walking back to the keep. Aegon quickly rose and caught up to her quickly. Holding onto her arms, out of breath from getting up so quickly, “Y/n, what’s wrong?” She opened her mouth, however, no words could exit. She just stared into his eyes. Could she trust him? With her mind intact currently, she decided to get a proper look at him. He smells of wine and sex, he just came from flea bottom. Maybe he is as cruel and sick as the people say. “Prince Aegon, Princess Y/n, your mother has requested your presence”, the guard who had come with y/n said after receiving word from another.

Taglist : @watercolorskyy, @xitsemm, @d3nny,

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Masterlist

[mira-likes]

The revelations episode with Xiao En hits hard even when you KNOW that it's coming and what he's going to say. And in the years since I'd first watched the show, I'd forgotten some details!

There's an evil under the Divine Temple?? That, if unleashed, is going to destroy the world?

Like, there are already SO MANY things s3 has to address--I'm guessing Fan Xian has to deal with both the Second Prince and the Crown Prince once and for all, plus the emperor, since none of them are fit to rule; but do we also need to deal with whatever is under the temple?? That feels like a lot.

(But at the same time, this rewatch of s1 has convinced me the show must have some kind of a sci-fi-related resolution, which I don't personally love, because I'm invested in the pseudohistorical imperial drama instead. And the sci fi mysteries do delight me, but only as long as they don't take over. So if they end up taking over at the end, I won't be best pleased.)

Also, the con Chen Pingping ran on Xiao En is just so exquisitely cruel. And he kept on it for YEARS.

(And in this episode we haven't even got to Fan Xian's realisation about who Xiao En's real grandson is.)

Which, again: another point towards the "Chen Pingping hates the emperor and will take revenge on him at the end" theory, because this episode too emphasises how Chen Pingping can nurse a grudge and hate someone quietly for years, and always, always settle the score.

Anyway, Fan Xian is actually illegitimate! A flashback moment in s2 had Xiao En's line about how Ye Qingmei had married into the Qing royal family, but in s1 he actually backtracks to, they weren't officially married but did all the things that married couples do. I knew I kept thinking he was the emperor's illegitimate kid for a reason...

And Fan Xian's face. Fan Xian has a great many faces! This actor is so good at facial expressions and subtle shifts that play out on his features! And that moment of revelation really, visibly hits him like a hammer.

And it strikes like a bolt from the clear sky, too. He NEVER thought anything was off about his birth. He knew his mother was this great individual revered by many, and he obviously knew he was an illegitimate kid, but he never doubted whose illegitimate kid he was. He'd grown up with it! He knew it like an immutable truth! And then, after Xiao En first tries to convince him they're related (which Fan Xian knows for sure to be wrong), he then casually drops this bomb on him, and Fan Xian--

I genuinely think he's never the same after. Like, I'm curious to see where it goes on my rewatch, but I think this is the great shift for him; the moment where things converge and hit home and trap him in this web of connections he didn't know he had and hadn't suspected others of hiding from him.

[slippinninque]

🏃🏾‍♀️Nosey🔎

You end up in some business that's not exactly yours...

Jatemme Manning x blackfem reader

Warnings: cursing, mentions of violence and some torture (not to reader) soft!dark!Jatemme, long fic

-----

There were times where the job could get messy.

Vision blurring at the edges and pain shooting down your side, you continued through the alleys. The siren’s call and rushing cars filled the air, you could hear the gunshots as your tails met each other.

Lungs burning and legs screaming, you hoped the worst for both of them.

You went next to the double dumpster of a vegan spot and slid into sitting down. Your head swam with the growing pain, you knew you had to keep moving but you couldn’t keep bleeding.

‘Love's is gonna kill me.’ You couldn't help the little laugh that slipped, knowing the man was going to go nuclear.

Right now, all you could was try to fix your shoulder.

You ripped off your bloody shirt and tore a strip around the slash in your side. The other, you wrapped as best as possible around the left shoulder where there could be a bullet still lodged in there.

Groaning and re-shouldering the pack, you zipped up your hoodie all the way and tossed up the hood. After a moment to guess where you were beyond Funky Fresh Vegan Bistro, you pushed towards the mouth of the ally.

In the backpack were a handful of USB drives that held some pretty compelling information about a few families in the underground and high-crust.

All of it set to be given to the police in the the work of a mole. Multiple moles, a syndicate across turfs. Proof and promises for smaller sentences, complacent public figures, receipts for cleaned money, audio files—oh, they had it all.

Now you had it. Though not much time came with it now that half the city was looking for you. Still, it was well worth the nasty fall you took in getting the hell out of dodge.

You just had to get to your turf. A neutral space, either one of the bars or pawnshops owned by your cousins maybe?

A bullet ricocheted from the metal post of the fence, startling you and causing you to bolt.

-------------

Four men naked and taped to their chairs. Every sound uttered that wasn't information cost a tooth. With that sort of currency, Jatemme had to get creative after a while.

They were pleading and leaking from all over but Jatemme wouldn’t let any of them die until one of them finally told him what he needed to hear.

Asthma knew this special mood was from a very specific source. Namely one the exact size of a foxy little smooth talker that's been missing for nearly 24 hours.

Jatemme didn’t look at Asthma as he rounded to this table of tools, picking up a potato peeler as he spoke.

“Did you find her?”

“She ran into one of our laundromats. Eddy and Chris was there to meet her after a tip about her running from the Opps spread through Southwest. They said they're taking her to see Doc.”

Jatemme stood slowly and fixed a dark gaze onto his captives,

“Was she hurt?”

“Banged up good but heard Doc say she had worse.” Asthma didn’t come closer, didn’t move away from the door. Whoever those men were--they probably didn't have long left.

“She had something with her you might want to see, though. Eddy came through to drop it off."

When Jatemme looked over at him, Asthma wordlessly held up a well-worn Crown Royal bag.

….

You felt like you were ran over by a pack of trucks. Or suplexed by a Silverback gorilla—but you were also satisfied.

You stole enough leverage to keep the skies clear for years.

“I have to say, you’ve been doing pretty good. There was a time I’d see you every week.” Doc returned with fresh bandages. You began sitting up and he hurried to get you to lay back down.

“With the way you used to chew my ass out, I've been taking my chances with the lil' sewing kit at home.”

“Explains all these wobbly-ass scars then.”

You snorted, pain jolting with your amusement, “Yo, not too much on me! I learned from watching you, old man!”

It was Doc’s turn to laugh as he peeled away the stained bandage on on side. The puncture was pretty deep and the healing was going to be a bitch, but you were lucky enough it didn't reach anything vital.

“I won’t recommend falling onto a fence head, it’s not as quirky as the TV makes it seem.”

"Girl, what the hell are you watchin'?"

You rambled on and tried to ignore the way the pain killers churned in your empty stomach as you wated for them to kick in. While you knew Doc was being as careful as he could, you still winced.

It's actually been a while since the last time you had stitches.

“Little more and then you can sleep it off, champ.” Doc grunted as he emptied a syringe into you, “Rusty metals are a bitch after all."

“And how…”

Your eyes closed. Took deep breaths and soon enough, the room stopped spinning and Doc was putting a fresh bandage onto the worst of it. He's been stitching you up since you got into the streets, you've slept on his cot more nights than you can count.

Wasn't long before the absence of adrenaline invited the presence of reality.

Jamal finding out you went snooping without permission--that you could sort of handle. Jamal would be more than appeased by the blackmail and leverage you dug up.

If Jatemme saw how badly you fucked yourself up over a ‘side quest’, then that...would be worse.

“Say, Doc, when can I—uh--get on out of here?”

Doc looked at you as if you spoke to him in Klingon, “Leave? Girl, give the good shit time to kick in, at least! 'Sides, you’re going to be here at least until morning. That ankle of yours alone—woah, wait!”

You were already dizzy from the sudden movement of you sitting up, but you had to get home. You didn't want Jatemme to see you as you were, it was too bad--too soon.

If you could make it home, you could buy some more time for the worst of it to go away. You stood from the bed with a yelp, unsteady but trying to move away Doc’s worried hands.

“Suddenly, Doc, I feel a while ‘lot better. So much, so much better. Think I’m gonna finish healing up at home, y’know?”

“Is this about Manning? Sorry kid, but the cat’s out the bag—he knows.”

"Aw shit," You groaned, arms going around your stomach as it thundered. The pain rocketed down your side, Doc hissed something as he reached out to steady you.

“I-I still wanna go home. I'll be more comfortable there..."

"C'mon now, kid--

"Shouldn't you be invested in the quality of my healing? I'd be waaay more comfortable there, old man..."

“Hear me out, let me get you as patched up as a can to last—yeah?”

"I'm fine...”

“I think you should listen to doctor’s orders.”

You went still. Doc made a relived noise prodded you towards the cot, you went stiffly. He helped to lay you and you gave a great, big sigh as you finally faced the figure blocking the doorway.

“Heeey there, Love...”

Jatemme came and took Doc’s seat when he stood at the sight of him in the doorway. Jatemme unpinned his stare from you and looked to the older man.

“Tell me what we’re looking at, Doc.”

You swallowed as the list was rattled off in alphabetical order. Bruising, gunshot wound to the left shoulder, multiple lacerations, and a rolled ankle.

Jatemme stared at him, eyes endless and still. You picked at the loose thread of the cot's scratchy blanket when Jatemme finally dismissed Doc to turn his eyes on you.

The silence was thick enough for you to eventually wince beneath it. Jatemme sighed, deep and heavy as he stood. You looked up at him in time for him to catch your chin as he came to sit closer to you on the cot.

Jatemme pressed a gentle kiss to your lips, then another. You felt like your could implode, or maybe pass out.

He pulled back enough for your noses to touch, “I heard you almost got killed..."

Your giggle was a bit intense, nervous and excited as always when he was near. Jatemme’s smile was small as he pointed his finger directly in the center of your forehead.

“Do you know what I'd do? If I missed you?"

Not for the first time--you wondered just how far Jatemme would be willing to go.

“Hm...probably want to give me one of these?" You darted forward a stole a kiss, “Or maybe one of these...?”

You tried to get another kiss but Jatemme moved back at the last moment, catching your head between his palms. All traces of humor gone in his face as your ears struggled to pick up is next words.

"Tell me what happened. Now."

So you did. You didn't work for Jatemme, you didn't work for anyone, but you were meddling in his shit. The least you could do is tell the truth.

Jatemme had relaxed his hold on you by the end of the story. His hands went from your head to one resting on your thigh and the other in his pocket.

“I told you to leave it be. I was gonna press Gavin to see who the connect was.”

“Wasn't no 'leave it be', I'm telling you. Gavin was gonna go tonight, as soon as he left from here with his tail.”

You put your hand over his, thumbing over all of his knuckles.

“If I would have left it there? I swear we would have been booked by noon tomorrow, Love. "

Jatemme stared. While he took in whatever he needed, you took in the pleasure of his handsomeness and the slow numbness that was taking over from whatever the hell Doc gave you.

“Don’t be a danger to yourself.” Jatemme said quietly after a while, “I will put you up somewhere if something like this happens again."

"All I hear is that you liiike me, you wanna kiiisss me..."

"You playin' too much. Don't think I won't, brat.”

You didn’t doubt it. Jatemme could make a lot of things happen, you've seen it firsthand. The only problem is that it didnt' scare you. It caused quite the opposite effect.

If Jatemme wanted to hoard you all to himself--it was in the public best interest to let him do as he wanted, right?

"I know, Love, I know."

Jatemme leaned in slow and you were eager to meet him. He kissed slow and soft, pinching your cheek before pulling away. Jatemme stood to ease you back into the pillows, grabbing the throw blanket that Doc kept.

“Chill here for now. I’m going to make a call and then we're going to head out.”

You nodded and suddenly felt so tired. The worst of it was over now, even if Jatemme was plotting on a lesson when you were in better shape. It was a good save, no one could take that from you.

With that thought, you dropped off into a mildly-comfortable doze as you waited for the pain meds to take over.

Jatemme lingered until you fell asleep. The bunching in your brow smoothed out and your breaths were deeper, not as if you sucked on pain every inhale.

Your hair was a mess of braids and he saw a the bandage above your brow was already stained red. You slept like you didn't fall a few stories onto a iron fence and weren't the source of Jatemme's headache.

He heard what Doc said about your ankle and thought about the talk he still had to have with Jamal. It was too late in the evening to even consider the bodies still in his workshop.

‘Gave us plenty of work, didn't you?' He thought, looking at the blood beneath your nails. Pulling out his phone and then your bag of snatched evidence, he texted his brother.

Then sent a follow up asking for him to bring a bottle.

-------

✨ending notes✨: this one was rattling around my brain for the longest and have definitely been taking up space in my drafts! I think this is a bit different for me 🤔 I'm looking to make a more chaotic reader and I think she may do well with Jatemme! 🤣Thank you so much for reading! Tell me what you think! 💜✨💕

💕taglist💞: @megamindsecretlair @blowmymbackout @thadelightfulone @mysecertdiaryofableedingheart @sageispunk

@kindofaintrovert @satoruya @harmshake @miyuhpapayuh @ms-angiealsina

@cocochannelmoi @hunnishive @last-lost-one @yasminsqueendom @flydotty

@henneseyhoe

[beansnsoup]

Luigi with S/O who is a princess that was forced to have an alliance with Bowser and no one wants to trust her but Luigi does see that she’s good

Love this sm 😭

☆

"I don't think you're evil, I think you're great."

Summary: As long as you can remember, you've had to have an alliance with Bowser against your will, of course. No one ever wanted to take your side until he came along.

Relationship: Platonic, some romance implied

Warnings: bullying???, fluff, tiny angst, fem reader, lmk if there is anything else

*Also, this is kind going off the plot of a movie, but just a tad, I'm changing it around a bit for the request, also Mario and Luigi already live in Mushroom Kingdom as this takes place.

You couldn't even walk around a different kingdom without people eyeing you down. This is why you hated going to different places for royal meetings, especially when it was about the man that you had to comply with.

Ever since you were crowned you were told that you were to have an alliance with the relentless Bowser, you had zero say in the matter.

So, when you were sent the letter that Princess Peach needed help and an army you knew instantly what it was about, and you couldn't just not go, that would make you look worse.

The guards hesitantly let you into the castle, watching you intently until you turned the corner to the meeting room. The room was full of toads and other kingdoms rulers, it went silent after you walked in.

'Wonderful.'

You walked to the corner of the crowd and looked down, fidgeting with you dress, praying for Peach to start talking.

Like it was a miracle, all eyes were averted from you as she started to talk, she went on about how Bowser was going to soon take over Mushroom Kingdom. You started to feel squeamish, you knew that you would also be blamed for this, anything Bowser would did would also be backlash on you.

You wanted to walk out of there, but that would be too petty and self-centered, then you would really be blamed for the action occurring.

You tilted your head up to listen to what Peach had to say until you heard whispers coming from behind you.

"Why did she even come? It's not like she can do anything to help."

"Not that she wants to help."

Those whispers turned into hushed giggles, you began to look down again until the doors burst open, causing you to bolt your head up.

Luigi and Mario, Mushroom Kingdoms heroes, ran through the entrance,

"Sorry we're late Princess! We got caught up with business." Mario explained, Peach nodded and smiled, signaling him to stand anywhere to listen to her plan.

You locked eyes with the taller brother, his face went a light shade of red as he waved, you sent a small wave back, not enough to bring attention to yourself.

You bring your attention back to the princess, scared for the whispers to start back up.

Peach wrapped up her plan, catching you before you could leave, Luigi and Mario stuck behind, waiting for her to get done with whatever she was about to do with you.

"You know you don't have to come to these." She started.

"I know, but I want to find ways I can help as well, even if there isn't much I can offer."

She sighed, "I appreciate it, I truly do, but think of what affect that would have on the kingdom."

You knew she wasn't talking about the kingdom; you knew she was talking about herself.

"Oh." Is all you could muster out, you couldn't let out a thank you or a sorry, you turned away and walked out.

It's not like this was your fault, you had nothing to do with what Bowser decided to do. As you walked out of the kingdom you got more stares than you did when you were walking in, it's like they all witnessed the conversation you just had with the princess.

When you had reached the tunnel that led to your home felt a presence behind you, you look back and find a wheezing Luigi. He's so out of breath you have to give him a minute to catch his breath.

"I've....been.... chasing...you...for.... 20....minutes."

You had a surprised look on your face, "Really? What for?"

He was finally able to catch his breath, "I lost you in the crowd, I wanted to walk you out, but the princess had to talk to Mario and I."

You smiled at this, "Were you coming to tell me that I'm no longer welcome at Mushroom Kingdom?"

He shook his head violently, "Of course not! I'd love for you to come back, it's really a wonderful place."

"Not when everyone around thinks your Bowsers evil side kick."

"I don't think you're evil, I think you're great."

You both went silent, you decided to finally break the tension, "Nobody has ever talked about me in that way before."

He gasped, "Really? Not even your own people?"

"They're not too keen on being in a forced alliance with Bowser either."

Your face faded out. He could tell you were overthinking, so he wanted to get your mind clear from Bowsers' treacherous ways.

"Would you like to sit with me and watch the sunset?" He asked, you looked up into his eyes, smiled, and then nodded.

He led you over to the grass patch next to the tunnel and you both sat down, he then grabbed your hand while still viewing the skies, you sighed and laid your head on his shoulder,

"Thank you."

I loved writing this!!

[allgremlinart]

Ayo can you recommend some jetko fics?

yipeee !!! oh anon CAN I ... please allow me to organize them for you as well ...

Post-Renaissance:

Empty vessels. by outpastthemoat

It’s just that he wanted Li to come with him and he didn’t; Li hadn’t wanted anything to do with Jet. And he really shouldn’t, Jet’s nothing but bad luck to anyone.  But Jet can’t let it go.

Let the City Pull You Under by MadSeason (naive_wanderer)

[He’ll wonder all that, later; but in this moment he kisses a boy who thinks he’s something other than he is, and clings to the bolt of revelation that strikes him in the dark: maybe nothing in life matters except grabbing onto whatever brief moments you have to feel good.] Before joining the Avatar, before choosing his path on the crossroads of destiny, and before he finds a poster for a missing bison, Crown Prince Zuko of the Fire Nation has a teenage affair in Ba Sing Se.

love never wanted me anyway by tiffaniesblews

“Do you really not know how to take a compliment?” Jet questions, turning so that he is leaning on his shoulder, raising an eyebrow over at Zuko. Zuko just shrugs, unsure of how to answer.  “Come on, Lee, you’re a handsome guy,” Jet states, giving Zuko a playful shove in the arm. “You have to see that, right?” OR: Jet gives Zuko a compliment that Zuko is unsure of how to answer.

The Classics:

 Something to Hold Onto by Wildgoosery

Since the day the walls of Ba Sing Se fell, the Freedom Fighters have struggled to protect what remains of the city and its people. Jet and his second command, a mysterious boy named Li, have spent the summer piecing together an army, hoping for a chance to take the city back for good. But Li is also Zuko, and the time for that secret is quickly running out. Soon, he'll have to decide exactly who he is, what cause he's going to fight for, and where his heart lies.

Something New by Anonymous

Zuko is sick and tired of living in Ba Sing Se. Jet is too. But he wants to make it better anyway.

The Bathhouse of the Four Beauties by jin_fenghuang

Set in Ba Sing Se. Li and the Freedom Fighters are visiting a bathhouse. Can be considered vaguely in the 'The Walls of Ba Sing Se' timeline, but is a stand-alone story.

[peppered-moths]

all roads lead back to you (even the ones i took to forget)

"Can you keep a secret?" Scott asks.

He's standing in front of the Secret Keeper, a monolith of stone and silence, eyes glowing with reflected starlight. His lips curl in a soft smile, simultaneously distant and inviting and just a little bit teasing. He looks like a memory long forgotten.

Jimmy doesn't think he can breathe. The aching familiarity presses behind his eyes, digs between his bones, where he'd thought he'd buried it. If he squeezes his eyes shut, he thinks, he could imagine that the loam beneath his feet is blooming. He can feel petals in his hair.

"Yeah," he manages, finally, trying to ignore the way his voice rasps, raw desperation scraping his throat. Tell me anything. Anything at all, as long as it's us. Scott smiles wider, one hand reaching up to adjust the poppy crown atop his head. Jimmy remembers weaving the stems together, fingers clumsy and uncoordinated as the winter chill bit at him (Dogwarts had always been a good place to find poppies, funnily enough), and the crown had ended up lopsided. He remembers the warmth of embarrassment in his cheeks as he presented it to Scott, expecting kindly mocking laughter, only to blink at his sudden grin. He doesn't think Scott had taken it off since.

"I think I'm still in love with you." If he had thought he was breathless before, it's nothing compared to now, as a little, crushed sound punches its way out of his chest. It's too much and not enough, all at once. He's not sure how he's denied himself this for so long, especially since it's been right at his fingertips the whole time. He's choking on the words, saccharine, honey-sweet.

"Say it back." Scott's smile turns sharp. Jimmy opens his mouth. He wants to, feels the words in the way his ribs curl over his chest, caging his rebelling heart. I know, he wants to say, I know I want this, and I know I'm not supposed to. I know I've denied this for so long. I know I've hurt you, I've had your blood in my mouth and I liked the taste, but I don't want to anymore. I know I shouldn't feel this and I know I feel it anyways.

I know that I'm in love with you too.

The words stick in his throat. The words stick in his throat, and he bites his tongue, hard enough to draw blood. He's struck mute, caged in by an invisible force pressing down on his chest. And all the while, Scott stands there, eyes bright and knowing, with fingers like claws as he curls them around Jimmy's chin to tilt his head upwards. When did he get so close?

"You can't say it, can you?" Scott practically sneers, an edge to his voice that borders on vindictive. "Because you're a coward, isn't that right? Or maybe," and his voice drops, low enough that he has to strain to hear it, "maybe you never even loved me at all. Maybe it was all a means to an end to you, watching me trail after you, helpless, hopeless."

No, he wants to argue, no, that's not it, I just- but he wouldn't know what to say even if he could say it. Maybe that's the worst part; the not knowing. Why does anybody love anybody? Why does anybody leave anybody?

Scott has a crown of poppies and eyes full of stars, and he is an unattainable wish just out of Jimmy's reach, because he's too scared to reach out and get burned-

Wait.

Something isn't right. This isn't right.

Scott doesn't wear poppies anymore. Hasn't, since Third Life. The sky is too bright, the air too thin. He can't feel Scott's hands on his face.

The man tilts his head, a lock of blue hair falling into his face. "I'm the closest you'll ever get to the real thing, darling."

Jimmy sits bolt upright, hands clutching at the sheets of his bed. A dream. How cliché. It doesn't make it feel any less real, though. It doesn't stop the crushing weight in his chest. It doesn't stop him mouthing the words he couldn't say. I love you, I love you, iloveyouiloveyouiloveyou-

It doesn't stop them leaving a bitter taste on his tongue, from causing him to curl in on himself and think, maybe I'm not cut out for this.

A flash of red catches his eye, and he nearly gives himself whiplash with how quickly he turns to look.

It's... a poppy. Because of course it is. Jimmy vaguely remembers picking it up when he was wandering aimlessly, nearly second nature. Now it's lying on top of one of his chests, inadvertently making his heart beat faster. Jimmy swallows. Because you're a coward, isn't that right?

Love you! Scott- the real Scott- had called, waving a cheery goodbye. Jimmy had stopped dead, waiting. Waiting for the hunger, the burning, barely-disguised desperation of Limited Life. He had been waiting for Scott to beg.

And then, he hadn't. He'd just smiled- casual, not soft or deadly, not anything at all. He'd smiled, and he'd left, leaving Jimmy in a half-daze, with nothing to say back, not even the poor excuse of thirty minutes.

He wonders, if he dreamt for long enough, if he'd find the right words to say to him. A mix between I love you and I'm sorry and everything but silence. Anything but damning silence.

He's not sure he wants to know, he realizes, as he bends down to examine the flower. It's just beginning to wilt, the edges of the petals wrinkling. One dislodges itself and floats on the slight breeze. Jimmy follows it with his eyes, far too fond for something as simple as this.

He doesn't want to just dream it.

He picks up the poppy, gently, as another petal drifts to the floor. "It's a start," he says quietly, feeling the wry smile quirking at his lips. For old times' sake, he imagines he'll claim, and maybe Scott will smile, bright green eyes accented by the smudged blue eyeliner he's taken to wearing. Thank you, he might say, too raw, too earnest, or I thought I was the sentimental one? And Jimmy will laugh, and Scott will grab his wrist and tell him to stick around a little longer, just to catch up.

And maybe, just maybe, it'll be forgiveness.

[stormyblue90]

Please, tell me your vision of Clones daemons

Ok, so I've made a list of various clones and the daemon/familiar I've given them. Note, I assigned them based on the general vibe, and characteristics of each trooper, and what knowledge I have of various animals, their general vibe, and a few cultural associations, rather than what animals are associated with what in Dark Materials universe.

Rather than the clones all having daemons from one specific group of animals, such as canines, they all have animals from across the animal kingdom, as each clone IS a unique individual. I wanted that expressed through their animal daemon/familiars.

List and my thoughts for such choices below the cut!

So, lets get underway! This is gonna be LONG!

The 501st

Rex: A Golden Eagle

Eagles have A LOT of symbolism in various cultures across the globe! Rex has been bestowed the Mandalorian mark of Jaig Eyes, a symbol of the Mandalorian Jai'Galaar, the Shriek Hawk. A native bird of Mandalore that I imagine has similarities with our own eagles. When I think of Rex's Jaig eyes, I liken them to the eagle feathers in the beautiful war bonnets of many of the different indigenous peoples of the North American plains. A reverent symbol of bravery, honor and skill that can only be earned. Therefore Rex gets the eagle. I specifically chose the Golden Eagle due to the crown of golden feathers on its head, referencing Rex's blonde hair, his "crown of gold"

The Domino Twins, Fives and Echo: Lion and Cougar respectively.

For Fives, he's brave, he's charismatic, a leader. The lion is a typical symbol of such. Clones are also meant to work TOGETHER, and of course lions work together, and lion brothers especially. Lions are also pretty powerful and tough, and Fives is an ARC trooper! He's tough, he's skilled, so he gets something equally so.

As for Echo, he gets a feline like Fives, because they ARE a package deal after all. However, Echo is still significantly different from Fives, so a different cat. When I think of Echo, I think of how ADAPTABLE he has become. A far cry from the cadet "who couldn't adapt". Cougars, aka Mountain Lions, or Pumas, are pretty adaptable. Not specialists, which is a good thing in the wild. They have a huge range all over North and South America, from mountains, to open plains, hot deserts to lush forests and swamplands. The cougar has adapted to a wide range of ecosystems! Also....they can be very chatty, making all kinds of squeaks, purrs, chirps, hisses, screams, and growls. And well, Echo was pretty chatty, repeating orders and such.

Jesse: Tuatara

Do NOT mistake the cute little guy for a lizard! Tuataras are a native reptile of Aoteroa/New Zealand, and only found there. They are the last of their kind, the order Rhyncocephalians, NOT lizards despite the appearence. They have a kind of "third eye" that's sensitive to light. Now I wanted at least one of the clones to have a NZ native animal, and Jesse gives me the vibe that he'd have a reptile for a pet if he could. So I gave him this unique reptile. Also, like the Tuatara, Jesse is kind of the "last of his kind" in regards to being Rex's last named member of the 501st (Echo having joined TBB, and Kix gones missing)

Kix: Caracal

Ok to be honest, I'm not ENTIRELY sure why I chose this kitty for Kix, but something about it said "Kix" to me. The long tufts on the ears give it a sort of elegance, and of course we like to think Kix has a small sense of vanity about him, what with those intricately shaved lightning bolts in his hair, and admiring himself in the mirror.

Hardcase: Moluccan Cockatoo.

Honestly, if any animal could be the manifestation of ADHD, it's gotta be a cockatoo! LOUD, energetic, fun loving, but also SMART and clever, it just screams Hardcase to me. He likes to have fun, can't sit still, but he's also a highly competent soldier, social, and probably destructive if he gets too bored. A parrot of some sort fits him nicely I think.

Tup: Sea Otter

Of course Tup gets something cute! However, despite their cuteness, Sea Otters ARE still predators, and WILL bite if you harass them! They also meticulously care for their fur, and Tup probably has his own hair care routine due to having long hair. Otters are also clever little beasts, and it was TUP'S quick and clever thinking that allowed them to take down Krell! Tup was vital both for taking Krell down, and setting Fives on the path to discovering the chips, and Rex learning of them, etc etc. A huge domino effect that led to end of the Empire really. And sea otters are VITAL keystone species in their ecosystems of kelp forests. A health population of sea otters equals a healthy kelp forest environment and all the other animals who live there.

Dogma: Budgett's Frog

Heheheh If you know you know! (*coughFrogmacough*) But honestly, I'mma just link to the post that inspired the idea, because I can't associate him with anything else now.

The Bad Batch

Hunter: Ocelot

Hunter's mutations allow him to essentially be a stealthy well...hunter. And of course, what animal better showcase a "stealthy predator" than a cat? However unlike the other clones who have kitty daemons/familiars, Hunter's is much smaller, but no less fierce and skilled. I also like the idea that the ocelot's markings, kinda resembling Hunter's tattoo. Hunter also has a "smokier" husky voice compared to his brothers, and ocelots....well.... they make some interesting noises.

Crosshair: Black Mamba

I can't imagine Crosshair with anything but a snake! I know we all like to joke about him being a grumpy cat, but from the moment I first saw this character, I thought "deadly snake". Even the way DBB plays the character, and his voice, "very calculated and deliberate" feels very snake-like to me. He doesn't say much, is the quietest of the bunch, and snakes are often pretty quiet. The Black Mamba in particular also has an infamous deadly reputation, that I feel fits Crosshair pretty well.

Wrecker: Grizzly Bear

Naturally, Wrecker gets an animal often associated with strength and power, but at the same time soft and warm (Mama Bear, Teddy Bears) So a bear fits him perfectly I think. Bears are big, strong, tough, dangerous, but also protective (do NOT get between a bear and her cubs, it'll be the last thing you ever do) and we've seen how fiercely protective, but loving Wrecker is towards the people he cares about, especially Omega. Also, Wrecker clearly likes to fish, and eat good food, and of course bears love to fish in rivers and will eat just about anything. They'll hunt, scavenge, or forage for food. Bears are also smarter than some people think too, and Wrecker is smarter than a lot of folks make him out to be. (man built a mobile cannon out of scrap and within minutes!)

Tech: Crow

Crows. Are. Fucking. SCARY SMART! Like, if any animal evolves sapience like us next, I'd believe it's gonna be crows! Tech is curious, highly intelligent and skilled, a problem solver. Just like crows. THese birds use tools, learn fast, are inquisitive, and CHATTY! (I've got a small family of crows living the area I do, and I hear them a lot) They are also astounding mimics, and Tech records everything. Yet crows are also fiercely loyal to their flock (or "murder" if you will) you mess with one, you mess with them ALL! Tech is quite similar. He may not be confrontational, but you threaten his family, and he WILL retaliate and remember!

Omega: Red Panda

Now, Omega's daemon/familiar would still be unsettled, but once it does I imagine it becomes a red panda. Of course she'd have something cute. She just really gives me red panda vibes to be honest.

Commanders

Cody: Siberian Tiger

The Marshall Commander Cody gets the largest cat, the Siberian Tiger. With similar traits and associations as the lion (Fives), but still vastly distinct. Strong, charismatic, beautiful. A tiger fits Cody well in my opinion, and I can easily imagine the facial stripes mimicking his scar's pattern.

Wolffe and Fox: Wolf and Red Fox respectively

Yep, what it says on the tin. Would you expect anything less? But in all seriousness, their namesakes DO suit them quite well. Wolffe is loyal to his brothers, his "pack" to a fault. Wolves have strong ties to their packs, their family units, often associated with such.

Fox of course, lives and works on Coruscant, the big city. Foxes are adaptable, and can easily adapt to urban living if need be, better than other wild canine species. They've also got a bad reputation, and lots of people hate them. Fox gets a lot of hate in the fandom (especially outside of tumblr), but it's greatly exaggerated, and he's just as much a victim as Fives.

Bly: Coyote

Ok to be honest, I'm not entirely sure why I chose a coyote. It just....felt right? Maybe to tie him in with Wolffe and Fox.

Other Clones

Howzer: Elk

Howzer was....difficult to be honest. I had enough carnivorous daemons for the clones, I NEEDED an herbivore for SOMEONE. I went with an elk, or deer for Howzer. These animals are often associated with pride, beauty, and elegance. Howzer is proud of being a clone, a soldier, a good man who protects others. He's also of course quite handsome lets be honest. Now, elk are NOT to be underestimated. They are bigger than you think (but not MOOSE big), and deadlier than you think too. Howzer may be a good, caring man, but he WILL FIGHT fiercely and is deadly in his own right.

Mayday: Snow Leopard

Mayday's gotta have something adapted to the cold, mountainous landscape we met him on. A snow leopard just...fits his whole vibe honestly. A stealthy, deadly hunter perfectly adapted to its domain; Mayday has had to adapt to the harsh conditions of the planet he was stuck on. However there was also a sort of charm to Mayday, we were instantly drawn to him, and snow leopards certainly have an alluring charm too.

Gregor: Hyena

Gregor has the hyena! Not just for his laugh, but Gregor is a COMMANDO clone. He's tough as hell, and survived stuff he shouldn't have and keeps fighting! Hyena's are tough, powerful, tenacious animals. Easily able to go toe-to-toe with other large predators like lions. However they're also pretty smart too, and Gregor is also pretty clever. Hyenas are also social, capable hunters. Gregor values his brothers, and enjoys a good Joopa hunt!

Ok....*sigh* That....that was really long.... But that is basically what I've got!