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furuu · 2 months ago

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꒰ ♡ ꒱ continuation of this drabble!

∘ ◟♡ ˒ ʾʾ Sukuna's tiny blob form trembled slightly as he tested the new mouth he'd formed, frustrated that even this minor accomplishment felt like a monumental task in his current state. His jagged little mouth opened and closed a few times, as if trying to get used to the sensation. He could barely manage coherent speech, let alone a proper threat, and your oblivious, adoring expression didn’t make it any easier.

"I… I'll destroy you," he croaked again, though the words came out more like a tired sigh than a warning. His once menacing tone, feared by even the most powerful sorcerers, had been reduced to something far too soft, far too… pet-like.

You were still crouched next to him, your face hovering inches away from his small, squishy body. Instead of recoiling in fear or even acknowledging his so-called threat, you simply giggled, reaching out to stroke his markings with a tenderness that made Sukuna’s single eye twitch.

"You're doing so well!" you said with an amused smile. "Look at you, forming a mouth and everything! Such a big step for a little blob!"

If Sukuna could’ve scowled, he would’ve. He wasn't some infant learning how to speak; he was the King of Curses! And yet, here you were, treating him like a child taking their first steps. It was maddening. He opened his mouth to issue another threat, but the words caught in his throat as you gently cupped him in your hands, lifting him as if he were made of delicate glass.

He braced himself for the worst. Surely, he should have loathed this—being handled like a plush toy, pressed against your soft palms. But instead, a warmth spread through his small, cursed body, and for a fleeting moment, Sukuna felt something disturbingly close to comfort. He tried to shake it off, tried to remind himself that this was beneath him, but the softness of your hands made it difficult to focus on anything other than how… pleasant it felt.

You noticed his faint twitching and smiled down at him with that familiar, adoring look. "Poor thing, you're all squirmy now. Do you want to rest? Maybe you're still growing into your new form?"

Sukuna's pride bristled at your words, but he couldn't deny that he was feeling a strange sort of exhaustion. As much as he hated to admit it, regaining his cursed energy—even in small amounts—was taking a toll on him. He wasn’t used to being so… vulnerable. It was humiliating, but for the time being, he had no choice but to allow you to continue your unrelenting doting.

"I don’t… need your help," Sukuna muttered, his voice low and raspy. It wasn’t the mighty growl he wanted, but rather a tired grumble.

You gently placed him back onto the soft blanket you’d laid out for him earlier. He sank into the fabric, his tiny form almost disappearing into the folds. "Of course you don’t," you cooed, brushing your fingers lightly over his surface. "But I’m going to help anyway. You're just too cute."

"Cute…?" Sukuna repeated, as though the word had physically hurt him. "I’m… not… cute…"

You laughed again, a sweet sound that filled the room. "You are, though. Look at you. All tiny and grumpy." You leaned down to rest your chin on your hands, looking at him with a soft smile. "And you’re mine. So, I’m going to take care of you whether you like it or not."

Sukuna's singular red eye flickered with a flash of indignation. "I am not… yours. I am Ryomen Sukuna. The King of Curses!" he growled, though the effect was ruined by how much effort it took to speak. His tiny mouth barely moved, and instead of sounding intimidating, he came off more like a petulant child throwing a tantrum.

You tilted your head, clearly amused. "Ryomen, huh? Well, it looks like you need some rest. And maybe a snack. You didn’t eat much today."

"I don’t need food!" Sukuna snapped, or rather, squeaked. The tiny, high-pitched sound that came out of his mouth was anything but intimidating.

"Sure you don’t," you said with a grin, placing a small bowl of fruit beside him. "But just in case you change your mind, it’s here."

Sukuna huffed, turning his eye away from you in a weak attempt to regain some semblance of his former dignity. But you weren’t deterred. You sat back on the bed, watching him with that same affectionate look that had begun to chip away at the iron walls he had once built around his heart.

For a moment, there was silence. Sukuna closed his eye, trying to block out the warmth and comfort that your presence brought. He shouldn’t be feeling this way. He shouldn’t be letting you take care of him, not when he was supposed to be ruling over everything. Yet, despite his inner turmoil, the softness of the blanket, the gentle rise and fall of your breathing, and the warmth that surrounded him—it was hard to fight it all.

He peeked his eye open, watching you as you hummed a little tune to yourself, seemingly content just to be near him. It was strange. For so long, Sukuna had been feared, hated, and worshiped, but never… never had anyone cared for him like this. Not in a way that felt so genuine, so gentle.

He didn’t want to admit it, but a small part of him—one he would deny to his last breath—was growing attached to you. The way you handled him with such care, the way you spoke to him like he was a friend, not a monster. It was disarming, and Sukuna hated it… or at least, he wanted to hate it.

"You… are an idiot," Sukuna mumbled, his voice losing its edge, barely audible.

You blinked, surprised by the quietness in his tone. "What was that?"

He hesitated, then sighed, letting himself sink a little deeper into the blanket. "You’re… an idiot," he repeated, softer this time. "Caring for something that would destroy you without a second thought. Foolish human…"

You paused for a moment, looking at him with a gentle, knowing expression. Then, with a soft smile, you brushed your hand over his small form again. "Maybe I am," you said quietly, your voice filled with warmth. "But I think you’ve already had plenty of chances to destroy me. And yet, here we are."

Sukuna's lone eye flickered, narrowing slightly. "I’m just biding my time," he grumbled, though the threat lacked conviction. "When I regain my power…"

You laughed softly, cutting him off in the most disarming way. "Sure, sure. You’ll regain your power, and then what? Tear me apart? Somehow, I don’t think that’s going to happen."

"Don’t get cocky," Sukuna growled, trying to muster more force behind the words. But even he could hear how weak the threat sounded. His voice had lost the venom it once carried, softened by the strange, inexplicable comfort of your presence.

You tilted your head, smiling softly down at him. "Maybe it’s foolish of me, but I don’t think you’re as heartless as you want me to believe. If you were, you wouldn’t be letting me do this." Your fingers gently stroked his smooth surface, tracing the black markings that had once inspired fear in so many.

Sukuna twitched, both annoyed and begrudgingly soothed by the touch. "I could destroy you in an instant if I wanted to," he muttered, though he wasn’t even sure he believed it anymore.

You leaned closer, your expression warm and soft. "I know," you said, your voice gentle but firm. "But you won’t."

Sukuna fell silent, his single red eye watching you, as though searching for something—maybe a reason, maybe a flaw in your belief. But there was nothing. You were unwavering, and for the first time in his long, cursed existence, Sukuna found himself wondering if perhaps you were right.

Perhaps… just maybe… he wouldn’t.・₊﹆ɞ‧₊

taglist: @laraackerman @xyinparadise @katsukis-s @himboelover @lemonlimecrystal-blog

#໒·͜:)𑇓 ˓ 𝓀𝒾𝓃ℊ ℴ𝒻 𝒸𝓊𝓉ℯ𝓃ℯ𝓈𝓈 #sukuna x reader #sukuna x you #sukuna x y/n #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #ryomen sukuna x y/n #sukuna fluff #ryomen sukuna fluff #anime x female reader #blobkuna #poukuna #jjk manga spoilers #၇୧ ⠀ᅟ𓈒⠀ ɓɑɓɓᥣes⠀⠀( ᴗ͈ˬᴗ͈)ഒ ⠀⠀⁺#. . ˚˖𓍢ִ

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readychilledwine · 7 months ago

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Mine

Summary - Cassian always gets a little riled up when he gets to fight for your honor.

Warnings - Blood, smut, focus on reader and Cassian's differences physically, reader is thick because it felt right, oral (female receiving), Cassian going to pound town.

A/N - based on this post and our comments from @loneliestluvr I refuse to apologize for how quickly this became smut.

Being mated to the Lord of Bloodshed was never easy, especially as an illyrian female blessed to have found him before your wings were taken. “Sorry,” you whispered as he flinched. You had got to the cut on his eyebrow, wiping it down as gently as you could.

Cassian was covered in blood. A mix of his own and another male's who had not known you were claimed by the male sitting in front of you. ��You okay?” He had his eyes shut as you took care of him, content under the feel of your soft hands.

“You're the one who ended up in a fight with 6 other males and walked away. I should be asking you that.” You gently reset and healed his nose, silently thanking the Mother for such a useful gift.

Everything about you two had been so perfectly planned. The skilled warrior. Loud, personable, quick on his feet. Then you, the talented healer. Intelligent, shy, soft spoken. You were balanced perfectly. A match truly made by the Gods. You continued wiping the blood from him, ensuring he would not have to change the water multiple times once you got him bathed and stepped away before offering him your hand.

It was another contrast between you two and Cassian's absolute favorite. Your soft manicured hands, his rough and calloused ones. He laced your fingers together, pretending to allow you to pull him up at he stood. “I'm fine, baby. You should see the other guys.” He smiled at his own joke, walking into the bathroom of the cabin. “Are you going to undress me too?”

“Absolutely.” You were graceful with buckle, each tie, gently pulling armor and fabric from his body until it sat on the vanity nearby. Habit took over as you folded it all, putting the clothing into baskets to be cleaned before turning back to the god in fae form behind you.

The moan Cassian released as he sunk into the warm water had your thighs clenching. You watched his head fall back as lavender scented steam came from the tub and as his shoulders fell in relaxation. “Can I wash your hair?” He groaned again at the thought, smiling as you sat behind him with the soap. “Need to show you my love and appreciation for protecting me.”

He gave a breathy laugh, shutting his eyes in bliss as you began massaging shampoo into his wavy locks. “I will always protect you, y/n. Always. You are mine.”

“I am,” he growled at your agreement, his need to possess you was high. Illyrians had always been more feral with their bonds, and you absolutely allowed him to enjoy the primal tendencies that came with it. “I will always be yours. In this life and the next.” You began rinsing his hair, ensuring every spec of blood and dirt was out before applying a deep conditioner.

“Lean forward so I can wash your back, Cassian.”

“I don't deserve you,” he was drifting off under your touch, enjoying the feeling of you kneading sore muscles as you lathered his scarred skin with a soft scented soap. “Could you get my wings?”

You leaned in, whispering in his ear. “I planned on getting them once I got you fully cleaned and the water changed.”

“Fuck that,” Cassian forced you over, pulling you in thin night gown and all before ripping it off of you. His lips were on yours and hungry. He was grabbing your hips, loving their plushy feel. “Want you now.”

“Cass, this water is disgusting.”

His head hit the tub with a thud. “Fine. Fine. It's fine.” He was, in fact, not fine. You could feel how hard he was. His length was pressing into your stomach. “I just need you. You know how I get when you take care of me.”

You were washing him again. Cleaning off his chest and face, scrubbing his arms. He was memorized by you by your body. He remembered learning about the Gods of old from Rhysand's mother, and you had to have been crafted by the goddess of love. It was another contrast. His rock-hard body, toned and cut from years of training. Your soft body, curves landing in all the right places, thighs so thick you genuinely worried when you sat on his face.

He lifted you with little effort when he knew he was clean, climbing out of the water with his lips attached to the point on your neck that drove you wild. “Done waiting,” he carried you to the bedroom, sucking that spot until he knew a deep purple mark would form.

He threw you down on the bed, not caring that it would soak the sheets and mattress as he watched your full breasts bounce. When he was like this, you knew you were in for a ride. Knew that headboard wouldn't be enough to keep you in place as he pounded into you over and over again, only content when he had ensured you were filled and would smell like him and sex for weeks. He was studying you like you were his prey, waiting to pounce at just the right time.

He found it as you shifted, laying down more on the pillows like the queen he knew you were. He did not bother kissing your lips again. Instead, it was him instantly pulling your legs over his shoulders and licking your already soaked core. Your hands shot to his hair, moans ripping through your throat. He was eager tonight. So damn eager.

“Cassian,” he hummed against you, looking up through hooded lust filled eyes. “Slow down.”

He shook his head, not even letting your clit out of his mouth as he did. “Baby, I'm going to cum if you don't go slower.” His brows shot up and a smirk formed. It spoke of every intention he had, you would not leave this bed, not without him carrying you.

Every flick of his tongue, every long drag, the soft kisses all had you melting further Into the mattress as your nerves came to life. Cassian was as calculated in bed as he was on a battlefield. Everything was precise, done with intention, and meant to fulfill his goal. His forearm went against your hips, locking you in place at his mercy.

He could feel every wave of pleasure from you shooting down that sacred and special bond. He could sense the moment you fell. Your fingers tightened on the sheets, your back arched, it was silence before the scream. Between your own pleasure, you could feel his pride leaking down the bond. Pride with how easily he could pull you apart with nothing more than his tongue. Pride over the way your body was so easily his.

He only pulled away when you began to whimper and push, but he was instantly crashing his lips on yours as he kicked off his pants. His forehead went to yours once you were both breathless. Those Hazel eyes you melted in the gaze of were feral and dark with desire. In one smooth motion with no warning, Cassian was inside of you with one single word, “Mine.”

There was no split second of calm before the storm, no moment to catch your breath after he took it from you. Cassian began to pound into you, hitting that perfect spot and making you see stars. Your nails dug into his chest, leaving small marks to join the littering scars and cuts from his earlier fight. “Mine,” the growl was deep, an ancient part of him almost begging for affirmation of the word.

“Yours,” you moaned out for him, back arching as your stomach tightened. “All yours.” Cassian's arm went across your back, hand roughly gripping your hips he could force you to move exactly how he wanted.

You could hardly breathe, mind lost to anything but Cassian. Your mate. Your everything. You could feel him down the bond, feel him getting closer with each squeeze and twitch of your walls. The room was thick with the scent of sex and sweat, the sound of his groans and you whispering and moaning his name like a prayer to some long forgotten God. “So fucking beautiful,” his free hand forced your head up, forcing you to watch as his cock slid in and out of your core, soaked in your essence. “Watch me fuck you. Watch me mark this pretty perfect pussy as mine.”

You couldn't help but to moan, feeling that edge approaching faster and faster with his. “Cassie.”

“Do it. Cum on my cock, baby.” He let you go limp below him, placing your head back on the pillows gently as he did. Wave after wave of need and pleasure washed over you, blinding your senses to anything but the feel of Cassian filling you as you Came around him. He fucked you through the high before finally finishing, not even bothering to pull out and opting to instead hold your hips so close to his you could not even tell where he began and you ended.

When he finally let you go, he barely caught himself before collapsing on top of you as his exhaustion hit him. You could help but place soft kissed along his face. His scarred brow and lip, his nose that you'd reset and healed so many times, his jaw. You finally sighed with one last lingering kiss directly on his full lips as he smiled. “That was faster than I hoped it would be.”

“Always is when you fuck me after fighting.”

“Always yours.”

He kissed your neck softly on the mark he made, whispering one last time. “Mine.”

General Taglist:

@hnyclover @glitterypirateduck @slytherinindisguise @mischiefmanagers @bloodicka @starsinyourseyes @the-sweet-psycho @mariahoedt @rinalouu @sarawritestories @starryhiraeth @starswholistenanddreamsanswered @cumuluscranium @loneliestluvr @eternallyelvish @azrielsmate3 @daughterofthemoons-stuff @meritxellao @aria-chikage @hungryforbatboys @lilah-asteria @fandomrejects

#acotar #acotar x reader #cassian acotar #cassian x you #cassian x reader #cassian x y/n #cassian fic #cassian smut #cassian of illyria #lord of bloodshed

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e-nonsense · 8 months ago

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𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗗𝗨𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗦𝗦 𝗢𝗙 𝗛𝗘𝗟𝗟'𝗦 𝗞𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛𝗘𝗡 - 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵. 𝘰𝘯𝘦

prev / next | masterlist

pairing. batfam x batsis!reader + platonic!matt murdock x batsis!reader

warnings. swearing, child neglect, mentions of an accident that makes you blind, canon/typical violence, nothing goes with comics, OOC matt murdock

wc. 1.2k

Jason had disappeared again, where to, no one knew. All that you had been told was he and Bruce had another one of their many fights, this time it had gotten physical.

You had only found out weeks after his disappearance. Having been in New York for the last two weeks.

You were amused to find out that he hadn’t actually left Gotham, instead he was sitting across from you munching down his burger, the sounds made were disgusting and you thanked whatever God out there that you couldn’t see it.

You listened with a smile as your older brother rambled on about how pissed off he was at Bruce, your unseeing eyes hidden behind a pair of tinted circular glasses.

The glasses were new, not the fact you were wearing them, just the fact that instead of them bearing the usual black tint you often wore it was now a dark purple.

Jason was the only sibling you confided in with your newest secret, a new name whispered amongst Gotham crooks and villains. He was against it at first, completely against it but when he saw you fight finally. His mind was changed.

If you learnt this much in two weeks, what could you do if you had two months. Or two years?

Jason wouldn’t this but he could see the Bruce in you, how quickly and how resilient you were becoming. Someone who could match the Batman in skill despite not having sight, he’d stick by to help you figure all that stuff out.

So for now Jason would support your decision, help you from behind the computer for now until he’d be ready to come back as Red Hood. But for now he could settle with lunch dates with his little sister during the day and helping you kick ass during the night.

“So, you going back to New York so this Murdock guy can train you more?” Jason asked with a mouth full of burger and you grimaced at the sound of his chewing.

“I might not if I’m going to be hearing your chewing in more detail from now on.” You grumbled, reaching out for your milkshake. Jason snorted in response, swallowing down his food.

“You can hear that?” He asks intrigued.

You only nodded in response, before shrugging. “‘S not much. Matt can heat heartbeats, but he said if i continue focusing and blocking out noises I don’t need to hear I’ll get there soon enough.”

Jason nodded along, you assumed by the sound of hair ruffling.

“So what can you hear so far?” He asked.

“Breathing, chewing, things far away sometimes, i can hear more sometimes and then other times i can’t hear anything at all.”

Jason hums, pausing to watch you, “you look happier.” He blurts out, “i mean compared to how you were, stashed away in the manor.”

You hide your smile behind the milkshake and Jason smiles, “I’m glad.”

———

“Breathe,” Matt instructs, hands on your shoulders. “Focus on his heartbeat, ignore mine, find him.”

Your breathing evens out, and Matt can hear your heart slow down, relaxing from your earlier training as you tried to find the heartbeat of the other man in the room. “I can’t—” you try to complain.

“Do it,” Matt repeats, “focus.”

Then you hear it, another heartbeat echoing through your ears coming from your, “left.” You mutter and Matt grins, ruffling the top of your head.

“That’s creepy,” Peter’s voice calls out, “it’s like there’s two of you now.” His footsteps get closer, stopping right in front of you.

“I should properly introduce the two of you,” Matt says. “Peter this is y/n Wayne. Kid, this is Peter Parker, he’s Spider-Man.”

"Spider-man?" You snorted, "what, were there no other names available?"

Peter groaned, crossing his arms like a pouty child. "Shut up," he grumbled.

"breaks over," Matt calls out and now its your turn to groan, all morning since you got back to New York he's been training you.

Starting with sitting silently in one place and picking out quieter sounds and now you were training to fight more.

Because no way in hell was Matt going to let you fight freely in Gotham city without further extensive training. So for now, you were getting your ass handed to you, and it sucked.

———

Bruce started at the screens in front of him, the sound of his youngest sons sparing in the background didn’t phase him, he was getting irritated with the new presence in Gotham. Some newbie calling themselves Duchess, a who had never crossed paths with him by some miracle.

actually it seemed every time Bruce arrived on scene, the Duchess just disappeared, as if she had some sixth sense for him. There was limited footage of her too, just little blurs of shitty CCTV cameras of a girl with a bandana tied around her eyes and in full black. Hands wrapped in black bandages, any distinguished features covered up, leaving the possibilities of her identity to thousands of candidates.

The only other thing Bruce had on her being her constant travel between Gotham and New York, specifically Hell’s Kitchen. But he got no leads from there, other than the Duchess being in cahoots with the Daredevil and his allies.

So, after hours of analysing footage, names and failing to hack into SHEILD’s servers, the only thing Bruce had gotten was that this Duchess being; female and lives in Gotham or New York.

“Nothing?” Dick’s voice comes from beside him, arms crossed as he leans back against the desk, sweating as he had just returned from patrol with Cass and Steph.

Bruce grunts in response and Dick takes it as a yes, “damn.” He mutters with a sigh, “well I’m heading home. I need sleep and I have work in the morning,” Dick says, stretching his arm, patting his shoulder as he heads up the stairs and out of the cave.

Was he actually heading home? No. He was off to do his own investigation about this Duchess. Hopefully he’d actually find something.

———

Navigating Gotham was easy when you had the heartbeats of the people who you want to avoid memorised. But New York? Not so easy, the streets were louder, busier, people walked around freely and not in quiet groups armed with knives to avoid being attacked.

At first the noises were overwhelming to your senses, but overtime you had learnt how to block out certain sounds, like cars, random clicking, rats, water, the unimportant things. And the noise became more bearable, you could tell the difference between human heartbeats and animal ones.

“This way,” Matt spoke, jumping over building to building with you following closely behind.

He had talked about getting you a suit made but until then the outfit you had on currently would do fine. The sounds of Peter’s webshooters were in the background, “are you sure about this? I mean she’s still new to this, taking her out on patrol might be a bad idea.” Peter spoke, trying to be a voice of reason.

“I’m sure,” Matt says his voice distorted due to the sound of an explosion in the background, the smell of smoke filling your noses.

“That can’t be good,” you mutter, nose scrunching at the smell.

“Definitely not,” Peter nods in agreement before the three of you head over towards the scene.

—tbc

#duchess au #bruce wayne x daughter!reader #matt murdock x reader #platonic batfam #batfam x reader #batsis #enzo writes [📝]

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whalesforhands · 8 months ago

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what’s yours is mine (1/?)

masterlist next

pairing: geto suguru x reader x gojo satoru

You don’t know a lot of things, and you readily admit that. What you do know, is that the friends you’ve made aren’t something you will ever regret. Until your physical body weakens and becomes nothing, you’re more than happy to give your all until you wither away.

What’s yours can be theirs, too. They’re your friends, after-all. (Omegaverse, rating may change with every update.)

“Ito Saya, reporting in for your daily broadcast. In a noteworthy shift, Omegas are increasingly finding more employment opportunities in positions of power. With a positive trend towards reduced oppression of—“

You’re averse to this sort of thing. A folly, something you can barely care about as your eyes squint at big words floating around the screen, a pretty lady holding papers and looking all serious and… Boring. TV shows are supposed to be fun, supposed to be playing that anime you had been waiting all week to see, supposed to be… Interesting so that you can feel less alone.

You definitely don’t want some silly lady on the screen talking about— Those things that you can barely understand. Why do they always talk so much? A picture could probably end their entire long spiels in seconds.

Your nose scrunches, your fingers cupping your chin like those TV characters did when they were thinking really hard. So why don’t they just use pictures? They’re more colourful and tell you stuff faster, won’t they? It’s not your fault that the TV station people are always so inefficient.

(It’s the television’s fault isn’t it? Definitely, right? Mama always did tell you it was a little old.)

Or maybe it’s because you don’t know a lot of things.

You’re 4, staring up at the glowing screen of your all too old television, sat cross-legged on the carpeted floor in this wide, wide room that was a little too empty for your liking. Your nose picks up on the scent of coffee, ears barely picking up on a clink of porcelain against a cheap wooden coaster. Mama circles things in newspapers, the gliding of her red marker against the sheet attracting your attention to the focused look in her eyes, the furrow of her brows, the way she just held that pen so elegantly…

(Your Mama is so much prettier than the lady on the TV.)

You like it when she’s focused like that, so serious-looking! This must be the pinnacle of a hard worker. Brains… And beety? Or whatever you heard some other old man on the TV used to cheer about.

So you decide you don’t wanna watch anymore, Getting up onto your small feet and barely catching yourself before you topple over, toddling over to your Mama with socks padding against the wooden floors.

You’re soon taking decisive peeks at your all too focused mother, watching over her shoulder in silence to let her focus. There should be a reason why she’s so serious, right?

Maybe it’s something fun? Something exciting? That’s why she’s so focused on it— right?

“J…Ob list…ings open…” Your eyes are narrowed, licking over your lips to wet them as you take another deep breath in. “Mini—um, ex-peer-i-sense?”

You can see the red marker coming to a halt, her sweet chuckle perhaps to humor you, to acknowledge your attempt. Patting your head when she turns her head around, and a smile upon her face as she smooths over the fabric of her skirt, as you feel yourself being lifted and plopped gently into the warm confines of her lap.

“That was a nice try, sweetie.” Her eyes meet yours when you take the decisive move to lean back, a ruffle of your hair and your quiet giggle as the short relief of her attention leaves you, though not without sating your curiosity. “Mama’s looking for a job.”

You know what that is. It’s for adults to make money, disappear for hours in a day and only come back super, super late at night.

(You think your father had one. Or… Did he really?)

And it means they spend all that time in a place nowhere close to their home or cute, adorable, obedient daughters either.

“Does that mean you can’t stay home with me anymore, Mama?” You’re still leaning back into her chest, staring up at her chin from your position as you bring yourself impossibly closer to her, the calm smell of vanilla and honey in your nostrils making you all warm and fuzzy, calm and happy.

(You always liked it when she smelled like this.)

“Maybe, sweetie.” She pulls away briefly to tap the end of the marker against your nose. “But Mama will be able to buy you more delicious food,” She pauses to smile so sweetly down at you, a pinch to your cheek. “And finally get you some toys.”

Toys. You realize that you don’t have any toys. At least— You couldn’t bring any of your toys with you when your mother had so urgently scooped you up into her arms in the dead of the night, a luggage rolling behind her as your nose picks up on an urgent, intruding scent of sour milk and rotting flowers, your senses spiked with uncertainty and fear as you soundlessly drink in the last sight of your old home for those few seconds before the darkness ate it all away.

You remember boarding 1 train, 2 trains, 3 trains… You lost count after that. Only simply remembering getting pulled along, Mama’s soft whispering and cooing promises that this is for the best, that your Papa won’t be able to follow you here, that you’ll be happier than ever. You remember her scent, less rigid, less frightened but still steeped in misplaced excitement. Like a fragrant scent of calm that beckoned you to follow and imitate.

You remember living in small apartments, tiny, squeezy and virtually no space. You remember how sickly, horridly sweet Mama’s scent was, caked in perfume when she rushes out every night for her job at the local izakaya. Her uniform always a little messed up in her haste before she leaves your dinner usually already in your hands as you slurp on ramen or eat another scoop of curry rice.

She would pat your head as you offer her a bite, giving you a smile before she tells you to be good, several locks clicking into place when she closes the door behind her.

It wasn’t much, wasn’t the most fun you’ve ever had in your life, but it was comfortable. You were happy with that simple life with her. But one day, you heard jangling at the front door, you hear hurried, panicked movements, smell sour fear despite the thick odour of perfume as your Mama hurriedly slams the door shut behind her, cold sweat on her as she hugs you close, buries her face into your hair.

You don’t like it when she’s like this.

You remember a man with a scent so different from your father come knocking at your door for weeks on end, gradually changing from slow knocks to furious banging on the metal with a rough pleads begging that he won’t hurt your mother, that she was beautiful, the she was—

That’s how you ended up here now. It’s been at least a year since then. And only about a month since you moved in.

(You think. You’re not really good at telling time yet.)

“Mama, I don’t need toys.” It’s not like you don’t want them, you just don’t need them. A lesson taught to you by more pretty ladies on the TV screen, you’ve also stopped by many a toy store only to see too many zeroes on price tags, and it’s been steeled in your mind that you just don’t need them. Not when you have Mama to play together with now that she’s smiling so much more.

So you’re adamant on not wanting any.

“Is that so, darling?” You feel a mindless pinch to your cheek as she circles another paragraph of words. “Then how are you going to keep yourself from getting bored when I’m not around?”

Now that has you in a slight dilemma, your hands freezing in place from where they had been twirling with her hair. You blink once, and again when you quietly see her marker tap against the paper, as if awaiting your thoughts as your eyes start to dart all over the room.

(She makes really good points. Too good. As expected of your Mama.)

The television? No. Mama would tell you too much is bad for your eyes. The pillows you both use for your futons? No. You’ll probably dirty it and make more work for her. Your eyes silently trail over to the window, sun shining through the panes and onto the floor as a glowing thought arises.

“I can just play outside.”

——

Be careful what you wish for, as they say.

An amused chuckle from Mama as she pushes you towards the door, nimble fingers excitedly doing up the straps of your old sandals and arming you with a couple of handmade cookies, a pat on your head and parting words of;

“Don’t wander anywhere past the playground, don’t follow anyone strange, be back by sunset and make some friends.”

Maybe you shouldn’t have said that you’ll go play outside.

“Honey, I know it’s only been so long since we’ve moved here.” She’s clears her throat, a cloth being gently rubbed against your face to help get rid of any stray rice grains. “But,” She sucks in a breath, a rise and fall of her chest as you blink at her.

“Have you…” She has to take another breath in. Does she have breathing problems—

“Made any friends yet?”

Oh.

The answer is no. Your go-to counter being, ‘I don’t go outside, so how can I make any?’ as if it was the most obvious thing in the world as you give her a smile.

(This isn’t something you’re meant to be proud of.)

And all she’ll give you is winced smile, ruffling your hair and saying that there was no rush. That you’ll get your chance. That you’re the sweetest kid there was. That she has faith in you and wants you to work hard!

But it’s not like it’s as easy as your capable mother makes it sound, and not like you wanted to be out here, anyway. You think the sun is too hot, that there aren’t enough clouds, that the wind isn’t picking up enough, the cicadas are too loud, that you need water—

And that you need to stop complaining so much.

You’re kicking at the path, a long stick in your hands poking at the ground beneath you, cookies pinched between your fingers as you wander and wonder. You can make friends. Surely, you can. That’s what the the cookies are for, right?

Other kids your age should love cookies. You sure do, and you’re Mama’s number 1 fan when it comes to her baking.

(Or her… Anything, really.)

So… You know her inside out, you swear you do. You love her, she loves you, she makes good food and she wants you to make friends, come back with no cookies and a new bond forged.

(Anyone would do, right?)

But you don’t see any kids, the playground you just arrived at deserted and empty. It looks sleek, almost as if it were brand new. Dark wood and galvanized steel, it was so… Clean. So untouched. Yet nobody was here? Your shoulders slump forwards in mild disappointment, yet your heart thrills at the thought of being able to have the whole place to yourself. Alone.

Well, choosers can’t be beggars… Or was it the other way around? Either way, it’s not like Mama would know if you ate them both yourself.

——

So you find yourself sat down comfortably within the top of the little hut housing the slide, your feet splayed out in front of you as you prepare to take a bite. You feel the straps of your sandals relax against your feet, a slight breeze picking up despite the shade you had hidden under. Perfect. This was perfect—

“Are those cookies?”

You can feel your shoulders jump in shock, fear pulling at your heartstrings and a startle nearly making you drop your precious dessert. So much for a peaceful time. You have to physically lurch yourself back before any harm was done to your food. Just who do they think they are? To just come up to you and—

A flurry of white snow and icicles of frost. But you’re pretty sure the summer heat is still beating down, the cicadas are still singing, and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Yet the one before you defies all of that. He had an aura about him, a commanding curiosity. And he does definitely—

“Look weird.”

His eyes widen for just that fraction of a second, before he furrows his brows, the long sleeves of the firefly kimono swaying when he crosses his arms in rebuttal.

“You’re weirder.”

You blink maybe twice. Once in surprise, and the other to really blink back into reality. He must’ve heard your thoughts.

“I didn’t. Ya just said it out loud, weirdo.”

Oh. You have to say your sorries, then. Mama didn’t raise you to be rude.

“This is my playground.” Your eyes catch a glimmer of the wara zori his feet donned. They were too neat, too well put together. “Nobody else is allowed in.” His tone sounds so proper, his pronunciation so abnormally clear, especially for someone who looks your age.

“Oh.” You didn’t know that. Though to be fair, you don’t know a lot of things. “Sorry. I didn’t know playgrounds can be owned…”

“That’s only for poor people.” You hear the tap of his shoes against pressure treated wood. “If more people were like me, they’d have their own playgrounds too.”

“Oh. Sorry then.” You really are. You just thought playgrounds were a place for every kid…

“S’that all you can say?” You can see the shine of iridescent blue, making use of his standing height to belittle and threaten your sitting position. He makes himself look big, makes the glimmer in his eye turn into one of malice and impatience. It twists his features, turns them into something rugged and rough and uncomfortable.

And you think it’s such a waste of the cute face he has.

“Sorry.” To his Mama who gave him such a nice looking profile, and to him, you guess. You don’t really know if you should be apologizing, don’t really know if what you’re doing is right.

(But apologising has always worked. It felt right to you.)

And you think he’s satisfied now.

He harrumphs, unfolding his hands. “Some old lady put me on a sweets ban.” He settles down next to you, pushing you aside to make space for himself as he plops down, and you notice the shifting of the pretty blue fabric he donned matching perfectly with the crystal blue of his eyes. You notice the print quality being one so clear and vivid, despite the simple design. That’s a really nice kimono. “So I can’t eat anymore for the rest of the month.”

(He really is cute.)

“But since you’re trespassing on my playground,” He holds a dainty, porcelain hand out, a small twitch of his fingers that itch for your compliance. “I’m charging you cookies for it.” He’s smiling now. A proud, smug grin with the upturn of his eyes into crescents.

”It’s okay for me to eat ‘em cause it’s tax.”

He’s kind of irritating, but… Anyone would do, right?

You swallow the lump you weren’t aware of in your throat, the sweat that you didn’t know that was starting to form on your hand. You think you have an idea. A good one, at that.

“Okay,” You produce the other packaging. “But you have to promise to be my friend.”

Now it’s his turn to blink at you in utter confusion.

“Are you—“ His eyebrows furrow deeper than before, his smile dissipating into this confused frown. His eyes scrutinize and watch you closely, as if he was scouring your every breath, your every movement to uncover something that just wasn’t there.

“Being serious?”

Why… Wouldn’t you be? The way you just blink back at him, waiting on him to continue only to be met with glaring silence… Is there something on your face? Is there a bug you didn’t see crawling in your hair?

Or maybe he just wants the cookie.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” Your hand is warm as they grip his wrist, gently dropping the wrinkled plastic onto his hand with a tilt of your head and eyes that flick up to meet his. It’s innocent, genuine, even. Frightfully so. The way you smile with nothing else, the way your intent was shown upon your very sleeve.

Nothing. He garners absolutely nothing from you. Your hands feel too warm, the chocolate chips within the cookie already look like they were melting, sweat is starting to stick your hair to your skin— And he thinks it doesn’t get anymore real than this.

“Okay.”

Oh, good. He agreed. You have a friend now, and it makes your heart squeeze with just that bit of excitement, of joy. It felt like you were swinging too high off the ground, felt like you were going to be swept off your feet.

It felt good. Maybe you should make more friends.

“Do the thing with me.” His pinky is held out, pushed into your face. “Ya gotta promise me something too. That’s how promises work.”

Is that how it works? You didn’t know that either.

“Yeah.” It isn’t. “That’s how it works here, you dunno that cause you’re new.”

Well… Okay then. “What’s the promise?”

You see his lips curl up, his eyes sparkling with something unknown as you begin to stick your own pinky out. “You’re already my friend, right?”

You nod.

“Good.” There’s a smugness to his face now. “So you can’t be friends with other kids from this neighbourhood. That’s betrayal to me.”

You catch a whiff of something spicy, hot. As if it were burning you to the very edges of your body— Before it disappears completely, as if it were never there. He makes sense, to you at least, and it sounds… Fair enough, you guess.

Your pinky wraps tight around his, in spite of how foreboding and suffocating his hold feels. Your nose picks up on the scent of fabric cleaner, the scent of summer weighing heavy on your nose in this moment. You see blue and white, see oranges and pink light starting to envelop his hand from where the sun had begun to set, making his hand glow as your promise becomes sealed in this very moment forward.

“Hey,” His eyes still don’t leave the way your fingers were intertwined with each other. “Which house do you live in?”

(“I’m forgiven for coming in here without permission, right?” Your hands are stained with sticky chocolate that you’re trying to dab off with your dry handkerchief, bits of crumbs littering your lips.

“Ya can come here whenever you want now.” He wipes the remnants of soft biscuit and gooey chocolate off with a dismissive sleeve.

“That’s such a waste of a pretty kimono…”)

——

Even when your pinkies have lost their binding to each other, you still find his hand holding onto yours, adamant on them being intertwined as he huffs in annoyance at your stare.

“I’m only leadin’ ya back cause I wanna see your house.”

You give him that owlish stare again. The blank one that looks like you don’t have a thought passing through your head at all. “Okay,” You smile again.

“What’s your name, by the way?”

It’s a dismissive question, one that had only just occurred to you. You’re far more interested in watching the way the sun casted your shadows together on the concrete pavement, how your silhouettes gave you a sense of weird unity. Having a friend feels really nice, you think.

You take a glance at him when he takes too long to reply, catching an icy cold gaze that contrasted the warmth of your hands conjoined.

“You first.” Well, if he insists, you guess. It’s just your name.

“(last name) (name).” You’re pretty sure you got the pronunciation right.

“Gojo… Satoru.” You can hear him hold his breath as his name leaves his lips, his voice ever steady and confident, though with a tinge of hesitance. As if he expects something, as if he wants it to be over and done with.

It never comes. Only a confused tilt of your head as you keep staring at him like he was the crazy one in this situation.

And you can see his face change into one of disbelief, one that barely tilts over the edge of what you can only describe as ‘shocked relief’. Maybe he is as weird as he looks. Does he have some sort of weird complex? You can swear you’ve heard about it on TV before. Or maybe he just has really bad comedic timing? You can at least compliment him.

“You’re funny, Satoru-san.” Because he’s genuinely making you smile now.

“I didn’t give you permission to call me by my name.”

“Oh.” You thought friends were allowed to be on first name basis immediately. Were you wrong about friendships afterall? You stare at the ground for a little longer than needed as punishment for yourself, “Sorry, Gojo-s—“

“I didn’t give you permission to call me by my last name either.” His hand squeezes yours ever tighter in small retaliation, his face turned away from yours to hide the way he was starting to grow red with rapid embarrassment.

(You can still see the tips of his ears burning red.)

Now you’re just confused. A scratch of your head as you try to think a little bit harder.

“…do I just call you friend, then?” And you can hear him stifle a snort.

“You’re really weird.” He squeezes your palm again. “Lose the honourifics, weirdo.”

(“So, Gojo…?” You test the waters again. You see his eyes stare off to the side in thought for just that one moment before they flick back to meet your gaze.

“Satoru.”)

“My house is that one,” Your small fingers point towards the horizon, a quaint, unassuming home coming into sight. “You have to walk 3 houses down from the playground.”

You stop before the front. Trying to loosen your grip only to feel his hand tighten significantly around yours.

“Satoru.” You call his name when he’s seemingly lost in thought, his eyes staring blankly at your humble home. It almost looked as if he hasn’t seen one before. “It’s getting late.”

“Oh.” Is he copying you now?

“Don’t you need to go back home? Your Mama would be mad if you’re late, wouldn’t she?” You probe a little more in efforts to snap him out of his trance, poking at his squishy face to get his attention.

But to no avail.

He doesn’t say anything, his head only turning to the side to stare you straight in the eye as you await. You see how pinks and blues are practically reflecting off of those crystalline optics, the sky reflected in them as they shine with a certain warmth.

“Can I come by tomorrow?”

——

A small knock at your front door early into the morning, when the sun had barely risen and the skies were still painted in shades of night blue.

To be specific, it was 6:00 AM. Your Mama was startled as she sipped coffee in the kitchen, you hear her shuffling downstairs, hear the clatter of the very few kitchenware you had as you begin to stir from your sleep, your brain flaring into overdrive as you try to sniff out the air— Trying to capture whiffs of that rancid scent that you hate so much—

Nothing. Nothing but the growing smell of rotting flowers that sends jitters down your spine. It worries you, sends you into a panic as you practically trip over yourself to run downstairs, disregarding any of the instructions of hiding away in the closet like your Mama had taught you beforehand. You have to check— Have to see if she’s okay—

The door is already open.

“Is (name) home?” He’s the first to talk, eyes flicking back and forth between the slightly open door and the dim light from within your home and your sleepy mother.

Mama only blinks down at him, her phone on speed-dial to the police releasing its tense grip as her shoulders visibly slump forward. Her scent calming from the initial flare up as she opens the door just that little more to allow her full view of Gojo Satoru standing before your home accompanied solely by a pretty lady dressed in a simple kimono.

“Yes… She is—“

“Good morning, (last name)-sama.” A low bow that takes your mother by surprise. “Our young master has scheduled a playdate with your daughter for today.”

“I— Um, heard, yes. But I certainly didn’t expect it to be this early—“ Your Mama shifts in place a little uncomfortably, taking note of how the sun had yet to rise, how the street lamps were still alight.

“We apologize for the disturbance.” The servant girl swoops down into another polite bow, head low and hands holding out a neatly wrapped gift before her. “These are snacks to show our gratitude for hosting this event. Young Master Gojo was looking forward to this arrangement, and had made preparations to come as early as possible.”

What an… Interesting child.

“As I am not allowed to accompany him inside due to his request, please also take this number with you, (last name)-sama. Do not hesitate to call us if anything arises. I will arrive to pick him up when he wishes to go.”

“Ah, um… Thank you…” The box feels heavy in your Mama’s hands as you tug on her pajamas from behind, peeking out slightly once you hear the door close.

“Gojo-kun… Was it?” She has to blink a few times to really get a good look at the snowy-haired boy.

“How did you say your friend looked again?” She’s picking up a dumpling with her chopsticks, gently laying the food onto your plate as you continue to chew in humming delight.

Your training chopsticks are clacking against each other as you smile up at her, all toothy grin and happy glow.

“He’s really cute.”

She figures it checks out, the doll-like, porcelain features of his face, the shiny blue eyes and his silky looking hair. He doesn’t say anything, furrowed brows and curiosity in his eyes as he scrutinizes her too, the air starting to still just that little bit when he nods at her in greeting.

As if he was acknowledging her… And as if he didn’t know how else to react.

“It’s nice to meet you.” She leans down to shake his hand, noticing the softness of his skin, the grip of his hand. “And thank you for the gift.”

You pop out from hiding behind your Mama’s legs, blinking at how his clothing had switched from the pretty kimono yesterday— To a simple shirt and shorts.

“Satoru.” You smile only slightly, your voice dimmed with the raspiness of just waking up, waving your hand in greeting. “You’re not wearing your pretty clothes anymore.”

Mama watches, watches how his gaze had been fixated on you the moment you appeared, how he’s waiting—

“I’ll leave you both to it, then.” A ruffle of your hair as you let out a quiet giggle. “Make sure to wash up and brush your teeth.”

“Okay.”

And when she’s out of sight, her footsteps disappearing down the hallway— He starts to speak more.

“Your house is tiny.” Small. Inferior. Almost unlivable. He swears he’s seen servant quarters bigger than this as he kicks his sneakers off by the genkan, dusting himself of imaginary dust as he climbs up the step, his hand somehow finding yours with almost scary accuracy.

Is it? You always felt that it was too big. Always having too much space that you didn’t know what to do with.

“I think it’s nice.” You can feel yourself squeezing his palm with gentle self-assurance, leading him up the stairs and into the bedroom where your futon still laid upon the ground messily.

He sees darkness, hears the soft pads of your socks against tatami mats. Smells the faintest scent of honey within this room.

He stares. Silently, quietly. At the hadakake of your futon, at the thinner blanket that your Mama had taken out to deal with the sweltering heat of summer, at the overall state of the room.

“Are you poor?” You blink at him when he lays down next to you on his side, the softness of the bedding making your body feel heavy and sleepy, feeling a bit too lazy to want to keep the comfy sheets away.

“No.” Your whisper is quiet, soft. As if you were slowly fading away into sleep. “I have enough.” And he knows you’re telling the truth when you just give him a sleepy smile, a yawn escaping your lips as you cuddle against your pillow, eyes losing focus and turning the sight of your friend into a bleary blue and white.

”So I’m happy with just this.”

And he thinks you’ve really gone crazy.

“Good morning, Satoru…” Because you’re pretty sure you have yet to say it, as weird as it is when you’re in the midst of falling asleep.

“…morning.”

He’s fun to be around.

——

A couple weeks have passed, the same days of Satoru coming around to knock at your door too early in the morning, your sleep-deprived Mama getting the door and letting him in—

Only to end with both you and him sleeping in on your futon until early afternoon, when you both awaken only to play… Whatever, really. The playground, drawing at home, building pillow forts…

Mama tells you she doesn’t mind if he wants to come over, doesn’t mind if Satoru wants to play with you so often when she’s off to work. She tells you what really matters is what you want, that its up to you if you want him to come over this often, that it’s your choice to play with him.

(Mama described him once as ‘clingy’. You don’t know what that means, but you think it’s good. You have a friend. Your only friend.)

So you told him to only come once every 2 days, that you think too much interaction may ruin your alone time with Mama… Only to be met with a pout and eyes that teetered almost on watery even as you pat his head and apologise.

He still listened to you, though. Despite the glare to the side and the very evident pout on his face everytime he realises he doesn’t get to see you the next day—

Though, as of recently, Satoru had been the last thing on your mind. Your eyes taking interest in and stuck onto the house next door instead. It’s always been empty, more barren than your own. But it’s gotten ‘renovated’ as your Mama said, the walls losing their dull shade and obtaining a new shine, the boarded windows replaced with shiny, clear glass.

It looked really nice.

“Stop staring at the ugly house and look at me insteaddddddd!” Ever selfish, ever vying and whining for you to give him your undivided attention.

“(nameeeeeeeeeeee).”

“It’s not ugly, though.” You think it looks quaint, looks prettier than your own. “It looks pretty.” You’re curious what kind of people are gonna live there. Are they gonna be an old couple like how Satoru always claims? Maybe it’ll be a nice middle aged lady who likes to share her pickled vegetable dishes?

You just hope they’re nice.

“How much do you think it costs to rent-uh-vate?” Your stare is still pointed at the house next door, your window directly facing one of their rooms as you stare with curious intensity.

He narrows his eyes at the view of the empty rooms, the windows that still lacked curtains and the blank white of their freshly painted walls.

“Not much, I’m pretty sure.”

Probably not much in his terms, anyway.

“Mama said she thinks they’re gonna move in today.”

“Really? Then let’s watch ‘em later then.” He lets out a huff as he rolls around your floor, watching you settle down cross-legged next to him as he makes a grab for you. “I don’t wanna play at the playground t’day.”

“Oh. Okay then, let’s play the cards you brought then—“ Your words die on your lips, body reeling back to the window at the telltale beep of a horn, the loud rumbling of a truck starting to pull into the street just mere meters away from you.

And that has the both of you clambering up to the window, his hand holding yours to ensure you don’t fall as you both squeeze to stand on the same stool, hands pressed up against the glass as your cheeks squish against each other in hopes of getting a view of what these people will look like.

“If it’s not an old couple, can we play on the swing today?”

“Y’er on.”

Your eyes watch the dark blue Toyota pull in close behind, your heart starting to race in palpitating beats that make you think you’re gonna be sick.

“Looks cheap.” Satoru’s still as snarky as ever.

The passenger door swings open, mesmerizing you with the sight of someone new, someone unfamiliar; a stranger that you’ve never seen before. Your gaze is stuck, unable to leave the features that capture your mind first—

Black hair and purple eyes.

masterlist next

#jjk x reader #gojo satoru x reader #geto suguru x reader #satosugu x reader #gojo x reader #geto x reader

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whatever-lmaoo · 3 months ago

Text

Sweet Life Of Mine

Summary: Life works in mysterious ways and Bucky would go through it all again if it meant he’d get to experience the rest of it with you.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x curvy!reader

CW: fluff, a bit of teasing, flashbacks are italicized and thoughts are in bold and italicized[2.4k]

A/N: As always the cute line dividers were made by @firefly-graphics 🌸 I’ve decided to turn this into a two-parter 🙂‍↔️ Special recognition to @buckys-wintersoldier without her encouragement I probably would’ve trashed this fic early on in the process😂 and @targaryenvampireslayer for listening to me yap and helping me come up with ideas when I would get stuck😍I am so thankful for both of them and y’all should check out their works because they are wonderful!!!💖 With that being said this fic has grown on me a lot and I hope y’all enjoy it as much as I do🥹 Dialogue is not my strong suite so I apologize if any of the lines sound corny🤧 I don’t give anyone permission to copy, translate or repost my works on here or other sites😊 Comments and constructive feedback is always appreciated!!

Bucky absentmindedly breaks down the last few cardboard boxes, taking in your newly furnished living room. Photos of you and your respective families are scattered along the walls and on top of your antique furniture. Plants strategically placed around the room and the gorgeous lamps you picked out created a welcoming atmosphere.

He throws the last box on top of his makeshift pile, wondering how all of the broken roads of his life led him to this moment, how he got his dream girl, a woman who accepted him with his baggage and loved the parts of him that he deemed unpleasant, physically and mentally. It all felt so surreal to him.

As the time grew closer for the wedding to start, Bucky couldn’t help but pace his dressing room floor. He occasionally looked in the mirror to fix his hair or wipe his face with another paper towel before throwing it away in the almost-filled trash can. He felt like his throat was constricted and began fidgeting with his tie. Eventually, he gave up and hunched over a table, trying to remind himself that everything was okay.

The weight of a hand rubbing his back, slowly grounded him for a moment. Steve’s voice sounded muffled in his ears but grew clearer as Bucky took in deeper breaths and continued to focus on the circular motion of Steve’s movements. “Buck, do you want me to get her for you?” The small “please” he lets out is all it takes for Steve to rush to your room.

Bucky stood up and grabbed a bottle of water from on top of a dresser. He was almost finished with it when a soft knock caught his attention.

“Baby?” You say opening the door slightly and sticking your hand through the gap. A clammy palm rests on yours as you massage his knuckles with your thumb, imprinting your touch in his mind, a silent reminder that you’ll always be there when he needs you.

“You ready to be stuck with me for life, Hotshot?” You tease, grinning as you hear him let out a quiet laugh.

"I should be asking you that, Gorgeous,” he breathes. “I don’t think I’ve ever been more ready for something than I am at the thought of marrying you. I’m just worried that I’ll somehow mess this up or this is one big dream. I’m afraid that at any second I’ll wake up in a cold sweat and find myself sitting on that old apartment floor, where instead of hearing that lovely voice of yours, it’ll be the older lady next door yelling because she muted her TV again or the loud honks from angry New Yorkers." He rests his head against the door and clutches the doorknob with his metal hand.

“Can you feel that, Bubba?” you say, placing his hand on your chest, feeling the rapid rhythm of your heart beating against his fingertips. “My heart beats like this when I see or listen to you. When I think about being able to wear your ring on my finger, taking your last name, and one day being the mother of your children. My heart beats for you, Bucky, and that's one of the realest feelings I've ever experienced.”One thing Bucky loves about you is you’ve never judged him for expressing his fears, and you’re always there to support him when his insecurities eat away at his progress.

He can hear Natasha's distant voice calling for you and smiles softly.

“I’ve got to head back for last-minute touch-ups, but I’ll see you at the end of the aisle, right?” You reach for his hand on your chest, gently kissing his palm before reconnecting your hands together.

“I’ll be there waiting for you. I love you, Gorgeous.” He squeezes your hand, running his thumb over your fingers.

“I love you too, Hotshot.” And with that, you slip your hand from his loose grip and through the door, your hurried steps echoing in the hall. Steve enters a moment later, noticing that the previous tension in Bucky’s body has almost completely disappeared.

“Let’s go make you a married man, Buck.”

“What are we waiting for, punk,” Bucky says, slapping him on the back playfully, laughing with each other as they walk out of the room, ready to make his dreams come true.

“Hey Gorgeous, I’ve got a question for you.” Bucky groans out as he starts straightening up his mess.

“Ask away, Hotshot.” You utter, your voice resounding slightly in the foyer as you hang up a picture of the two of you on your wedding night.

Humming along to the soft music from the living room while admiring how Bucky’s skin glowed under the golden hues from the sparklers your friends and family surrounded the two of you with. You can still feel the love radiating from him just by looking at his tender smile and remembering how his deep blue eyes twinkled with fondness as he gazed at you with his arms wrapped around your waist.

“How do you feel about going on a date tomorrow?” You smile at the steady sound of footsteps approaching you. A pair of hands enclose your wide hips, and Bucky’s chin rests on your shoulder as he inhales the pleasant scent of your perfume.

“I would love to go on a date with you, Bubs.” The warmth of his breath sends a shiver through your body, and you can feel your cheeks heating up as he places a sweet kiss below your ear.

“Where are you going to take me?” You ask, grabbing his hands and placing them on your plush belly, leaning back in his embrace.

“Let’s see, I could take you to the movies, an amusement park, or maybe a pumpkin patch. The possibilities are endless.” You hear his grin before you see it, turning your head towards him.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” A pout forms on your face, and you twist in his arms as he straightens up, clasping your hands together behind his neck.

“You would be correct, Gorgeous,” he says, smirking and pecking your lips. You hope he didn’t notice the slight widening of your eyes as an idea popped into your head.

“How am I supposed to know what to wear if I don’t know where we’re going?” You ask sweetly, letting your fingertips play with the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

“I’ll pick out something for you.” Your head tilts and eyebrows raise in amusement.

“You…are going to choose what I wear?” Bucky rolls his eyes and licks his lower lip in thought.

“Are you questioning my fashion sense, Doll? If I remember correctly, you wear my clothes more than I do.” His hands slip down to the top of your ass drawing your body in even closer, and you roll your eyes this time.

“You’ve never put together an outfit for me before, and I like wearing your clothes because they’re comfortable and smell like you.”

“Don’t want that pretty little head of yours worrying about a thing tomorrow. And I’m not complaining; they look better on you than on me. You make anything you wear look amazing, especially when it's in white.” A warm smile is plastered across his face, his eyes darting up to the photo behind you, another memory from the best day of his life playing in his mind like an old film.

“Do I look alright? Am I beginning to smell?” Bucky questions Steve and Sam as he tries to smoothen out his already-perfect suit jacket. The chattering from the guests did little to calm his nerves.

“You’re lookin’ snazzy, Bucknasty,” Sam says, giving Bucky a lighthearted slap on his ass.

"You look great, Buck." Steve wraps his arms around Bucky, bringing him into a tight hug. "I'm proud of you, man." He whispers, giving Bucky a brotherly kiss on the side of his head and a pat on his back as he lets go. He thanks the both of them before turning back around, eyes scanning the crowd as he tries to grasp the idea that all of these people are there for the both of you.

Bucky couldn't take his eyes off the door as the orchestra played the familiar tune of the song you chose for your entrance. After all the practices and months spent planning for this moment, nothing could prepare him for the overwhelming feeling he got when the ushers revealed your figure standing at the opposite end of him.

His bottom lip quivered, and he began to blink rapidly, but his gaze never strayed away from you. The dress you picked was beautiful, the shade of white complementing your complexion, and the way it hugged you in all the right places made you look like a goddess in his eyes.

He hadn't realized he was crying until you cupped his damp cheek in your palm, gently wiping away his tears while your own began to well in your eyes.

"Hi," you whispered through your watery smile, and it took everything in him not to crash his lips against yours.

You lightly glide your fingers down the side of his face, beaming up at him, already knowing where his train of thought took him. Gently tapping the side of his glasses, you watch as he slowly comes back to you, the affection in his eyes creating a warmth inside you that only he can ignite.

You wrap your arms around his midsection, and he kisses your temple before resting his cheek on top of your head, holding you against his body a little tighter.

“I think I look good in white too.” You say casually, a giggle escaping the two of you.

“Oh, yeah?” He says, a crooked smirk forming on his face, and you pull away slightly. A smirk of your own playing on your lips as you lean up next to his ear.

“So much so that I could be convinced to recreate the boudoir photos I gave you.” You take his earlobe between your teeth, pulling slightly, a low growl rumbles in his chest, and you do your best to keep your thighs from clenching. Bucky’s hands cup your ass as he lifts you in his arms.

“I’m sure it won’t take much to persuade you, pretty girl.” You roll your eyes at his cockiness, causing him to chuckle as he connects your lips, blindly making his way to your bedroom.

You felt a sense of tranquility despite the chilly breeze nipping at your exposed skin as you strolled through the desolate yet animated park. The sound of leaves rustling in the wind and the soft chirping of crickets fill your ears, while you watch the beautiful glow of fireflies encircling the bushes lining the pathway.

You admire the way the clear water of the pond shimmers softly in the moonlight as you take a seat on your favorite bench. Your eyes close and the tension in your body slowly fades as you allow yourself to enjoy Mother Nature and the safe feeling she provides you.

The hairs on your arms stand up as an unsettling feeling washes over you, and the squelching of grass confirms your fears of not being alone. You open your eyes, turning your head, searching for the source that disturbed your peace. Your eyes land on a figure standing at the edge of the pond.

He must have felt your stare because the next thing you know, a pair of striking blue eyes connects with yours. He watches you curiously as you assess whether he's a threat, and a ghost of a smile crosses his lips when he notices the slight drop in your shoulders before turning his gaze back to the still water.

Your lip rolls between your teeth as you consider leaving. You stand and start to walk away, but then you hear the stranger speak.

“You don’t have to leave.” He says, and you turn around after a lengthy moment of stillness, wondering if you should trust him. You observe his relaxed stance, face devoid of malice, but it's his captivating eyes that draw you in and tug at your heartstrings.

There was a silent plea within them, a look you've grown used to seeing in the mirror over the years. Hoping for someone to fill the kind of emptiness that comes with having experienced too much, even if only for a short while.

You stand in silence as a family of ducks begins to swim by. A twinge of pain surges through your chests, as you both watch the last one struggle to keep up, feeling like Mother Nature is reminding you that you were once in similar positions.

The wind grows colder, causing you to cross your arms in an attempt to conserve body heat. He notices this and starts to rid himself of his leather jacket.

“What are you doing?” You squeak out, taking a step back.

“Relax, you’re obviously cold and I wouldn’t be a gentleman if I let you stand there shivering.” You go to protest but he’s already wrapping his jacket around your arms.

“I’m not supposed to take things from strangers.” You exclaim, although, grateful for the makeshift shield against the cool weather.

“What are you? Ten? Would you feel better if I gave you my name?” He mocks and your eyes roll.

It’s always the pretty ones that are annoying.

“Oh, so you think I’m pretty?” He says, your eyes grow wide and your mouth gapes open.

I didn't mean to say that out loud.

“Fuck off. I think you’re annoying too.” He barks out a laugh at that, startling you slightly, you turn your head away from him feeling a small grin make its way to the surface.

“The name’s James, but you can call me Bucky, or pretty if that’s what you want.” He winks and you feel the heat rising to your cheeks as you tell him your name.

“Gorgeous name for an even more gorgeous girl,” he pauses as his phone goes off and a deep sigh leaves his lips when he checks the notification.

“I hate to depart like this, but duty calls.” He says backing away slowly, waving his phone in his hand. You go to give him his jacket, but he starts making a disapproving noise.

“I’m not supposed to take things from strangers, Gorgeous.” A sly smirk forms on his face before he spins around, gradually disappearing from your line of sight.

You shake your head, smiling to yourself, pulling the leather around you tighter as you begin to head back to your car, wondering if you’ll ever run into him again.

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x plus size reader #bucky barnes x curvy!reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #my writings🌸

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yuri-is-online · 9 months ago

Note

Hi I love your soulmate au, consider Ace or Deuce as soulmate but not touching each other until much later.

rules for au/prev posts can be found on my masterlist

So I could not quite tell if you meant ace x deuce or aceyuu/deuceyuu but since I am a Yuu focused blog (and you said "or... but not untill later") I am going to focus on x yuu.

I think the first potential time for them to touch Yuu is after beating the phantom at the end of the dwarf's mine. They're cheering, you're cheering, there's a half second where they scoop up Grim and swing him around and half reach for you but... hesitate. It's like everything stops for a moment before he shakes himself out of it. You're just Yuu, some magicless human he literally met today, why's he feeling so... strange about it???

I could see Ace knowing about soulbonds. His best subject is magic analysis/theory, he's far from unaware of theoretical concepts. But he's also Ace. The bratty kid who hates being seen as vulnerable, who thinks romantic things are uncool, whose way more comfortable being someone's friend than he is their boyfriend. He doesn't want a destined mate, he wants someone he can laugh with and likes being around... and he sort of hates how much you fit that description. So! Only solution he can think of is trying to bait you into making physical contact first, that way if anyone makes a big deal about this all consuming need to be close to each other it's you and not him.

Even though he's the one who proposes sharing a bed. It would have been your fault if you said yes! He's unprepared for what it feels like to get his wish, after Vil curses him to spend the night on the floor with Deuce and Grim he expects you to just abandon him to your room... but you creep back with blankets and pillows for your friends and hesitate when you go to give them to him. Slowly, so gently it makes a mockery of the searing undeniable realization that tears through him as you lay yourself next to him and lay your hand on his shoulder and rest.

While he lies there awake cursing Vil (he refuses to blame himself) for denying him the ability to hold onto you like he should.

~~~~

Deuce is different, I don't think he would be aware of soulbonds nor does he seem to believe in soulmates. I don't think he's thought much of romance at all really, so he doesn't fully understand what he's experiencing or why he's so nervous to touch you. He wants to though. Badly. It's all he can think about sometimes, he's never had a friendship this close or intimate. He really treasures you and this closeness, he doesn't want to break it. While Deuce might not know what is driving this desire, he knows that if he touches you he will understand. And that scares him, what if he breaks you with touch? What if nothing good can come from this connection, what if he is unable to let you go? He really wants you to be able to see your home again... but the thought of losing you leaves him strangely listless. Like you would be taking a part of him with you...

I don't think he ever finds the correct word for it. Maybe sometime way in the future Malleus or a professor will make him aware, but somewhere in a dream he finds it; the understanding of just what this bond means. Physically, he is unconscious in a hospital bed after failing to dodge the shards of Ramshackle Dorm's ceiling, but mentally he is wrapped in the warm, heavy sensation of his love for you. When he wakes and you aren't there he almost tears himself in half looking, and when you come back he holds you so tightly you can feel the tension shaking through his body. The only thing that soothes him is your gentle touch on his back, rubbing soothing circles into his soul as he breathes the bond between you in.

#<3 asks #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #twisted wonderland x reader #aceyuu #ace trappola x reader #deuce spade x reader #soulbound au #yuri when it comes time to write stuff she says she will: -_- sleep #yuri when it comes time to write more aceyuu angst: 0-0 real shit

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silkmoon777 · 1 year ago

Text

Do I Make you Nervous? | Simon "Ghost" Riley

little re-upload from my AO3 :)

Synopsis: When Task Force 141 is betrayed by Philip Graves, they're forced to separate. Y\N fights her way through the foreign Las Almas with a broken radio and no sense of direction. Yet, somehow, she finds herself in the same church her lieutenant, Simon "Ghost" Riley, seeks sanctuary in. As they attempt to brave the storm sweeping through the streets, the infamously unreadable Ghost challenges their professional relationship.

Pairing: Ghost x F!141reader

Contains: fluff, kissing, use of Y/N, hint of angst but resolved in the end, vague mentions of blood/wounds

Word count: 5,874

• • • • •

It was all a set-up. A lie.

Disappointment and anger triumphs any sadness over Grave's betrayal. At first, he came across as over-confident in that stereotypical male way. Over time I had warmed up to him. But Shepherd? The man who has given me the most freedom I’ve had in a long time? I admit that my use as a weapon to him has put a strain on our companionship, but to station me with my own cousin only to lash out unprovoked? He’s crossed a line that he can never come back from. The small liking I had for the man vanished as soon as shit hit the fan. Everything seems to replay in my mind. Alejandro insulted and detained, Johnny shot at, Ghost cornered...

There were too many of them to fight off. I couldn't trust myself to hold my own with my mind worrying over Johnny, Alejandro and Ghost while also plotting Shepherd's death. So, though it pained me, I ran. Ghost and Johnny did the same.

My radio was damaged in the incident. A stray bullet flew my way, and with a stroke of luck, grazed the radio instead of my ribs. The close call was enough warning to run, which is what I do now. The lack of communication only worsens the worry.

Shadows crawl in the streets of Las Almas like rats in a sewer. From door to door they go, yelling at innocent civilians in the late hours of dusk. From the conversations I've heard, they're looking for two foreign men and their female friend. They don't quite explain why we're being hunted, but the truth wouldn't change much. Every so often, a shot fires, echoing through the streets like a warning bell. A call of sorrow and fear.

With the Shadows forcing their way into civilian homes and raising their weapons against anyone who could harbour us, houses and shops aren't safe. The towering cathedral spires peeking above tin roofs and stacked houses catch my attention instead. Nobody would be inside at this time of night. For now, it's the best I can do. Also to my luck, the church isn't too far away. I take my time and keep to the shadows on my way. With a quick survey of my surroundings, I know I've bet the Shadows to this part of the city. That won't last long. The revelation has me jumping the gate within seconds of making it.

Inside the church is pitch black. Towering windows that tell biblical tales line the walls, casting light in intervals across the empty foyer. Rows of seats begin to emerge as my eyes adjust. Further back is an intricate, circular skylight tens of feet above the marble floor. Illuminating the altar below is a waterfall of silvery light. The giant cross, gold statues, and wooden altar glow like I'm looking through a blurred lens. The view is both eerie and magical...and not meant to be marvelled at in a time like this. My focus should be maintaining high ground. I begin to turn in search of a staircase when something shifts in the darkness.

A figure materialises, tall and built; easily a male physically capable of snapping my neck. My next best option is the gun strapped to my hip to parry the one in his hand. I go to reach for mine—

“Y/N?”

I freeze in surprise, but my mind eases slightly.

“Lieutenant? How—”

“Doesn’t matter. We’re here now.” He looks down at me with searching eyes. “You in one piece?”

“Yes. You—?” At that moment, my own eyes skim his body, only to halt at a worrying sight. On the left side of his waist, just above the waistband of his pants, is a blooming, dark red stain on his shirt. He’s been shot. “Jesus, Ghost. How bad is it?”

“I’ve had worse—”

He stops himself at the distant shouting. The surrounding streets haven’t been quiet since I’ve been in the church, but this time it grows closer. Angrier. Ghost doesn’t waste time ushering me along in search of a stairwell. The one we find leads to the second floor, then a third. Eventually, we discover the central bell tower. The room is dank and cold and decently big. Suspended in the middle is a gigantic bell. Even in the dark, I can see how weathered the metal is. The worn wooden floors creak as we cross it. On each wall are arched openings that allow entry to the cold night air and terrified screams. A small cluster of discarded furniture draped in white sheets huddles in a corner. From here, we have a perfect view of the sprawling city and winding streets. To those down there, we’re invisible.

Simon leans back against a wall and grunts, his hands brushing over the bullet wound. He pulls back his hands to inspect the fresh blood. However bad it is, it’s still bleeding.

“Show me,” I say. My voice comes out more demanding than I intend.

He gives me a brief exasperated look but doesn’t push back.

Ghost sits against the wall with his shoulders slumped just enough to reach my level. His jacket is unzipped, his black shirt rolled up halfway. Those tired, piercing eyes and muscular arms are the most I've ever seen of him. It feels like a reward when the weather is unforgiving enough to chase away his usual long-sleeve or jacket. His arms are tanned and muscled, with a tattoo sleeve working from the wrist of his left arm up to his elbow. I’ve begun to accept that it’s the closest I’m ever going to get to seeing him. But now I stare down at his bare abdomen.

The waistband of his black cargo pants sits low on his hips, offering a distracting view of a pronounced V-line and abs. In the moonlight, I can make out the reminders of war that mark his skin; a few silvery scars, some clean-cut, some gnarled and twisted; an old bullet wound healed closer to his ribs. The fresh one with the most of my attention is buried in a more acceptable spot. It nestles into the far right side of his waist, thankfully nowhere near any vital organs. However, it’s still a bullet wound and it still bleeds. That’s enough to worry me.

“Do you reckon it’s bad?” I ask.

He shrugs. “I wouldn’t say I’m dying.”

“But we aren’t in the position to get proper help. Maybe sit down for a bit.” Surprisingly, he does so without question. I get to my feet, draw a small knife from my thigh holster, and rip a strip of fabric from the white sheets. When I drop back down beside him, I take a deep breath. “Here"

He takes it with a mumbled thank you and wraps the fabric around his waist.

“You heard from John?” I ask.

Simon winces as he adjusts the torn sheet. “I radioed him multiple times. Never got an answer.”

“Are you surprised by all this?”

Simon leans back against the wall. “I tend to be less surprised by betrayal. But I had some respect for Shepherd.”

I sigh, shuffling around him so that I can do the same. “What are we supposed to do now?”

“Survive,” he says. “Shepherd wants you alive. Graves will see to that. He can’t kill Alejandro, either. But Johnny and I…” He shakes his head. “Graves won’t sleep until there’s a bullet in our heads and Shepherd won’t care enough to stop it.”

There’s a moment of silence as I fold my arms and look away thoughtfully. How are we supposed to do this? The blanket of night and the ensuing storm may offer some cover, but getting out of the city will be a mission. I can’t bring myself to leave without John, either. My heart hurts when I think about him. He could be anywhere, alone and outnumbered while I sit uselessly in a bell tower.

“What do we do about Johnny?” My voice is quiet. Fearful. “My radio was damaged so I couldn’t reach out to him. Maybe his is the same. But not knowing… He’s the only family I have left. My only real friend.”

“Don’t worry about Johnny. He’s one of the most resourceful and strong-willed Sergeants I’ve dealt with in a while. Have faith in him.” He looks at me then, tilting his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say he’s your only friend.”

“I do quite like his girlfriend…” I murmur.

“And Alejandro? Ronaldo?”

I purse my lips as his question draws thought. I’ve been considering Alejandro and Ronaldo as allies. Companions. But I’ve grown quite fond of them. Considering them as friends would set me up for heartache if anything were to happen. So I haven’t… At least openly. Despite my attempts to create some distance in our relationships, my subconscious has decided for me. Those two are my friends. It explains the immense distress I’m battling over Alejandro’s capture.

“I guess so.”

“Me?”

Silence ensues from both of us.

His question stuns me; I was prepared for him to stop at Alejandro and Ronaldo. There’s nobody else in Las Almas or back at home that I pay attention to. Besides Ghost, at least. I could answer him in a second. I almost do.

Ghost is infamous for his detachment. He’s quiet, short-tempered, dangerous and mysterious. I’ve heard the comments that he suits his code name. Spiritual beings do not communicate through speech but through action. Ghost is the physical embodiment of the epiphany. Anybody able to coax a few sentences from him outside missions is admirable. Outside of that, his physical emotions require deep analysis and theory to understand. The mask only makes things more difficult. I’ve never seen him show palpable kindness through his aura or words to anyone, never heard him allow the use of his name, never heard him offer others insight into the raging whirlwind of his mind.

And yet he lets those things slide around me.

He lets me speak his name when no one is listening. He offers me comfort when I need it most — if not through limited words, through soft gazes and a hand on my shoulder. I’m usually able to get him talking. Sometimes I receive short answers, sometimes I receive enough to help me understand more of that whirlwind mind. He even occasionally shows pieces of himself that take away from the guessing game I usually play.

I shut people out because the last people I let in betrayed me.

I never consider answering personal questions, but you tend to have a lot of them. And every time you ask…I almost answer

I guess you and I are more alike than I thought.

All of it has me wanting more. More of his mind, his words, the soft gazes I’ve noticed are reserved for me. What I already have is nothing compared to every naked truth he could be telling me. However, what I’ve managed to coax from him seems to be more than he’s told anyone in a long time. At first, I marked it down as me being the only female on the team or Ghost considered me fragile. But I've proved myself, and nothing about being a 'fragile female' (which I very well am not) does not automatically give me all these passes. I now realise it is much more than that.

Never once has he called me his friend. I already have. Now it’s his turn.

“I don’t mind you, Simon, but friendship can’t be one-sided,” I say. While it’s a simple statement, a silent question hides between each word. Are you my friend?

“If it was as one-sided as you think, you wouldn’t be calling me Simon.”

My heart skips a beat. There. It’s an answer to my unspoken words, but it’s not plain as day. As usual, Simon tells me something that is anything but straightforward. There’s room for interpretation in his answer—something that is beginning to tire me. It’s almost as if the honest answer is criminal and he’s trying to cover up his tracks. Almost as if not speaking that honest answer can allow him to deny it.

I don't bother concealing my annoyance. “That’s not what I want to hear and you know it.”

“Fuck sakes, Y\N, I said it,” he says. His voice comes out both argumentative and exasperated.

“No, you didn't. All I ever get out of you is stuff that works around the truth. Stuff I have to think about to understand.” I'm crossing a line, I know. I just can't help it. “What’s so hard about admitting it?”

“Don’t.”

His tone is final. I don’t care.

“Does the truth scare you?”

His eyes squint, becoming barely visible against the black paint, the mask, and the low light. I can clearly picture a scowl jumping across the many faces I’ve imagined. While I want to flinch away, I don’t. Not for a second do my eyes lower, and not for a second do I grow offensive. I remain calm and collected, which I think annoys him more.

“You want the truth?” he growls. The accent of Manchester seems to thicken. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. I don’t want to admit I think of you as a friend ‘cause I bloody well want to ignore it. For years, it’s only been me and I planned it to be for the rest of my life. Then all of a sudden you and your annoying cousin appear and jeopardise everything. The only person with an inkling of anything was Shepherd and I was fine with that. But now you’re catching up to him. You’ve so effortlessly undone everything I’ve worked hard to maintain.” The growl in his voice dies down the longer he speaks. In the last sentence, his voice is quiet, defeated, but a little begrudging. “And I knowingly let you.”

“If it was bothering you that much, you should have told me,” I say with a voice equally as quiet. “If I knew you didn’t want me to know so badly, I would have respected that.”

He shakes his head. “You don’t understand. I think about telling you everything. I may get pissy at you over your questions, but…” A sigh. The truth is shameful to him. “I look forward to them.”

“If it makes you feel any better…” I laugh a little. “It’s really annoying how intriguing you are. Not just your past and your face… When I’m not trying to guess what you look like, I’m refraining from asking you stupid questions. Shit like if you’re a cat or dog person.”

“Dog person,” he replies. Any hint of anger or annoyance has disappeared. “Cats have too much attitude.”

I squint. “You just don’t appreciate them.”

“You strike me as a cat person.” He pauses in thought. “You just remind me of a cat, really.”

I raise my brows, giving him an exasperated look. “Are you going to tell me I have an attitude?”

“Maybe. But there’s more to it.”

I cock my head in question.

“Cats are friendly. Independent.” His eyes shift and I wonder if there's a smirk beneath the mask. “Curious.”

“Was that another dig at my questions?”

“Yes. Now shut up and listen.”

Before he continues, I find myself turning my body so I can fully look at him, my shoulder against the concrete walls and my legs folded beneath me.

“There’s that look in their eyes that they know your worst thoughts. Your secrets. They’re also graceful. Got that high-class elegance about them. But they can be unpredictable, striking out when you least expect. Once they sink their claws into you…” His eyes search my face. “You can’t get rid of them.”

I look up at him in wonder, my mouth slightly agape as I try to find a suitable response. Nothing I could say would express the way his words sink in. I’ve always coined Simon to be the observant type, keeping to himself and remaining silent. But I never expected him to relay his finds. His usual short, sharp answers contrast the compliment greatly.

“I think…” A small smile curves my lips upwards. “…That was the most meaningful compliment I’ve ever gotten.”

“Don’t let it go to your head.”

“Never. Now I have a question.”

“The floor is yours.”

“Do you have, like, Queen Elizabeth tattooed on your face? The British flag?” I grin. “Something mask-worthy, you know?”

“Why does it have to be something British?”

“Because there’s no way you’re the only Brit I know that isn’t somewhat stereotypical.”

Simon huffs a laugh. “No stereotypical tattoos. Sorry to disappoint.”

“A big scar, then?”

He tilts his head. “No scars that make me want to wear it.”

I raise my brows. “So you do have a scar?”

“Only one big one.”

“Good to know.” I nod my head with thoughtful eyes. “I’ll add that to a mental note.”

His eyes widen a fraction. The skull sown to his balaclava only offers the view of his painted eyes and nothing. Not even his eyebrows. I guess he’s raising them in question.

“How often do you think about this?”

I let out a long breath. “You have no idea. I change what I think you look like every day.”

“What do you think I look like.”

I go quiet in thought for a moment. As I said, the image changes… Only more frequently than I want to admit. Sometimes the change is small. Sometimes the change is big. I know I’m not the only one stumped by this, either. John and I joked over it once. He said things eluding to him being unattractive. A crooked nose, a huge scar, broken teeth. Every time he made a guess I would laugh, but never did the ideas seep into my mind. Nothing in an unattractive sense, anyway. Despite the possibility, I can never picture him as ugly.

“It varies, but…” I take one last second to collect my thoughts. “Without that skull piece, you have dark eyebrows. I imagine your hair is brown. And you’re eyes…it’s hard to tell with the paint, but they’re more deep-set and heavy-lidded. The balaclava is tight enough to make me think you have a straight nose, high cheekbones, strong jaw…” I shake my head. “Beyond that, I’m stumped.”

I can tell he thinks deeply about each characteristic. I sit patiently and almost wait for confirmation, but I know better than that. If he’s not going to show his face, he’s not going to—

“My hair is brown.”

I’m about to backtrack on my previous thought when he reaches towards the space between my neck and shoulder. In the frenzy that has been the last hour, my hair has come undone. The braid was unsavable, making me pull out the band and attempt a ponytail…only for it to snap in two. My hair now falls in dishevelled waves. A small part of my hair falls over my shoulder. Simon gingerly reaches for it, curling it between his finger and examining it in the low light. …Can he hear how fast my heart is beating?

“Not like yours. A few shades lighter, maybe. And that scar…”

Even more gingerly, Simon pulls one of my hands from its folded position, and I pray my expression doesn’t betray me. Rough, calloused hands press against the back of mine. The size difference is almost comical. He guides it to his masked face, working his fingers working around mine to spread them out. He drags my hand over his right cheekbone, across the hollow of his cheek, and towards his jaw. My mind is hyper-fixated on the shape of his face.

“Right along there.”

His eyes continue to search my face. There’s nothing but curiosity in the blue-grey of his irises. Curious at what, I can’t tell. Everything about this has my mind raging. The way he looks at me, the way he holds my hand against the black balaclava, the way he towers over me even when sitting down... The thoughts that surface are shameful. He’s your lieutenant, for Christ’s sake. Have some respect. The remembrance of his position has little help.

If anything, it strengthens the fantasies.

His hold shifts on top of my hand, the pad of his thumb swiping across my skin to stop on the inner side of my wrist and press down. He may not have been able to hear my heartbeat…but now he can feel it at the worst possible moment.

“You’re heart is beating fast.” He inclines his head. “Do I make you nervous, Y\N?”

God, is my breathing even? I can’t tell.

“You just caught me off guard, is all.”

Simon hums thoughtfully as his hand breaks away from mine and reaches forward. His fingers connect with my collarbone before finding my neck, exploring upwards in search of a pulse point. A shiver of excitement and nervousness runs beneath my skin like a ripple. His other hand slides over my knee and up my thigh. If my heart was racing before, this is a life-or-death sprint.

Slow are his movements. Calculated. He knows exactly where my heartbeat reverberates in my neck. Instead, he drags the moment out, coaxing out his desired reaction. But there’s something else in the slowness: a window for me to flinch away and draw the physical line neither of us has ever drawn. We’ve brushed shoulders and hands. We’ve sat with our bodies aligned in cramped cars. He’s held my hair back in a bathroom as I threw up after a panicked episode (something I would like to forget if he wasn't so surprisingly understanding). He's placed a hand on my shoulder for many different reasons. All are excusable moments. The ones that surpass professional boundaries can be marked as friendly. However, the intimacy of this moment is new. Scary. Exciting.

“Did you know your bottom lip twitches before you lie?” Simon asks. I find myself at eye level with him. When did he get so close? “I don’t like lies. Try again.”

“Sometimes…” I breathe.

“Sometimes, what?”

Bastard. “Sometimes you make me nervous.”

“Why?”

“Because…” I frown. “I don’t know.”

He’s definitely leaning closer now. Not just with his head, but with his whole upper body. Out of the nerves Simon is so adamant on understanding, I retreat, only making it a few inches before my back hits the other wall. Simon half hovers over me, the hand that was on my thigh now bracing himself on the floor. There are only a few inches between our chests. Even less between our faces. Not once does he lose his connection with my pulse.

“Another lie.”

“I don’t know how to word it. That's not a lie.”

Simon drops his head so that his covered mouth hovers beside my ear.

“Good girl.”

Never has praise sounded so seductive. It takes every inch of concentration to reign in my self-control. I might have ripped off his mask then and there…

Only, I think he’s beating me to it.

From where his head hovers, I can’t see his masked face. The wide, strong shape of his shoulder obscures most of my vision. He retracts his hand from my neck to reach somewhere I can’t see. The sound of moving cloth widens my eyes and upsets the rhythm of my breathing, the uneven rise and fall of my chest barely brushing his.

Maybe he’s adjusting it, I convince myself. He has only ever offered you little pieces at a time. What he’s offering me now is more than he ever has at once. While my body screams for more, my mind knows I can’t expect too much from him. Whatever he’s doing now is more than enough.

“You’re breathing funny.”

The feeling of breath skims the shell of my ear and down my neck like a warm, ghostly waterfall. It takes me a second to notice a difference in his voice. It’s low, it’s rough, it’s teasing. All are easily noticeable and nothing new. What is new is the enhanced clarity. An added sharpness lingers in his accented words. The slight muffle is nowhere to be found.

I was wrong. He’s lifted his mask.

“Because you’re taking off your mask." My answer comes out in a weak whisper.

He doesn’t speak about the mask, instead repositioning his hand to my neck to find my pulse.

“If you can’t tell me,” he murmurs, returning to the previous topic, “your heartbeat can.”

A warm feeling presses into my neck. A gasp slips past my lips as my heartbeat continues to quicken and stumble beneath his thumb. Against my skin…I think Simon is smiling.

Nothing about this seems real. Simon plants slow kisses on my neck with his bare lips. They’re a little rough, yet soothing. Whether they’re full or thin, I can’t tell, but the lack of obvious signs paints an image of something in between. His nose brushes the base of my jaw. Just above the pointed tip is where the balaclava begins. I can feel the hard edges of the sewn-on skull pressing into my left temple. Light stubble covers his jaw.

As his mouth works slowly against my neck, my jaw, and my collarbone, my hand slides up and over his chest. I slowly feel his bare neck. Beneath my fingers, his Adam's apple bobs. Further I explore, feeling the planes of his skin. The stubble scratches against my curious hand. Raised skin runs in a line over the right side of his face; the scar. It’s thin and generally clean-cut. He pulls back slightly as I feel his face. A deep chuckle rumbles in his chest as my thumb traces over his lips. I was right, they are something between full and thin. His lower lip feels slightly fuller with a deep hollow beneath that curves into his chin.

When I find it in me to speak, my voice is breathy.

“Kiss me.” He seems to still at that. When his reply isn’t instant, I continue. “You don’t have to… But I won’t look. I swear it.”

Silently, he reaches for my hand. He holds his over mine for a moment as he did with the mask moments earlier. Then he gently pries it away. Cloth shifts in my air as he fixes the mask and pulls back. I can’t say I’m not disappointed, but I respect the decision. Simon looks down at me with lust-blown pupils. Mine must be the same.

He takes a second to examine me. My heavy-lidded eyes, my slightly parted lips, the way I slump beneath him, the glistening wet spots left on my neck. He whips it away before he speaks.

“Can I trust you?”

We both know the answer to that, so instead of saying the obvious, I one-up him.

“Do you want to trust me?”

Silence passes for a heartbeat.

“Of course I do,” he says softly. “I want to trust you. I want to touch you. I want to kiss you. …Undress you. I’ve wanted to for so long.”

Then he moves.

My thoughts go quiet as Simon’s hands reach upward. When his fingers brush the base of his mask, I reach out and still his hands. The action takes both of us by surprise. For months I’ve been thinking about this moment. Just now I’ve admitted how much what he looks like takes up my mind. Now I find myself stopping him, but not because I’ve changed my mind. I worry that this will be something he’ll regret.

“Simon,” I say. “You don’t owe it to me to show your face.”

“But I do.” He inclines his head. “Now keep your pretty eyes up.”

My breath catches in my throat as he pulls it off in one swift motion. I take in everything I’m seeing in amazement, wonder, and bewilderment.

He’s handsome. He’s really handsome.

The ruggedness and confidence he carries seem to be etched into the planes of his face. A light stubble shadows his angular, defined jaw. Just as I had imagined, the bridge of his nose is straight and strong. His high cheekbones, deep-set eyes and smudged black paint create deep shadows. His mouth is wide. The shape of them is a physical manifestation of what I had imagined. With an average fullness, his upper lip is slightly smaller with a soft cupid’s bow. Tracing the angles of his right cheekbone is that straight, silver scar. His hair isn’t as short as most other military men’s. It’s a little messy from the mask and, true to his words, a few shades lighter than mine. I can tell that, the longer it gets, the more it curls.

I stay silent as I take him in, eyes wide. Somehow I find the courage to slowly reach out. His blue-grey eyes dart to my hesitant fingers. When he doesn’t deny me, I close the space, this time feeling him without needing to imagine his image. I apply a little pressure as I brush his skin, feeling the warmth of his cheeks, the scar tissue on his cheekbone, and the stubble on his jaw. His eyes train on me. This is one of the few times I cannot understand what I see in them.

Whatever he’s thinking, it doesn’t matter. All that matters is that I stare back at Simon. Not Ghost, Simon.

“I was starting to think you weren’t real,” I say jokingly.

He laughs softly. One side of his mouth quirks up into a skewed smirk. My heart flutters at the sight of it. When he speaks, it’s with that teasing tone that always had me imagining a smirk. Matching his expressions to his tones is a strange thing to see, but I love it.

“Is this real enough for you?” he asks.

I hum in agreement. “You’re a lot better looking than I imagined.”

He raises a brow in mock offence. “Do I radiate unattractiveness? I’m offended.”

“I never said I imagined you ugly.”

I draw my hands back, taking another good look at him. My amazed smile remains. So does the awe in my eyes. Now that I know how good-looking he is, it’s going to be hard to get him out of my head. At least I can’t scold myself over falling for a faceless man anymore.

“I guess if I die tonight… I can go a little happier.”

The way he tilts his head and looks up through lowered brows sends my mind into a frenzy. I’m used to the action with his mask on, usually with the sewn-on skull. Now, with every part of his face laid bare for me, the feeling it stirs comes tenfold. He gives me a fake accusing look. Beneath the teasing air he gives off, that desire remains.

“A little?” he murmurs. His face grows closer, giving me a better view of the hollows and curves and marks of war.

“A little not enough?”

His eyes dip to my lips. “Not by a longshot.”

Then Simon kisses me.

Eyes fluttering closed, I sink into the feeling of his lips against mine. Gently. Hesitantly. Does he expect me to pull away? How could he think such a thing when I almost seemed desperate when I asked him? My hands slide over his chest, slowly linking behind his neck as the kiss deepens.

For a moment, everything fades away. The gunfire, the screams, the impending death we may face any moment... All of it reduces to a meaningless blur. Suddenly all that exists is me, Simon, and the secret embrace we share. In our kiss is a million unspoken words; a tidal wave of passion laced with a bittersweet sadness. The talk of ‘dying happy’ is no exaggeration. We very well may die, and seeing his face and feeling his touch eases the painful thought. Maybe this way I can find him in the afterlife - seek out his mysterious eyes and lopsided smirk and spend an eternity together. Or perhaps there is no afterlife, and this is my last stroke of luck.

Satisfied with the knowledge of what he does to me, Simon lowers his hand from my neck. The pressure reapplies near my belt. His fingers timidly skim the bottom of my tanktop, pulling the tucked part from my waistband. My own fingers weave through his brown hair as his hand slides further beneath. My kiss falters when he finds one of my breasts. His hand comfortably rests over it, his palm slowly kneading at the flesh. A low groan builds at the back of my throat.

After a moment, we pull away, chests rising and falling as we take deep breaths. His forehead rests against mine and suddenly I'm wishing we could do this over again. Except I picture less sadness to tinge every word and action. I picture the safety of home, the warmth of a bed, a carefree air that allows us to just enjoy the other's company. Reality comes back in a painful rush.

“I don’t want to die,” I whisper.

His hand retreats from my breast at my words. Instead, he takes a hold of my waist, giving me a comforting squeeze.

“You are not going to die. Not today. Not when there’s so much more I want from you.” He adds the last part with a teasing, suggestive smirk.

He looks down at my lips again—

“Ghost, how do you copy?”

We both freeze at the sound of a voice, so caught up in the moment that the radio is forgotten. Both the unspeakable things and sorrowful thoughts flooding my mind suddenly vanish at the sound of a familiar voice. There’s an equally received look on Simon’s face as he reaches for the small radio.

“I read you loud and clear, Sergeant,” he says. “What’s your location?”

“I…don’t know,” John replies solemnly. “Streets are crawling with Shadows. Where are you?”

“You see church spires above the houses?”

There’s a second of silence. Then…

“I see them.”

“Good. Head straight there and come inside. No Shadows here yet. They’ll be busy going door to door.”

“Affirmative. I’m on my way. Have you got any word from Y/N?”

Simon looks at me, silently giving me the floor to speak. “I’m right here, Johnny.”

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end. “Oh, thank fuck. You in one piece?”

“I’m all here. You?”

“Got a shot to the shoulder. Nothing I can’t handle.”

For the next while, Simon and I sit huddled side by side, guiding Johnny through the radio. I generally leave the talking to Simon. Listening to him speak and sinking into his warmth is good enough. Every so often, he'll say something that takes me by surprise. Sometimes it's a dad joke, either really good or incredibly bad. Sometimes it's something that alludes to Simon not minding Johnny. He never outright admits it, but saying 'I like you alive' to Johnny's 'so you do like me' speaks for itself. I smile at that. I have sunk my claws into him, and he's not going to be able to get rid of me till the day I die.

#call of duty #call of duty modern warfare 2 #modern warfare 2 #modern warfare ii #mw2 #mwii #ghost #simon riley #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon riley x y/n

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storytowrite · 2 months ago

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|You will always be mine ~ Lee Minho series|

PART 2

Paring: Minho x Y/N

Genre: smut, angst, university au

Word count: 942

Warnings: sex, 18+, Minho is a psycho, dom!Minho, sub!reader, abuse, slight BDSM, kidnapping, violence, age gap, Minho is an university professor, Y/N can be hurt physically (and mentally too I guess).

Synopsis: Who knew that accidental fuck in the club bathroom with a handsome man will bring you to a lot of unexpected events.

Author's note: I kept this series for a really long time not sure if I want to post it or not, but I decided to do it anyway, so I hope you'll like it.

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Monday. The beginning of the week, the end of the weekend and the end of freedom. It was a sunny day. You woke up in the morning, the sun's rays streaming through the slightly tattered blinds. You had meant to fix them a long time ago, but you could never find the time. Your parents always told you to take care of such things right away because it would only get harder to gather the motivation later, but who listens to what parents say?

You got out of bed and stretched. Time to get ready for classes. You thought. You took off the oversized shirt you used as pajamas and put on a black lingerie set. Standing in front of the mirror, you admired how the bra emphasized your breasts. You examined your reflection. The love bites left by the guy from the Saturday party had almost disappeared; apparently, he hadn't bitten you as hard as you initially thought.

You put on a black top and dark jeans. You tied your brown hair into a high ponytail and applied light makeup. Then, grabbed your bag and left the apartment. Ever since you started university, you lived on your own. Your parents had a house on the outskirts of the city, and you didn't see them very often.

On your way to the university, you stopped by a café, where, as always, bought coffee and a croissant. Sipping your fresh latte, you entered the university campus. Soon, your classes were about to begin. You headed towards the lecture hall, lost in your thoughts.

"Y/N!" Suddenly you heard a familiar voice from the end of the corridor.

"Oh, hi Woo, so you did manage to transfer after all." You smiled at your friend. "You didn't mention on Saturday that you were starting your classes here today."

"Yeah, I know..." The guy gave you a genuine smile. "I didn't want to brag until I was sure it would work out. Do you happen to know where room 214 is? This place is like a maze."

"Mhm... it's right above us, on the floor next to the men's bathroom" You replied and took a sip of your coffee.

"Oh, great! Thanks!" He grinned at you. "I'm off to class. See you later, Y/N!" He said cheerfully and walked away, leaving you alone.

You just sighed and headed to the lecture room, sipping your coffee along the way. You were almost about to enter the classroom when someone bumped into you, spilling coffee on your blouse.

"Hey! Watch where you're going!" You snapped.

"Because it's my fault, right?" You heard in response and rolled your eyes.

"Can't you walk properly, Lisa?" You asked sharply, taking out tissues from your bag.

"It's not my fault you're blocking the way!" Lisa replied, tossing her hair and strutting toward her desk like a model.

You rolled your eyes. Lisa used to be your friend, but now she was your biggest enemy at the university and beyond. The two of you stopped getting along in sixth grade when Lisa accused you of stealing. Since then, Lisa took every opportunity to make your life miserable. Unfortunately, fate brought the both of you to the same major at the university.

With a quiet sigh, you took your usual spot by the wall, in the third row from the end, where you could easily do everything except take notes. You hated art history lectures. They bored you, and on top of that, the lecturer was old and spoke too slowly to focus.

You glanced at your watch. Strange. You thought. The lecture should have started a long time ago. You looked around the room. Other students also seemed to wonder where the professor was. He usually arrived five minutes early, and now ten minutes had passed since the lecture should have begun, and he still hadn't shown up. Some students started packing up and preparing to leave. Some were already standing up, when suddenly the door opened, and a quite short man entered the room, who was by no means their lecturer.

"Dear students, the class hasn't ended yet. Please take your seats." He spoke up and placed his folder on the desk before leaning against it. He casually rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt, with the top two buttons undone. He looked much younger than their usual lecturer, and he was much more handsome. "My name is Lee Minho. You can call me Mr. Lee." He introduced himself. "I'll be substituting for Mr. Kang until the end of the year as he has some personal reasons preventing him from continuing to teach this subject." He informed the students. "At the end of the class, please sign your names on this list." He added, placing a white sheet of paper on the desk. "Shall we begin?" He asked, looking around the room.

You observed the man closely. His black pants perfectly accentuated his muscular thighs. The white shirt tucked into his lower garment gently hugged his torso. His dark hair was slightly tousled by the wind. He wore glasses, which added some seriousness to his appearance. He looked intimidating, yet his voice was gentle. You recognized that voice… Your eyes met. You stared into his dark brown eyes and froze. It was the same man with whom you had sex in the club's restroom a few days ago. Shock painted across your face.

"What the fu..." you covered her mouth before you could utter the last word. You knew that if anyone found out about what had happened between you and the lecturer on Saturday, you would be in trouble.

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<- Part 1 | Part 3 ->

-> Series Masterlist

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Taglist: @yaorzu-blog, @iovecb97, @hpnsfwaddict

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weirdworldofwinnie · 1 year ago

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Heat of the Moment - One Night Passion

Cillian Murphy as J. Robert Oppenheimer x Female Reader NSFW 18+ only, One shot

Summary: You, a young psychology student and friend of Jean Tatlock, drink a little too much at a Communist gathering and find yourself falling for the esteemed Dr. Oppenheimer himself.

Word Count: 3,830

Warnings: Age gap, Cheating, Drunkenness, Loss of virginity, Unprotected sex, Smut with little plot

Disclaimer: this is ONLY intended to be based on Cillian Murphy's portrayal of Oppenheimer in the film and takes place before he marries Kitty, moves to Los Alamos, and the development of the Trinity Test bomb. NOT historically or scientifically accurate and not supposed to be in support of the real man's life actions at all. DNI if you are uncomfortable or take issue with this. It is purely for entertainment purposes, and it is fantasy/fiction!

The party was brimming with people, many being prominent due-payers of the Communist party and you met your friend Jean's eye across the room through the warm glow and haze of cigarettes. She was standing with a few men and one woman as you approached, noticing one well dressed man in particular who had his back to you and you felt your heart involuntarily stutter when he turned, his wide strikingly blue eyes on you intensely. You swallowed and then Jean introduced you and he simply nodded with an amicable smile before turning back to the others in their discussion huddle. You were at bit surprised at his dismissiveness, but didn't take it too personally as you drifted over to get a drink from the bar area. Holding a full cocktail glass, you casually observed the room, noticing at once how Dr. Oppenheimer had one of those magnetic personalities, as long as you were an intellectual (although he was a good enough speaker that he could capture the attention of the common man and likely even someone who knew absolutely nothing about physics), yet at the same time he tended to eclipse everyone else around him. They all seemed to orbit around him in a fashion and the longer the night drew on, you too found yourself drawn to his quiet charisma and you now were seeing what Jean saw in him. After an hour of drinking and mingling around in various conversations, you mustered up the nerve to approach his ring again and stood next to your friend with only a couple other people you didn't know chatting to him about his teaching at Berkeley. He glanced at you, his eyes lighting with more interest than the initial impression.

"Hello again, Miss Y/N. Excuse me," he told the others and moved, breaking their circle to focus on you alone.

"Would you like a drink?" he asked politely but without waiting for an answer, he went to personally make a martini himself and then pour it into a crystal glass, topping it with a slice of lime. You were empty handed at the moment, but neglected to tell him you'd already had two glasses of alcohol already. He gave the filled glass to you, his fingers brushing your wrist as he did and you thanked him as he leaned against the counter with his own drink that almost mirrored yours.

"It's my preferential recipe. Do you like it?" he asked curiously as you drank and decided it tasted a bit bitter and tangy, so you just raised your eyebrows and smiled assuredly with what you thought was a convincing nod, however, he must have seen otherwise.

"Too bitter, isn't it? I'm working on it; it would probably be better off with a dash of honey." He raised his glass and suddenly swapped it with yours, taking a sip and giving a satisfied expression.

"Hmm, right. I'll remedy it and I do apologize, I was actually just testing you there for your opinion. I'll have this one, you enjoy mine instead."

Unsure of whether you should be flattered or not, you drank his original and it was more appeasing of your sweet tooth, and then he proceeded to ask you about what you were currently studying and how long you knew Jean.

You gave him simple answers at first, feeling a bit shy and guarded compared to the spotlight he projected. He was far from being a loud, obnoxious man but he wasn't timid in the slightest when it came knowledge and he gave off an air of aloofness and professionalism that slowly broke the more you opened up about psychology and politics while making it clear to him you considered yourself a somewhat free spirit trying to make your way in a predominantly male run world. It was refreshing to you that he actually sincerely listened and wasn't too condescending like other men you had encountered in the field.

"Interesting. Have you considered applying that to a career for the future, I assume you are aiming for a psychology degree? Or is it a base point to advance you into becoming a psychiatrist? I'm sure you would be able use medicine in addition to your Freudian theories to mitigate such deep mental issues."

"Well, to tell you the truth, I'm only my second year in for psychology and I doubt my father will pay for addition schooling on top of that, but theoretically yes, I would love to. It's my passion and I have a prudent desire to assist others, not just study them under a detached microscopic lens, so to speak. I want to help people understand who they are and I myself want to understand why their brains work the way that they do. And if some disorders could be cured with certain drugs when all else fails, I would consider that a great accomplishment for humanitarian progress."

"That certainly is a valuable asset, to understand one's self, and especially in this rapidly complicated changing world and the more we have a stronger grasp of the human mind, the better off we will be I suppose. But remember, to know is to do. Theory will only take you so far."

You nodded, soaking that in and taking an ample sip from the drink, which was spurring you on in confidence, so you began to ramble on about the damaging psychological impacts of war before jumping to the effects of practical versus ideological Communism on modern society... at least until a young man interrupted, joining the two of you for a while and you let Oppenheimer divert his attention to him instead as they delved into more physics, which you honestly only had a basic understanding of. You drained down the rest of the martini, refilling it with a simple gin instead to sip more than you should and you definitely were feeling tipsy as the evening wore on to a close, hovering by Oppenheimer's side constantly and perhaps even unconsciously flirting while ignoring Jean's stares from several feet away. He wasn't paying attention at the moment, so you turned to set down your empty glass, but stumbled into a stool on the way. You spun around, feeling Dr. Oppenheimer place a hand on your shoulder, steadying you.

"Perhaps you should retire for the night," he advised softly, close to your ear.

"No… I'm fine," you insisted, the heat rising to your cheeks as he took your shaky hand and you caught Jean giving you one last glare before she disappeared into a murky corner of the room. You looked back to him staring at you concernedly and you blinked as he spoke quietly.

"There, now where are you staying? Surely it can't be far, I'll take you home."

"N-No, my apartment's the next town over and you don't have to, I-I think I'll be okay..." you stammered absurdly and wavered on your feet, not the least bit sober. He changed direction, pivoting to catch you under your arms, and propping you up straighter.

"I believe there is a spare bedroom upstairs, I'll take you to it." Without another word, he led you out of the room and tottering up creaky stairs that led to an upper floor. A few doors down, he took you into an empty small stuffy room with a single queen bed. As you collapsed onto it, sighing deeply after a hiccup, he brushed aside the beige curtains and opened the window, letting the cool night air flicker through.

"Stay here, I'll be right back with some water," he said and exited for a few minutes, coming back shortly with two glasses of water in his hands, one for himself that he took a careful gulp from and you found yourself wondering if his mouth was dry or if he could be nervous. You accepted your cold glass and drank, washing down the strong mix of cocktails and gin taste from your tongue.

"A bit better?" he asked kindly, getting a nod in return as he took the glass from you and set it down on the bedside table next to his own. You watched as he stepped over and stood in front of the window, rustling the curtains. He stayed still there for a while in a pondering pose, smoking and staring out at the street below, presumably lost in thought as he often was. You made a sort of groaning noise and he turned, hand on his hip with a raise of his eyebrows.

"Are you going to be sick? Should I call for someone?"

"No!" you gasped, sitting up with a swirl of the room as he strode over to the door. You did not need your parents to find out about this, especially your father.

"Wait - Please don't leave," you begged and he hesitantly came over, abandoning his cigarette in the ash tray on the nightstand next to the glasses of water and sitting down, getting a good look at your bloodshot eyes and tousled hair, a few strands obscuring your vision. He gently took his hand and wiped the hairs off to the side of your face, his touch on your flushed cheek sending shivers up your spine. He leaned back, putting his hands on his knees and you let out a shaky breath, trying to reorient.

"Have you ever drank before?" he inquired knowingly and you laughed weakly.

"Of course I have."

"I'm afraid that you overdid it this time or otherwise you must have a low tolerance. I only offered you one drink after all." He held up his right hand, splaying his fingers apart.

"How many do you see?" he asked seriously and you only giggled, pushing his hand down.

"Five, maybe six? I feel finnee."

He shook his head, maybe amused, and you had the impulse to climb onto his lap, so you began to slide over, swinging your legs and scooting halfway onto his lap, making him blink in surprise and gasp slightly.

"What are you…?"

You shushed him and wrapped your arms seductively around his neck, resting your head on his shoulder with your ruby lips inches from his neck. He put his hand on your back uneasily and you whispered in his ear.

"Could you carry me to the bathroom?"

"I can't - What? Why?"

"I might be sick."

He pushed away, letting you slip off his slender body and sitting back onto the sheets with a light laugh.

"I think you should lie down again," he said firmly and you flumped your head onto the pillows, your face burning as he stood up, moving around to tug your feet out of your heels and then his hand caught, wrapping his fingers around your ankle and sending a sensation up your legs. You tilted forward, reading his oddly grim expression.

"What is it?"

"I should leave," he murmured, tossing the shoes to the floor and removing his hand reluctantly.

"You don't have to," you told him earnestly, struggling to grasp for him as he stayed at the end of the bed.

"You aren't in a normal state of mind, I'm afraid."

"Are you?"

"Not as much as I should be," he admitted with a sigh, knowing it would be inappropriate to sleep with Jean's friend that he had just met and it was unknown if you had a boyfriend or not.

"Well, I doon't caaare…" you slurred out and he went to sit on the bed next to you as you shifted, sitting up with your elbows. Dr. Oppenheimer gazed fondly and then you both began to instinctively lean into each other, his nose meeting yours and he tilted his head, giving you the incentive to lock lips and slide your tongue into his mouth, letting him reciprocate slowly until both parties pulled away, you panting excitedly.

This seemed to cause a chain reaction that had him scooting over closely so he was fully on the bed, loping his arms around at your back and you tugged at his black tie, wrestling with undoing it as he let go of you to shrug off his suit jacket and discard it, his breathing quickening. He slipped off his shoes and socks, dropping them over the bed with a clump before his fingers found the zipper on the back of your dress and he fumbled, forcing it down and letting it pool off your body to the sheets, running a hand over your bare skin. Pausing slightly with his hands nearing to unfastening your bra, he murmured urgently.

"Don't tell Jean about this."

"But she's my friend," you protested loudly and he put a finger to your lips with a 'shh' that made your heart palpitate.

"I don't want her to find out the hard way."

"She… She'll figure it out, right?"

"She may, but I don't want it to come from you. This is all my doing, I'll take the responsibility for my own actions, do you understand?"

"Oh yes, I do Mister J. Robert 'Oppie' Oppenheimer… What's the J stand for anyway?"

"Nothing important," he replied shortly and you reached to feel his bottom lip, smiling in curiosity.

"C'mon, tell me. Is it John, James, Joe...?"

He shook his head, closing his eyes and you laughed, tracing his defined cheekbones with your fingers.

"It's Julius," he admitted almost sheepishly and you cocked your head, cupping his chin.

"As in Julius Caesar?"

He wet his lips, the corners of his mouth twitching in annoyed amusement.

"Et tu, Miss Y/N?" He paused for a fraction of a second with a light sigh.

"Just call me Robert," he then told you and leaned in to kiss you again, caressing the sides of your face as he did so and you eagerly wound your tongue with his, passionately pressing into his face. He smelled heady; smoky and of aftershave mixed with some brand of cologne, not overpowering but enough to be noticed and mildly sting your nostrils when you went to mouth his neck.

He moved to hover over you, hands grazing your nearly naked body. You let him take the bra and he flung it over his shoulder to the floor and all that was left was your panties. You unbuttoned his light blue dress shirt and opened it up, stroking the light hairs on his chest as he fingered your panties, the last barrier to whatever was going to come into effect. Robert ran a single finger up along your abdomen and past to one of your breasts, circling the nipple and it hardened substantially at the stimulation, which he transferred over to the other one, teasingly fingering back and forth before he sank his face into your chest, his tongue trailing where his fingers had been and you whined, letting the budding arousal take you higher. Then he retracted his mouth, moving back and going to himself, unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants, popping them open to reveal boxers concealing his burgeoning, bulging cock with tightening testicles. He wriggled out of his pants, kicking them away to hang off the side of the bed and he leaned over, coming to hover on top of you and you felt the pressing of the underwear fabric hiding his growing penis, and you felt inclined to slide your hands down to grope it, fingers yanking at the band around his waist.

"Go ahead, take it," he encouraged and you pulled the boxers down, seeing he was already dripping with precum and your breath came in pants, anxious to feel him, but the rational part of your alcohol tainted brain was reminding you that you'd never taken it this far with a man before. He shifted, supporting himself by pressing his palms to the cream colored plump pillow behind your head and immediately settling over to align. You felt him trying to enter, your clitoris throbbing with anticipation, but he wasn't successful at first of getting in.

"God, you are too tight," he muttered and you froze, staring up at him as Robert now realized the exact nature of you.

"First time ever?" he asked with trepidation and you nodded somewhat shamefully, embarrassed. It wasn't like you hadn't been with men before, but this was the first for it to get this far with full-on penetration. He closed his eyes for a second, controlling his patience for he wanted so desperately to come inside of you, but he had to ask.

"How old are you?"

"I - Is that important?"

"Just please tell me you're at least 21 and don't lie about it."

"Yes, I'm over 21."

"Alright. Well, there's a first time for everything. I'll go slower."

He shimmied down your naked body until his head was at your vagina and he put his hands up on your stomach, massaging vigorously into your skin, eliciting a tiny happy moan. You never felt this aroused around anyone before and just his hands on any part of your body was pleasurable, so you hoisted your hips up to meet his touch. But then he stopped abruptly, displaying two fingers and you squinted, body aching for more.

"How many I am holding up now?" he asked and a delirious giggle erupted from you.

"T-Two."

"Correct," he praised and promptly slid them up into your moist entry, causing you to cringe painfully and make a noise that made you clamp your own hand over your mouth, afraid the people downstairs might hear.

"How is that? Okay?" he asked in a hushed voice, anxious to go further and you just nodded, taking deep breaths.

You were now getting so wet and he started pumping his fingers in and out, eventually gaining traction with three in and you were whimpering and moaning, so close to orgasming when he pulled them all out and sat back on his haunches, his tongue flicking across his lips in a kind of hunger.

"Don't stop," you pleaded and Robert's eyes were dilated with desire as he came down, burrowing his head in-between your thighs, gripping your legs and kissing your pussy before lifting his head and looking at you squarely.

"Oh, I won't."

Without further ado, he repositioned himself over you and slowly pushed in, his cock breaking at your walls. You moaned, the pleasure outweighing the sharp pain and you clenched around his shaft, letting him penetrate as far as he could go into your core. Within moments, you let the orgasm ripple through you as he kept at it, coming to his own climax that wasn't going to be outside of you.

"Fuck, this feels good..." you breathed, rubbing your palms on Robert's short cut dark hair and he couldn't hold back any longer... exploding with his own euphoria, emitting a primal grunt that became a loud gasp. He pulled out wetly a few moments later, shuddering from the exertion and you reeled in what had just happened. You just had intercourse with this brilliant man… Oh God. And you didn't want it to stop; you weren't done yet.

You rolled over so you were on top of his body now and you carefully settled down so you were sitting on his upright swollen cock and the rubbing of it against your clit was making you close to orgasming for the second time.

"Stop," he gasped suddenly, trying to push you away.

"W-Why?"

"That's how she does it." He frowned, licking his lips and you didn't have to ask to know who he was talking about.

"Do you… like it?"

"Yes, of course, but-"

"Then I'm doing it, it feels good for me too," you told him with no arguments allowed and both of you began to rock back and forth, his still hardened dick pushing up against your vagina. He thrusted in again and you groaned, quivering.

"Oh, good girl," he whispered and you almost lost it at the tone of his slightly husky voice. You certainly never got that from the few men you'd courted briefly that had turned out to be too immature or pigheaded. This man actually felt like a real decent, more experienced man.

"Robert...!" you squealed, letting the boom of climaxing implode inside of you. You leaned back, letting him slide out and you gripped his slick dick mixed with fluids from both you and him, your nails very gently stroking it as he smiled, throwing his head back against the pillow in relaxation and pure joy.

You orgasmed a couple more times after that, each nearly as strong as the last which was new to you. What the hell was it about Robert that made your libido go off the charts?

Finally the two of you collapsed back together, staring up at the ceiling above in ecstasy. His chest was rising and falling in rhythm with yours and gradually your body cooled down, though your face still felt hot and a dull headache was coming on, but the night breeze from the window was making goosebumps pepper up on your skin.

"Cold?" Robert asked softly, noticing.

"Mm-hmm."

He sat up and grabbed his wrinkled boxers before deftly swinging a leg out of bed, getting up to the floor and yanking them back on. He also hastily snatched up his pants and slid back into them, not bothering to zip or buckle as he went over to the window and peered out once more at the street, then firmly shut it, closing the curtains securely and heading back over to the bed, lifting a corner of the sheets up and crawling in next to your bare body.

You scooted under the sheets and cuddled into his slim side, playfully fiddling with a button on his open shirt and letting him wrap an arm around you as you dozed off, listening to the faint ticking of his wristwatch, feeling utterly fucked out and exhausted. He fought his own fatigue, considering getting up and leaving you in case someone found the two of you up here, lest it be Jean, but you felt so cozy and close, he couldn't bear to disconnect and leave you alone for the night.

He wasn't entirely sure what would become of this drunken rendezvous encounter that you may not remember entirely, knowing very well it was likely he may never find himself loving you like this again. He loved Jean, he very much did, but he wondered if you would accept his flowers as easily as you had accepted his sex? Jean was most definitely a complicated, intelligent woman and he wasn't sure if you were in the same vein as her, but it wouldn't surprise him if you were. Was he drawn to any other type, really? Women were fascinating to explore, a close second to the hidden world of quantum physics.

Robert studied your pretty sleeping features in the dim lighting and then closed his eyes, letting the orange aura of the room drift the both of you away far off into nothingness…

(Thanks for reading and if you really liked this, please let me know! I'm rather new to Cillian Murphy and not well versed at all in writing one of his characters with smut, but there was just something I found so attractively compelling about him as Oppenheimer especially, so maybe this is a bit self-indulgent, but he's such a great actor that is also very sexy of course.❤️)

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mrs-kmikaelson · 1 year ago

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06| The Tribrid

Pairing: Klaus Mikaelson x daughter!reader Summary: While you busy yourself with making sure the deal with the witches runs smoothly, Klaus occupies himself by trying to figure you out. Warnings: none Words: 4.4K

Masterlist | Part 7

I walked into my house, throwing my keys on the side-table next to the door and shrugging off my jacket. I checked my watch: 2:01 PM, so Davina was still at school and wouldn't be back 'til she was done practicing with the witches.

I just got back from lunch with Elijah where we went over the Mikaelson's terms in more detail. Genevieve had sent a witch to the Abattoir earlier like a carrier pigeon with an outline of their requests.

Pretty dramatic, if you ask me, but she was like just resurrected. She probably doesn't know how to text yet, so whatever.

After Elijah and I talked over everything, I left, telling him I'd type up the contract myself. As an immortal with plenty of time on my hands, I've gone to law school and pursued numerous careers, as I'm sure Elijah probably had, too, so there was no need to hire (compel) someone else to write this contract for us.

I made my way to my room, passing Davina's on the way which was filled with boxes and a few things placed haphazardly on the ground. My room looked a little different: pretty plain, bed parallel to the door. Normal, basically.

I walked into my adjoining walk-in closet which was probably the most interesting thing about this room. At first glance, it looked mundane; there were some eye-catching statement pieces, but this closet otherwise just looked like a closet.

Unless you knew what to look for.

I closed the closet door for good measure and turned to the back wall, waving my hand and muttering, "Invisique saeclum." Instantly, the illusion of the wall disappear and another, smaller, more compact room was revealed.

It was lined with shelves, books stacked on top of each them. I walked closer, going to pick up the book closest to me. My grimoire. Like the rest of the books in this closet, it was dusty. I haven't needed to look for a spell in a long while.

I placed it down on the island in the middle of the room before turning to find the other book I needed. Under a few other books, I found what I was looking for: Amelia's grimoire.

I put it down next to mine, staring at both of them. Strong nostalgia came over me. I hadn't looked at her grimoire in long time, or even my own, for that matter. Both of them should have been worn down now after all these years, but a simple preservation spell kept them in pristine condition, looking just as they had when I was younger.

My lips quirked up as I ran my hand along their covers, memories flashing before my eyes of my childhood. But as quick as the happiness came, it disappeared with the thought of how that very childhood was stolen from me.

Enough with memory lane.

I switched my focus onto the purpose of even grabbing these books, opening my grimoire and flipping through it until I found the page I was looking for.

Illusion spells.

While I was very familiar with this type of spell, the one I wanted to perform was a little different. It was similar to the average cloaking spell, but I wanted a physical manifestation of an object: a decoy.

I wasn't stupid. I was never going to give Genevieve my aunt's grimoire. The only reason the witches wanted something so powerful was for leverage, and they weren't gonna get it. I knew all this last night, so instead of actually giving them Amelia's grimoire, I'd give them a copy.

But this copy had to feel real, tangible. Its energy needed to be able to be sensed in the same way it was with the real thing. They needed to feel like they could trust us, even if the Mikaelsons—or myself, for that matter—didn't trust them.

The thing with magic was that it worked through energy. Witches have their own special type of energy that enables them to perform spells. That's why you could practice magic without incantations; so long as the intent was there and it was strong enough, then your spell would work.

The reason why we often do use incantations is because words hold power. The history behind them holds enough energy to basically back the spell up. So, if you were using spells that weren't your own, then you would also want to use the chant because, without one, your own intent wouldn't be strong enough for the magic to pull through.

That's why I was going to change the incantations written down altogether.

At first, I was gonna exclude certain pages from Genevieve's copy completely, but then I realized that, without the powerful spells, she'd be less likely to trust us. So then I just change them so that they still made sense, but wouldn't work.

Without the written incantations that Bennetts had chanted in the past, these spells would be useless. If the words didn't hold any significance, then they were pointless.

Which was exactly my goal.

I hovered my left hand over Amelia's grimoire, hovering the other over blank space on the island. I closed my eyes and began, "Phantamogriphia decorum, appearatas veridical. Phantamogriphia decorum, appearatas veridical." After repeating this a few times, I felt the emergence of energy into the room and opened my eyes to see a book identical to Amelia's under my right hand.

I picked it up, flipping through it and stopping every once in a while to alter a spell, muttering incantations under my breath so the words on the page would appear as if they were Amelia's handwriting.

When I was done, I set it down on the island to compare it to Amelia's real grimoire. It was almost impossible to tell the difference unless you actually knew her. There was only a slight difference in the energy emitting from each book, but I knew this was fool-proof.

With a grin, I returned mine and Amelia's grimoires to their spots, bringing the cloak of the wall back. I grabbed the fake and stuffed it into my bag, tossing it onto a chair in my room. For now, I'd go type up the contract, then I'd walk over to the compound to give it to Elijah.

With that, I walked over to my office.

THIRD PERSON, THE NIGHT BEFORE

Klaus stood off to the side while his brother and his latest fixation spoke to the witches. He was silent; Elijah already warned him earlier not to cause a fuss, and the last thing he wanted was a fight with a Elijah. He had enough to deal with, this agreement included.

This evening, however, was not something he wanted.

Klaus couldn't care less if the factions tore each other apart in the streets. All of this was Elijah's doing, and so Klaus was only there to oversee it. Truth be told, he wasn't even going to show until Elijah told him Y/N was going to be there.

That caught his interest.

He couldn't figure it out, but there was something about this girl that pulled him to her. She looked familiar; he just couldn't pinpoint where he knew her from.

It seemed that others found her just as fascinating. For some reason, she had the trust of the Quarter's residents, but she wasn't going to get Klaus' trust so easily.

There was something off about her, something far greater than familiarity. And he was going to figure it out.

No matter what.

His attention was drawn away from Y/N when Genevieve cut her off. The words that came out of her mouth had stunned him.

"Esther Mikaelson's grimoire. We want Esther Mikaelson's grimoire."

Elijah's request for peace this evening suddenly went over his head. He scowled, "Are you out of your mind?"

"Niklaus-"

"I am not giving you my mother's grimoire. After what you tried to do to my family, you expect me to hand over-"

"Niklaus." Klaus stopped, turning to look at Elijah. His jaw clenched when he saw the look on his brother's face. He calmed down slightly, glancing at Y/N, wondering how she was going to talk her way out of this one.

Even as he glowered at Genevieve, he couldn't help but feel smug. There was no way out of this, and the oh so special Y/N would fail.

Or so he thought.

Y/N declined her request, as he predicted. Genevieve went to pull out of the deal, as he predicted. What he didn't predict was what Y/N said next.

"I currently have a Bennett grimoire in my possession." His head snapped in her direction. His eyes met Elijah's who looked just as surprised as him. He glanced over at the witches who luckily didn't notice their reactions, too engulfed in shock of their own. "It's yours, so long as you accept."

The rest of the conversation became muffled to Klaus, as if he were underwater. He could tell she wasn't bluffing—that, or she was a really good liar. He suspected that both were true. So many thoughts ran through his head at once.

While he thought she must have won Elijah over with that save, this only deepened his own distrust in her. A Bennett's grimoire was extremely hard to come by. They were guarded as if they were the holy grail. If he, the Original Hybrid, wasn't able to get his hands on one, then how did a mere vampire acquire one?

And why was she giving it up like it was pocket change?

He tuned back into the conversation when all parties stood up, Y/N and Genevieve shaking hands and exchanging pleasantries that he didn't care for. As Elijah walked the witches out, Klaus didn't glance at Genevieve once, even though he felt like glaring at her whenever he saw her. Instead, his glare was directed to Y/N.

Their eyes locked, and Y/N only continued to surprise him by staring right back. She was confident, and assertive, and unfazed with every comment he threw her way. He kept trying to shake her, but she appeared to be rooted to her spot every time. This only annoyed him.

He was so focused that he didn't even notice when his brother walked back into the room. Elijah thanked her, making Y/N look away to respond. Klaus had an inkling that Elijah wouldn't bring up what just happened, so he had no choice but to be the one to do it.

"How do you have a Bennett grimoire in your possession?" He interrogated, suspicion audible in his voice. Elijah gave him a look that was ignored.

He watched Y/N's body language as she responded, looking for any signs of a lie. "I met one a few hundred years ago. She died after she was in the wrong place, wrong time, but she left that book to me."

She must take me for a fool, he thought. The nerve of her to think he'd believe that. "A Bennett witch left her grimoire with you, a vampire? Not with her family?" He enunciated each word slowly as if to emphasize his point.

A Bennett witch leaving something as valuable as her grimoire to a member of the species they hated was unheard of.

Y/N gave an excuse, saying the witch wasn't close with her family at the time, as if that made it any more believable. "And I was human at the time so, yes, she left it to me because she knew it could come of use one day."

She showed no indication that she was lying, and if her story was real, then her excuses were reasonable. Perhaps if the story were coming from someone else, he would've rolled over and believed it. But this was coming from Marcel's supposed 'best friend,' the woman who so happened to be there the night Hayley was almost attacked, who had his brother so interested in her that he forced him to allow Marcel back into the Quarter all for the sake of a deal. This was coming from the woman who reminded him so much of a ghost from his past.

So, no, Klaus did not believe her.

Elijah, on the other hand, didn't look as vexed. He cleared his throat and changed the subject, thanking her again. Y/N turned around, making plans for another meeting. She didn't look back at Klaus once, but he was staring at her until even after she walked out the gate.

Elijah sighing broke him out of his trance. "Must you be so difficult, Niklaus?"

Klaus rolled his eyes. "If you want to turn a blind eye to all of this, then by all means. But this woman is so obviously hiding something." He reached for his scotch, downing the rest of it in one go.

"Niklaus, please-"

He cut him off, "No, Elijah—you can't honestly be telling me that you don't see what I'm seeing. She acts as if she's guilty of something-"

"Innocent until proven guilty."

Klaus scoffed. Elijah's immediate impulse to see the best in everyone could very well one day be his downfall. For some reason, he was defending Y/N, even though they both knew the only reason they really brought her in was because he saw the same things Klaus did.

Klaus shook his head. "She's not who she says she is." This time, Elijah's response didn't come as quick. He only silently maintained his stare. Little did Klaus know, his brother had doubts of his own.

Elijah's response never came. He closed the book on the conversation completely. "Good night, Niklaus." Elijah walked way, patting Klaus' shoulder as he passed him before going up the stairs. The hybrid cursed him in his head. How could he be so stupid, he thought.

He knew you were hiding something.

And he would make it his personal job to figure out what it was.

FIRST PERSON, PRESENT

I closed my laptop, having just printed out the contract. With Marcel, contracts were never necessary; you would just trust the other person's word. But, in this new society, trust could not be guaranteed.

I sighed, checking the time. Davina should be home any minute now.

Right on cue, I heard a knock at the door. I furrowed my brows. Didn't I give her a key?

She must have left it her by accident. Not thinking anything of it, I got up, walking to the door absentmindedly. "Hey, Dav-" my words died down in my throat once I opened the door. Standing in front of me wasn't Davina.

It was Klaus.

He coyly smiled. "Hello, Y/N. May I come in?" For a quick second, I was stunned. I wasn't expecting this at all. How did he even know I lived here? I wondered before dismissing the thought. He's Klaus Mikaelson; of course, he knows where I live.

I quickly composed myself, reciprocating his smile, only hoping that mine didn't look as fake as his. I held the door open wider. "Of course." The act of Klaus stepping over the threshold into my home almost made me sick, but I didn't dare show it on my face.

"Lovely home you have here," he said, looking around, but I doubted he was just looking out curiosity, and that compliment felt nothing like a compliment to me. What the fuck is he doing here?

I thanked him, resisting the urge to cross my arms. I learned in the few psych classes I attended that it was a sign of discomfort. I instead tried to make myself less stiff, asking myself how a normal person would act in this situation and then trying to behave that way.

"Would you like something to drink? Water, tea, Brandy....?"

Klaus shook his head, declining. He still wasn't looking at me, continuing to stare at my house. He seemed to be searching for something, and I had an idea what it was.

Well, he wouldn't find it.

I skipped over the like five other questions I had, asking, "What brings you here?" I kept my voice light, even though he probably knew that I knew what he was doing. I was already gonna be heading over to the compound later where he would've seen me. He had no reason to be here other than to look for some sort of flaw.

Finally, Klaus looked over at me. "Elijah's currently preoccupied, so I told him I'd just come here and get what you were supposed to give to him." Bullshit. But I'd play this game. I've won far harder ones.

I reminded myself of the pact I made to myself when I left the compound yesterday, of everything I've endured over the course of my life. If I went through what I went through, then I could go through speaking to my father.

I faked nonchalance. "Right, the contract. I'll go get that right now." I went to my room, grabbing the stapled pages and Amelia's grimoire out of my bag, ignoring the fact that the hybrid could've done anything in the less than thirty seconds I left him alone. However, when I got back, he seemed to be in exact same spot, waiting patiently for my return.

"Here," I said, handing them to both to him. He hummed, flipping through the pages—though, I doubt he was reading anything, even though the contents of the folder I just gave him were only drafted in attempts to save his city.

But I didn't have to have known Klaus long to know that this wasn't about saving anything for him. Men like him didn't save; they destroyed, and my mother raised me well enough to make sure I never forgot that.

When he closed the folder, he looked at the grimoire with a serious stare. I would've been worried that he was trying to see past my glamour had I not been as strong as I was. Nobody could see past my illusions other than myself; it's always been that way, and it'll always be that way.

Instead, I could bet he was questioning its authenticity or even my authenticity. The white lie I gave the other night was convincing enough to get me out of the compound, but since Klaus was looking for any reason to support his distrust in me, he obviously still had reservations.

Before I could continue with my train of thought, Klaus looked up at me and abruptly questioned, "Where are you from?" My brows went up. Out of all the things he could've said, that was on my list of least expected.

But I wasn't expecting any of the other things that'd happened in my life since I returned to New Orleans, either.

My first instinct was to respond, why do you ask? but that felt defensive and that was the last thing I wanted to come off as to my father. I told him what I told most people who asked. "A little bit of everywhere, I suppose." I shrugged for effect. "I was travelling at a young age due to conflicts around my family, so I was all over Europe as a child."

The suspicion Klaus so eagerly showed me the other night was tucked away. Instead, he only hummed again, but clearly he didn't believe me; otherwise, he would've left it alone, but I could never be so lucky.

"And how old are you? If you don't mind my asking," he added, as if he cared about whether not I minded.

I didn't hesitate. "About five hundred years old, give or take."

He hummed in response, adding to my irritation, but I was much better at hiding what I was thinking than he was. Not that he was trying. "Well, I suppose I should've assumed so since the Bennett witches had fled to America around that time period." He stared me dead in the eye, a smug smile on his face but a much more serious look in his eyes.

He was pretty close to me, close enough that I could see his eyes—and I mean really see them. They were blue with twinges of green and brown that I hadn't seen from far away before. And even though almost nothing scared the crap out of me more than the fact that his eyes looked like mine, I stared right back like I had no fears at all.

"Yeah, that's true," I agreed, but I didn't offer anything further. The only other things I could've added to this conversation to convince him I wasn't lying were facts from my personal life and that was information I wouldn't soon give up.

I didn't know how well Klaus knew my mother before they conceived me, if he knew her best friend's name or even her own, for that matter. So there were some details I just had to keep to myself; revealing certain things may have had the ability to help me, but they could also hurt me just as easily.

That was a risk I wasn't going to take.

Klaus just kept staring at me, and I almost thought he'd never look away until the door opened. We both turned to see Davina in the doorway, keys in her hand.

Her mouth fell open slightly, eyes darting between me and the Original in our living room. Said Original broke the silence. "Ah, if it isn't the little witch."

I watched Davina swallow but still manage to glare at him. "Klaus."

Klaus held his hands up in surrender, that same "friendly" smile on his face that was anything but. "Relax, love. I come in peace." He then looked back over at me. "I was just leaving." With that, he walked toward the door. Back still turned to me, he uttered a thank you for what I gave him and wished us a wonderful night, patting Davina on the shoulder on his way out.

The teenager barely waited until Klaus was out the door to close it, looking over at me with incredulous eyes. Just as her mouth was about to open, I brought my finger to my lips, silently shushing her and pointing to my ear.

She got the message, exasperatedly sighing and running a hand through her hair while I used my hearing to listen to Klaus walk away. Once I could no longer hear his footsteps, I let my finger fall. Davina instantly let her questions loose.

"What the hell was he doing here? Why'd you let him in- no, how did he get in? What was that stuff he walked out with and why did that book look like a grimoire? Oh my God, does he know that you're a-"

I cut her off, "Davina. Slow down and I'll explain." At my interruption she paused, taking a breath. I couldn't help but be amused at her worry, even though the Devil himself had just been standing in my living room.

Once she was calm, I elaborated, summarizing the deal I'd made with Elijah and then the deal we'd just made with the witches. Although I trusted Davina, I gave her the same story I gave Klaus when it came to the grimoire. There were some things just better kept secret and, for now, Amelia Bennett and my family fell under that category.

After I'd explained everything, Davina nodded to herself, soaking it all in, muttering under her breath, "That must've been what everyone was talking about today, a deal with the Mikaelsons." She pursed her lips. "Yeah, I heard Genevieve and some others whispering something about a Bennett witch, so it must've been that."

I nodded. "Yeah, and as for Klaus being here, I let him in myself. Don't worry; the protections are fine." She finally seemed to calm down after that.

"Okay, I guess I'll just go do my homework now or something. See you, Y/N/N." I ruffled her hair as she walked past me, getting a faux angry pout that didn't last long before a smile started to form on her lips. Like her happiness was contagious, the corners of my lips upturned, too.

It was good to see her happy, busying herself with things like homework. That's what teens should be doing, not hiding away in attics, isolated from humanity. Death shouldn't have even crossed her mind but I knew that, living in the world we lived in, that wasn't an option.

In spite of that, I would do my best to preserve her childhood for as long as I could. There was no one there to do that for me, and I'd be damned if I would just stand by and watch as hers was stolen from her.

Davina meant too much to me to allow that to happen, but even so, there were still things about me that she didn't know. There were things about me that no one knew, no matter how close to me they'd gotten.

No one knew I was Klaus' daughter, no one but Amelia, my mother, and the person who killed her.

At that thought, my mood became sour, but instead of drowning in my own self-pity, I blocked the thoughts completely. I couldn't afford to be in New Orleans with Klaus Mikaelson watching my every move and to also think about that part of my past.

So I pulled out my phone and dialled until Cellie's voice filled my ear, "Hey, what's up?"

"Hey, let's go out. We can hit up that new club downtown. And call Cami up, too; we can all go and just have fun."

"Not that I oppose this in anyway, but what brought up this spontaneousness?"

"Nothing," I lied. "I just want to have a night-out on the town. C'mon, Marcel; don't be boring."

He gave in, "Alright, alright, fine. I'll call Cami."

I grinned. "Great; meet at my place." Before he could say anything else, I hung up on him. This was just the sort of thing I needed, to go out like everything was normal.

I rushed to go get ready, pushing all thoughts of Klaus and my past to the back of my mind. For one night, just one, I wanted to feel like myself again.

Ever since I got back to New Orleans, I've felt like this shell of myself. Around the Originals, I felt like little-kid-me. All of these memories and thoughts that I've worked to repress have just been resurfacing, and so, for one night, I just want to feel like myself again. That'll help me get it all together.

I was gonna go out tonight, not as a Mikaelson, but as a Y/L/N.

And after that, I was gonna bury Y/N Mikaelson for good.

Taglist: @scrynexxtins @thisnameistaken1234 @honestlycasualarcade @xlittlestarling @thatgirljas13

#klaus mikaelson x reader #klaus x daughter!reader #klaus mikealson fanfiction #klaus mikaelson #the originals #the mikaelsons #tvd #tvd fandom #tvdu #angst #davina claire #marcel gerard #imagines #tvd fanfic #tvd fanfiction #klaus mikaelson imagine #klaus mikaelson fanfic

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jocelynscrazyideas · 7 months ago

Note

I NEED MORE QUINN CONTENT

Hurts | Quinn Hughes x Reader🫶

NOT PROOD READ

🚨‼️none of my blurbs are ever proof read‼️🚨

Summary: Quinn gets defensive in his take of having kids, in order to be happy in a successful relationship, you feel that you need to have a partner that values having their own family. Quinn disagrees and decides to focus on his career, which you agreee and support, but you bring up having to split. Quinn makes a decision…

Warnings: physical contact, no abuse, argument if kids?

A:N- Ik you prob meant some smut, but I’m in a mood and I decided to write something else🫶 Quinn smut coming next after a Jack smut!

.　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

I told myself that I would stand up for myself, I would never let a man tell me what to do. I’m an independent woman, who occasionally lets herself have fun with her boyfriend. It’s difficult trying to fulfill your childhood dreams, but this isn’t a dream. This is a full on goal, I know I can keep up to it, it’s just Quinn makes me want to disrespect myself.

He literally screams out my name, he listens, he helps me understand things that I don’t get, he supports me, and most importantly, he gives me respect, and true loyalty and honesty, he fully trusts me. He would give me anything I want.

“Lovie?” Quinn breaks the silence from our previous argument. He places his hand on my inner thigh. I feel a pulse in my pelvis.

“Hm.” I responded, just letting him know I’m listening, but still upset about our disagreement. Early on in the morning, Wuinn and I disagreed about the love for our jobs and our future together. I wnat kids, he doesn’t. I know, I said he would give me anything that makes me happy. This is one thing he doesn’t agree upon.

Quinn had previously mentioned that kids isn’t in his future, just because he’s so focused on his career. Do I agree with his story? Yes. I understand where he’s coming from, but I’m truly curious when we can have babies.

“I know some people break up from not agreeing in a future family. But that’s not us.” Quinn stated.

I’m disappointed. I really am, I thought he would understand where I’m coming at.

“Well, just saying… when you get the handle of being Captain, maybe we could fit in having a child, or more.” I insist. I know it’s hard, you know being Captain, but after a few years of Captain.

I mean we’re at the perfect age to start considering kids. Mid-20s, that way when our kids are about 10, we’ll be 30, and when they’re 18… well we would be about early late 40s. I think it’s perfectly reasonable to wait a few years to have kids, especially Quinn story.

I’m staring out the window, I know it’s hard for Quinn to feel so left out of my thinking, but I’m truly horrified. I’m scared that this will split us apart. Maybe this is a sign from God. Maybe I’m getting signals by the universe, “this is what’s best for us.” Quinn says as he looks over at me.

Suddenly the trees look so beautiful. Maybe I should just jump out of this car, the ride home is taking to long.

We’re driving home from a party at Peteys house to kick off the season. Our first game is next week and the roster is finalized, the letters are printed on the jerseys. Everything is ready.

“We have to finish this.” Quinn says, not letting this go.

“fine.” I say making it clear I don’t want to finish this “debate” and this so called “problem” of mine. I pull out my phone and call Ellen.

“Hey Mama Bear!” I say, Ellen can’t know that Quinn and I are going through something. This “debate” isn’t just happening, it’s been brought up about four times.

“What’s up Y/n? Something wrong?” Ellen askes, she gets up from her kitchen table and walks into her bedroom, where Jim lays on his computer finishing some work.

She points the camera at them both and Quinn speaks up, “no mom. Nothings wrong, I’m not sure why Y/n keeps calling.” Quinn motions to put the phone down. I obviously don’t do as he says.

“Yes, actually. I’m just wondering-“ I imply, but Quinn cuts me off.

“No. Nothing is wrong.” And he takes my phone and turns off the video call. He chucks the phone in the back. He pulls into the driveway of our home.

“We can fix this ourselves.” Quin eyes my belly. He climbs over the panel that separates my seat and Quinn’s.

“no, I don’t think we can.” I say as I pull away from Quinn’s request to kiss me. I see the look in Quinn’s eyes as he sees my pain.

My voice cracks, I sure I can’t be with someone that doesn’t wnat the life Ive fancied since I was a girl.

“Lovie. Come back.” Quinn slams his car door, and he locks the vehicle. He storms behind me as I run into our bathroom.

“Unlock the door.” Quinn pounds not once but twice and his feet trail off to our garage.

“Unlock it before I wreck it.” Quinn says as he grunts as if he picked something heavy off the ground.

“I don’t want to have makeup sex, or talk about it. Just let me live, or let me think this through. Because Quinn, right now it sounds like you want me to give up my dreams of being a mom.” I know hate is a sin. I just- I’m not sure if I can even think about leaving my childhood goal behind.

“Okay. If that’s what you need, I’ll leave.” And I hear a crack and a boom from above me.

I look up from the ground and I see Quinn has stabbed the door with a hatchet. I didn’t even know we had that in our home.

I stand up from the ground and back up towards our shower. I hit our wall that’s parallel to our wood door.

“I love you.” Quinn says as I see the door bang. The door is about to give up. Quinn runs into the door once more and I see him fall to the ground with our door. I’m stuck inside our shower. Quinn is on the door that had fallen. The wind was knocked iut if him.

“Baby?” I say as I step carefully out of the bathroom and into our room. I grab a first aid kit.

Quinn is bleeding from his head.

“Why did you do it?” I say in a frantic tone. I pick Quinn’s head up and I clean his wound.

“I’m fine. And I want kids.” Quinn says as he smiles.

Quinn gets up and sticks a bandaid on his cut. He takes his pants off and followed by his boxers. He throws his shirt off. He’s bare skinned and he jumps into bed.

I do the same. I throw my shirt off, leaving my bra on, and I slide my jeans off. Taking my thong off and sliding it onto if Quinn’s pile of clothing, I snap my bralette off and I throw it elsewhere. I jump into bed as Quinn hold me. The lights are off, doors are locked. We’re exhausted.

Quinn holds me in his arms, legs wrapped over me. Dick pricked up looking at me. My boobs hang to the side as I’m laying on my side as well. Quinn pulls me in, kisses my shoulder, and he whispers a name.

“Vada.” Quinn kissed my forehead and sets his head in my breasts. He falls asleep, not a care in the world about our broken door that he had slammed down.

This argument is settled, we’re having kids.

#jocelynscrazyideas #hockey #nhl #umich hockey #quinn hughes #captain huggy #captain quinn #��🍇🍇#nhl fic #hockey blurb #quinn hughes x reader #emotional angst

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thatringboy · 6 months ago

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A Body Built for an Undeserving Soul, A Boothill Theory

My definitely sober thoughts while grinding for the eventual Ruan Mei rerun and writing some robinhill have led me to a startling train of thought. I’ll do my best to sound sane as I say this, but the 18 minute discord voice memo I originally made is definitely anything but. Spoilers for Boothill’s backstory, character stories, and other lore, and no I’m not really gonna be citing things because it’s 3 in the morning and I’m high. If at any point I say something that isn’t really supported by canon, please be nice i’m a little silly boy

Anyways

I don’t think Boothill is a Pathstrider.

Let me cook, please. Here’s my reasons why:

The way he talks about Aeons and Paths

The way his body is designed

And 3.

Enjoy the madness below the cut

So, there’s not really a proper way to word any of this without it being an ADHD word vomit. Bear with me. Please.

Penacony has been a fantastic update for those of us waiting for worldbuilding. We’ve learned a LOT about the many factions in the cosmos, the true nature of the IPC, the powers of the Aeons, and that the Paths are tangible things in the universe. The Luofu arc opened up a bit about this, but since it was so focused on The Hunt and The Abundance and The Permanence, we sort of fell back into the same story beats as the Herta Station arc. Either way, Penacony has been amazing for little lore bugs like me.

So what does this have to do with the wild claim that Boothill somehow isn’t a Pathstrider?

Let’s touch some grass for a minute and consider our places in the irl universe. Hi, I’m Perseus, a young transmasculine white adult guy from South Texas who grew up reading too many Rick Riordan books and now has a complicated relationship with both the christian god and the greek gods. It’s an autism special interest of mine to learn about the greek pantheon and while I don’t know everything about it, I’m a silly little guy and can recite fun facts about dozens of gods. I can also recite fun facts about the christian bible and christian mythology because I was forced to study christianity when I was younger. Nice to meet y’all. Now, when I, Perseus, talk to people about the various religions I know a thing or two about, I infodump. A lot. I think I once ranted about Dionysus for 20 minutes before my sister told me to shut up. It happens.

Now focus back in on the important topic: the fictional cyborg with jiggle physics. I’m working purely on memory, but I’m pretty sure when he first meets Dan Heng and Pom-Pom, he does go on a spiel about the Aeons and Paths as he tries to prove his identity as a Galaxy Ranger and Acheron’s identity as Not a Galaxy Ranger. The way he describes The Hunt, The Nihility, Emanators, and Paths, it all just sounded… i don’t know, canned? It came across as very emotionally disconnected, even as he talked about The Hunt, but he was saying all the right words. Like someone who studied a religion but isn’t actually a part of the religion.

On its own, this means absolutely nothing besides just reminding us of his home planet’s hostile takeover by Qlipoth-worshiping IPC workers. If you haven’t seen the post yet, I really recommend reading the So, Honkai: Star Rail made a cyborg cowboy... an INDIGENOUS cyborg cowboy. post by @ahworm I’ll link it here, please check it out because it recontextualized a lot of how I viewed Boothill’s actions and mannerisms

So the way Boothill talks about the Path he should be a Pathstrider of sounds more like an encyclopedia than a follower. Now, maybe this can be explained by the fact that Galaxy Rangers aren’t the most zealous bunch, especially when standing next to the Xianzhou Alliance who worship Lan as a deity more than The Hunt itself. The Galaxy rangers are the opposite, they are hunters first and last regardless of what Lan in THEIR “greatness” does.

But if Boothill is just a normal Galaxy ranger (whatever that means), then how does he recognize the Jade Abacus of Allying Oath instantaneously? Dan Heng’s barely put the damn thing on the table and Boothill’s already jaw on the floor amazed. One could make the argument that, well, Boothill’s a well-traveled guy, of course he’d know the most valuable artifact to his Path. To that, I say: there’s more to it.

Boothill’s main accusation against Acheron in the beginning is, what? “An Emanator that shouldn’t exist.” He talks about The Nihility and Device IX the same way he talks about The Hunt; learned and detached in an agnostic way. He’s aware these are real concepts and beings, he’s crossed paths with an Emanator of Elation before so he can’t deny the existence of literal gods in the universe

We also know that it’s canon in the star rail universe that there are planets who haven’t heard of the Aeons before, like Sigonia - Aventurine’s planet. Instead of Aeons, we know the Avgins worshiped the goddess Giathra Triclops. I’ve seen the argument that Giathra is just another name for Xipe since THEY have three faces, but Aventurine’s flashbacks are very clear in showing that the worship of Giathra was very different from the worship of Aeons. We don’t know much about Aeragan-Epharshel, but from how the IPC described the indigenous people as needing civilization and other disgusting things (not to mention how they forced a synesthesia beacon into boothill when he was maybe like a teenager? And then his brain nearly broke from the influx of information?), I think it’s safe to say that the tribes of Aeragan-Epharshel also didn’t follow any specific Aeon.

But Aventurine is now a Pathstrider of Preservation, so why can’t Boothill be a Hunter Pathstrider too? Well, dear reader, allow me to bash my head against the wall trying to form words. Aventurine doesn’t believe anything about the sovereignty of The Preservation, just like the rest of the Stonehearts. He has his agenda, and if he has to play Preservation to do so, then he will. I think Boothill is the same, which is also why I can’t wait to see what happens in the upcoming quests with the two of them in the same room. That being said, Aventurine’s Preservation powers only come from his Cornerstone, crafted by an Emanator of Preservation. It’s how he and Topaz and Jade can all be such different people but all be classified as Pathstriders of Preservation, the sheer proximity to an Emanator’s powers canonically give them powers equivalent to actual Pathstriders.

So… what about Boothil? This leads me into my next point: Boothill’s cyborg body. By looking at his Character Story Part 3, we learn that Boothill VOLUNTARILY became a cyborg to become stronger. He literally shed the skin and name from an ancient, dead tongue to become a real loaded gun. His voice lines in combat talk about death a lot, his name literally is in reference to a graveyard - this man cannot wait to finally die in some sort of blaze of glory and vengeance. I say that with a little bit of sarcasm, but Boothill designed his body to be a weapon.

In a lot of parts of the USA, it’s illegal to even insinuate that you have a firearm as that constitutes as the crime of “armed robbery”, even if you don’t even have a gun. The threat alone is enough to warrant a higher penalty. But Boothill is already a great shot with a gun, why does he also need augmented teeth and crosshair eyes and hips that can fold his body into any sinful shape he needs? Because the threat alone is enough to give him power over his prey. Almost as if he’s compensating for a lack of magic godly powers. He needs to be able to keep up with even the strongest IPC goons, to pierce their Preservation shields with his bullets so that he can get closer and closer to Oswaldo Schneider.

But how can I prove that Boothill doesn’t have any Path magic? Well, let’s take a spin around his character model. What’s that thing sitting snugly against his exposed asscheek? His pistol? But that’s not weird, Perseus, most cowboys hold their guns there!

But what other playable character has their weapon on their actual model like him?

There are so many in-game cutscenes showing that, canonically, the Pathstriders summon their weapon from some sort of unseen storage or hammerspace. I like the term hammerspace, let’s use that. The playable Pathstriders all use hammerspace to easily summon their weapons. None of them actually carry their weapons on their model. Even Welt Yang has scenes of him summoning his herrscher cane (I’ve never played hi3 please forgive me for using incorrect terms) from his hammerspace. But not Boothill. He has his arm gun and he has his trusty 9 millimeter pistol on his little slutty hip. His idle animations involve reloading his weapons and putting them back on his person. No particle effects, no vanishing tricks, just a man sticking his tongue out to catch a bullet for a snack.

So what have we learned?

Boothill doesn’t have an emotional connection to his Path, it most likely is just the Path he figured met his needs and decided the philosophy was good enough

Boothill’s body is designed to perform specifically to kill Pathstriders, especially sturdier Pathstriders of The Preservation

Boothill either can’t or won’t use the same hammerspace the other canonical Pathstriders use

Each point by themself means nothing, or can be chalked up to unique character designs. But together? My intoxicated mind theorizes that Boothill is not a Pathstrider, merely a broken man trying to play the game according to the rules of the oppressors that colonized his planet and bombed his tribe into reservations and the dirt. Thank you for your time.

#hsr #honaki star rail #boothill #hsr boothill #boothill hsr #hsr theory #honkai star rail theory #oh look miguel o'hara i hope that isn't a reference to anything in his and boothill's backstories

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kydrogendragon · 11 months ago

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Forehead Kisses

Requested by @introvertbibliophile!! This was a cute and wholesome one to write, so we'll end our day of Birthday Prompts with this!! Thank you and thank everyone for all the requests! It was fun to have something like this to work on and I can't wait to see how y'all enjoy them!

Relationship: Hob/Dream Words: 2233 Warnings: None Ao3 Link

The room inside was dark. The curtains were pulled over the windows, blocking out the sunlight. The only light within was from the bright screen of Morpheus's laptop. Hob leaned against the door frame, watching his husband kill his back from his gremlin seating posture. His legs are tucked underneath himself, his spine curved in a way he knows the chiropractor would have a hernia over. He glared down at the word document in front of him, his hand swiping across the keyboard in such speed that it hurt Hob's fingers just to look at.

He stood there, listening to the furious clacking of keys for a moment before making his way over to the desk. His sock-clad feet were silent over the hardwood floors as he approached. Morpheus hasn't even so much as twitched by the time Hob was standing just off to his side.

He wasn't surprised. Morpheus had a tendency to get invested in his work. When he was truly in the zone, he describe it and everything else fading away. He couldn't hear or see anything beyond the words on the page and the story unraveling in his head.

Hob turned, looking over at the once clean desk that housed Morpheus's work. He claimed that for planning, having physical papers to move and manipulate were better. It made the area much more cluttered, however. Beside stacks of papers, sticky notes, and sketches, dishes and mugs were scattered within. Hob shook his head gently and grabbed the dirty dishes, leaving the coffee cup from this morning (he still doesn't understand how his husband can tolerate cold coffee) and the water bottle covered in stickers from their travels.

It was only when Hob stretched his arm across the screen of his laptop to fetch the remaining glass that Morpheus finally looked up from his work. He blinked, eyes adjusting to the dark environment. "Hello, Hob," he says, that gentle smile on his face as he leans his head into Hob's soft belly.

Hob chuckles and leans down, pressing a kiss to the top of Morpheus's inky black hair. "Hullo, Love. Just grabbing dishes, don't mind me." He shuffles the glasses and dishes in his hold to make room for the extra mug. "Dinner's on. Should be ready in an hour. Sound good?"

Morpheus hums, pressing his nose into the soft cashmere sweater. "Sounds excellent. What are we having?" His voice is rough from disuse. Hob's not sure when he last heard his husband speak save early this morning. He had barely left his room today. The first draft of his next book was due soon and his husband, ever the perfectionist, was determined to get it right.

"Beef stroganoff and carrots. Figured that'd be a safe choice for you."

"It is. Thank you, husband mine. I will see you in the hour." Hob chuckles as Morpheus leans back into his usual writing position.

"Can't convince you to take a break early and join me in the kitchen in the meantime?" He asks, already knowing the answer.

To Morpheus's credit, his hands twitch and don't immediately start tapping again.

"I-" His husband starts, his eyes flickering between the screen and Hob's face. "Perhaps, once i finish this chapter, I could join you early. But..."

Hob waves away his concern with a smile. "Don't even sweat it, my love. Just focus on your writing. I'll see you for dinner." He presses one final kiss to the top of his head before heading out of his husband's office, closing the door behind him.

It's only after dinner has finished cooking and the tiny colony of dishes and mugs are cleaned (some soaking from the multiple day old coffee) that Hob knocks on the office door once more.

Morpheus hasn't moved in the hour, though the laptop has been tilted to the side and one of his notebooks rests off to the right. Clearly, he'd either been referencing something or he'd been adding to his never ending collection of notes. Hob walks up and rests his palms over each of Morpheus's shoulders and presses in. He kneads into the tense muscle and bony shoulders causing his husband to moan, his hands freezing in place. Hob chuckles to himself as he leans forward to press a kiss to his temple.

"Hey Dove, dinner's ready." He mumbles against the silk soft skin just below his hairline. Morpheus hums, leaning into his touch. His hands fall from the keyboard and into his lap. Hob smiles against his skin and continues his gentle massage, thumbs swiping up and down the back of his neck. His husband groans, pushing back against his touch. He'll have to set this man down for a proper massage soon. Maybe after dinner. He was far too tense after such long sprints of writing this last week.

They stay there, relaxing in the moment, when Hob sighs and gives Morpheus's shoulder a final pat. "Come on, let's get some food in you, yeah?"

With a resigned, Morpheus leans forward and slides out of his seat. Even from here, Hob can hear the cracking and creaking of his bones. Yup, definitely doing a massage after dinner. Maybe a nice hot bath too, if he can pull Morpheus away from work long enough.

Hob holds out his hand which his husband takes eagerly. With a smile, he leads the pair of them out of the dark office and into the comfortably dimmed dining room. He's learned over the years that when Morpheus goes through spurts like this and he's spend too long being a cave creature in his dungeon, the soft light is acceptable. Morpheus takes a seat and Hob leans down and presses a kiss to his forehead, then nose and cheeks which earns him a nose scrunch that he loves so much, and finally to his lips. Morpheus hums against him.

"Thank you for dinner, husband mine," Morpheus whispered against.

"Always, love."

Hob takes his seat and gazes lovingly over his water glass at the man he has the privilege of calling his.

#dreamling #hob gadling #dream of the endless #the sandman #ky writes #Kydrogen's Birthday Prompts

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bambisworlds · 2 months ago

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the freak and the new girl (2)

part one, part three

eddie munson is the freak of hawkins high. y/n is the new girl. like eleven, she was taken in by hopper after getting rescued from the lab. y/n has been in bad relationship after bad relationship since attending public school and was starting to give up on finding a healthy, loving relationship until eddie munson changed everything (1,821 word count).

content warnings, mdni 18+

f!reader, hopper!reader, bisexual!reader, telekinetic!reader, no physical reader description, reader grew up in the lab like eleven, reader can sing, slow burn, friends to lovers, fluff fluff fluff, underage drinking, billy is a dick and gets physical with reader (no hitting he just grabs her), protective!eddie, eddie gets in a physical fight, verrrry mild gore, jason carver and billy hargrove are readers exes, this follows the season 2 plot but the party are freshmen instead cause it makes things easier, eleven is in public school for the season 2 plot, let me know if i forgot anything x

After weeks of debating, I gathered the courage to show more of my songs to Eddie. But, this time fully recorded songs on a mixtape.

“Okay don’t make fun of me.” I start, standing beside Eddie at his locker.

“No promises.” he teases with his killer smile.

“I made a mixtape of my songs for you to listen to,” I say and he smiles wider.

“You made me a mixtape of your favorite songs?” he asks and I sigh.

“Well, no, they’re songs I wrote. Songs I sing.” I elaborate and his face lights up.

“Those are your songs on there?!” he grabs the mixtape out of my hand excitedly, “Fuck yeah I’ll listen to them, why didn’t say so in the first place?” he babbles and I roll my eyes.

“Here’s the tracklist.” I hand him a crumpled-up piece of paper. “Ten songs? Ten?!” he gapes at me excitedly.

“Well, actually, I have like 30-ish completed songs.”

“THIRTY COMPLETED SONGS?!” he shouts in the hallway and I shush him.

“It’s not that big of a deal.” I laugh nervously.

“Corroded Coffin has like… 15 songs. Not even,” he answers quietly.

“Well, you better get on that then.” I joke.

The next morning Eddie greeted me with not only my mixtape but one of his own. “This has some Corroded Coffin songs on it for you to fall in love with.” he gloats.

“Confident are we?” I smile and he lets out a chuckle.

“Actually not really I’m just trying to hype it up.” he says and pulls a piece of paper out of his back pocket “This is also for you.”

“What is it?” I ask, opening up the paper.

“All the things I liked about your songs,” he answers and I could literally feel myself swoon.

“Eddie… that’s so nice of you. Thank you.”

For the following week or so we swapped mixtapes nearly every day, wanting to show each other our favorite songs and artists. It was the most fun I’ve had in a long time. But, of course, a high always ends with a low.

“You and the freak, huh?” Billy asks me, standing far too close for comfort. I tried to dodge him, but he’s got me cornered at my locker.

“What’s it to you?” I ask, crossing my arms, “You dumped me for Heather. Not happy anymore? Did she bore you as I did?”

“When did you get such a smart mouth on you? Don’t know whether or not I should be thanking the freak.” he grits his teeth, trying to intimidate me. “You and Eddie ‘The Freak’ Munson… that’s not a good match. You should stay away from him.”

“Or… you should stay away from me.” I gave him a fake smile, trying to walk past him but he grabbed my wrist so tight it felt like it could bruise. I have never wanted to blow my cover and use my powers so badly.

“Stay away from him,” he demands lowly and I rip my wrist from his grasp. I briskly walked to my history class, my heart pounding in my chest. I didn’t even notice Eddie’s spot at his desk beside mine as I sat down. I could see movement to my left where he sat but all I could focus on was massaging my wrist. I snapped out of my daze when an orange flier was smacked on the table in front of me, making me jump.

“Wanna go?” Eddie asks with a smile, sucking his cheeks together to make a goofy face.

“To Tina’s party?” I asked him in disbelief, “Did you switch bodies with someone?” I chuckle.

“Maybe I did. Wanna check? I can start stripping.” he jokes, starting to unbutton his pants as I smack him with the paper.

“I’ll see. I might be on babysitting duty.” I complained.

“Fuck that! Ditch the rugrats and come party with me. It’ll be fun.” he droned on.

“I said I’ll see.”

Eddie picked me up that night to take me to the party after a 10-minute shake-down from Hopper. Eddie just laughed it off after bantering with him a bit. I think Hopper secretly liked him.

I went as Tinker Bell and Eddie went as Kirk Hammett from Metallica. The place was packed, filled with drunk teenagers. Eddie took my hand and led me into the house. He got us both drinks as I spotted Steve Harrington across the room.

“There’s someone I wanna go say hi to,” I yell over the music and Eddie nods. I expected him to wait by the punch but he followed after me like a puppy. “Hey.” I greeted Steve and Nancy.��

“Y/n! How are you? I haven’t seen you since…” she drawled out, Steve sending her a look. She was clearly wasted.

“Steve Harrington and Nancy Wheeler? That’s who you wanted to talk to?” Eddie mutters in my ear, leaning down so I can hear him.

I ignored him, “I’m good. I see you’re enjoying the punch.” I joke and Steve rolls his eyes.

“Maybe a little too much.” he sighs, taking the red cup out of her hand and she immediately starts to whine. Steve glanced behind me at Eddie who was lurking over my shoulder, “You’re here with Eddie?” Steve asked me in disbelief as if Eddie wasn’t there.

"Yeah, why?” I ask. Steve shrugged, making a face. “Anyway, I just wanted to say hi.” I spit out before practically running away from the awkward situation. Once again, Eddie followed me as I trailed across the house, “Oh I love this song!” I yelled out as a Madonna song started to play. For the majority of the song Eddie and I showed off our silly dance moves, enjoying the song. That was until the song came to an end and Eddie was shoved into me.

“What the fuck?” Eddie grunted out, wiping the punch he spilled on himself off his shirt.

“Oops? You get all dirty there Munson? You and my sloppy seconds?” Billy taunts from behind him. I glared at Billy, a face of stone.

“Will you please just leave me the fuck alone Billy!” I shouted at him.

“What’d I tell you?!” he shouted back at me, getting in my face. I looked at him with such hatred I was surprised his head didn’t combust right there. Eddie shoved Billy in the shoulder, getting some distance in between us.

“You heard her man, don’t ruin a perfectly good party.” Eddie tried to reason, motioning to the room around us.

“Aw look at that, Munsons defending his new toy. Hopefully, she’s more fun with you than she was with me. So fucking boring.” Billy retorts.

“Shut up man.” Eddie sighs, shaking his head.

“Did she finally break that bullshit prude act and let you fuck her?” Billy asks, motioning between Eddie and I. My face was beat red with embarrassment as Eddie glanced over at me. “I bet she’d even let you cum in her, she’s dumb enough for it.” Billy laughs, a few of his henchmen laughing with him. Before I could even conjure a response Eddie punched Billy so hard it nearly knocked him to the ground. My mouth dropped open in response, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“I said shut the fuck up!” Eddie shouted, going in for another punch. It landed and Billy started to swing back. Everyone gathered around either cheering them on or telling them to stop. I watched anxiously, begging Eddie to stop. Do I stop them?

My internal conflict became crystal clear when Billy grabbed a beer bottle and smashed it on the counter, holding up the bottle mockingly. Before I could react he swung with the bottle in his hand and cut Eddie in the forearm. Before he could go a second time I focused on him with my mind and forced him to “slip” on the beer on the floor. Billy slammed on the ground, coughing out in pain.

I grabbed Eddie’s arm and pulled him away from the scene, “C’mon.” I ushered him out of the house and onto the front yard. I sat down on the curb, pulling him to sit down with me. He winced as he clutched the heavy cut on his arm. “C’mere,” I said, ripping the green long-sleeved shirt I wore and putting it over the cut. “It’ll stop the bleeding.” I insist as I push down on the wound and he lets out a hiss, “God I could kill Billy right now.” I shake my head in disapproval.

“You and me both,” Eddie answered between gritted teeth.

“Thanks for sticking up for me.” I nearly whispered.

“It’s no problem.” he grits out, “Besides, Billy doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talking about.”

“No?” I ask, beginning to wrap his arm with the other sleeve of my shirt I ripped off.

“No. He’s an idiot for talking about you like that like he knows you. He’s full of shit. Just jealous a pretty girl isn’t getting on her knees for him.” Eddie pauses as I finish knotting the makeshift bandage. “He doesn’t deserve someone like you,” Eddie mutters and I finally look up at him. I smile softly. My heart beat rapidly in my chest as Eddie began to glance back and forth between my eyes and lips. I knew what was coming and I didn’t want him to chicken out so I did it for him. I closed the distance between us and kissed him softly. He nearly pulled back in surprise.

His whole body was as stiff as a board, hands hovering in the air. When I rested my hand on his cheek and deepened the kiss, that’s when he let himself fall into step. He let his left hand tangle in my hair and his right hand sit on my leg. His lips fought for dominance, his right hand squeezing on my thigh. When I pulled back for breath he smiled like a little kid.

“About fucking time.” he chuckles before leaning in to kiss me again. I giggled happily as he playfully pulled me onto his lap. Right when the kiss started to get heated drops of rain began to fall on us. We pulled away with crinkled brows, it wasn’t supposed to rain. I frowned, but Eddie smiled, “That’s fucking perfect.” he pointed at the sky with the most adorable smile.

“Can we go somewhere else? This party sucks.” I laugh.

“Sure. We could uh… go back to my place?” he offers and I raise my eyebrows, “Not like that. We could just listen to music or whatever. I have Motley Crue records.” he wiggled his eyebrows playfully and I laughed. He stood up and offered me his hand.

Okay.” I pause, taking his hand, “But no funny business.” I point at him, looking serious.

“Scouts honor.” he salutes me playfully. We jogged through the rain to his car, hand in hand.

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athenamikaelson · 9 months ago

Text

War of Scars

Luke Castellan x Reader Story

Ch. 2

Warnings- Swearing, mentions of past chapter, injuries.

Word Count- 2.2k

The searing pain was the first thing I felt. A pain that started at my toes and crawled up into my head was all I could focus on. If this was hell then whoever was in charge of constructing my personal punishment deserves a big-ass raise.

I use the very little strength I have to try to open my eyes. After what feels like a hundred tries, a blinding light fills my burning pupils.

“Jesus fuck.”

A scratchy-deep voice sounds. Wait. That voice came from me. After realizing the strangled voice came from me, my attention was drawn to the dryness of my mouth and throat. I want to swallow but I have no moisture or saliva in my mouth to even try. Water. I need water.

“Gods, took you long enough to wake up.”

A masculine voice says from somewhere around me. I strain my vision to look around and feel my eyebrows scrunch together as I take in my surroundings.

Around me are about 6 other beds, like the one I have realized I’m lying on. Two of the beds are occupied, but my eyes can’t seem to focus on who. The beds stand against dark wood walls with what looks like two windows in the small room. The overwhelming smell of antiseptic and sweat fills my nostrils as I glance at the figure leaning over in a chair. Their whitish-blond hair is covering their face as they lay with their head in their hands.

“I almost had to drug her to get her to get some sleep,” I whip my head to the voice I had heard earlier, “She hasn’t wanted to fall asleep in case you woke up. She’s going to be pissed when she finds out you woke up without her being awake.”

I stare at the blond boy to my right. He’s tall and conventionally attractive. About six foot, sun blond hair, pale skin, and a boyish grin that covers his face. I go to speak but stop when the scratchy feeling in my throat comes back.

“Oh my bad dude, I bet your throat is dry as hell,” He walks over to a side table and pours water from a pitcher into a glass, “I mean not having water in three weeks will do that to you.”

He starts to walk over to me and I visibly flinch away. Fucking hell! The movement made the pain burn somehow even more than before.

“Woah, I mean to harm,” He raises his hands innocently as he drops the glass onto the side table next to me, “I’ve been your personal nurse these past weeks. If I was going to kill you, I would’ve done it while you were out of it.”

I stare at him cautiously for a moment. The smirk on his lips reminds me of the cat from Alice in Wonderland. I know I should be weary of someone new but the look in his blue eyes almost appears to sincere, and the burning in my throat is urging for me to gulp down the water. Because of that I slowly lift my left hand, not wanting to aggravate the pain anymore, and grasp the glass. I bring it to my lips and almost moan at the feeling of the liquid coating my throat.

“Woah girly, don’t drink too fast you haven’t had anything in your stomach for so long. You’ll get sick drinking too fast.”

I glance up at him slightly and then slow down my sips. It takes about another minute before I’ve finished up the glass and set it back down. The Cheshire cat of a boy grabs the pitcher and refills the glance again for me. I stare at him for another moment before a feeling of dread fills my body. Three weeks.

“Three weeks? You said I’ve been out of it for three weeks!”

He gives me a slow nod, as if scared of my reaction. I can feel my chest begin rising up and down heavily and fast at the thought. Three weeks. Three fucking weeks.

“Ok, I heal physical wounds not emotional so before you start freaking out,” He sits himself down on the bed next to mine, “Three weeks is an incredibly fast recovery time for someone who went through what you did.”

He glances at me and then drops his eyes down to my left arm. I follow his gaze to my arm to see it covered in white bandages going all the way up to my chest.

“Do you remember what happened?”

I scrunch my eyebrows together trying to piece together my memory. The car crash. She was telling me about Gods and monsters when we got hit by something. The monster, that lion-goat thing attacked me and Keiko. I killed it, I think. My memory comes in flashes as I try to piece everything together. My headache made me close my eyes in pain.

“OK, just take your time. You’re finally awake I don’t want you passing back out on me.”

Cheshire places his hand on my right shoulder in a comforting way. I open my eyes and glance at his hand which makes him take it away and bring it back to his side.

“We got attacked. Keiko and I.” I glance at the hunched-over person in the corner of the room who I’ve now figured to be Keiko.

“Is she ok?”

I watch as the boy glances over me to Keiko and his smirk deepens as he rolls his blue eyes.

“Trust me she’ll live. Koko is the most satyr I’ve ever met. Not even the Ciimera could keep her down,” His haze comes back to me and an unreadable expression comes over his face for a split second, “Speaking of the Chimera, I’ve never met a demi-god who’s been able to survive it, let alone kills it.”

My mind runs in a frenzy as he speaks. Koko? Did he really just call Keiko, Koko? What makes me freeze up though is the memory of the monster, or the Chimera as Keiko and this boy have called it. The merciless look in its eyes after it clawed up my back, the hissing of the snake as I used it to strangle the goat, and the way those merciless eyes glossed over as I impaled the beast with the goat's horn.

“I don’t understand,” I looked back at him and tears started to blur my vision as I looked down at my wrapped arm.

“I don’t understand what happened in those woods, or the whole demi-god thing,” I turn from him and then look at my wrapped arm, “And I don’t understand why my arm is wrapped since that monster didn’t touch my arm.”

I watch with blurred vision as the boy glances at my arm with a weary expression and a mix of sorrow. He gives me a small smile and stands up.

“I think you should hear this from a more friendly face,” He walks over to Keiko and flicks her forehead stirring her awake, “Not that I’m saying my face isn’t friendly, because it very much is.” A playful smirk crosses his face.

Keiko leans up and I look at her. She has a fading bruise on her left cheekbone and a small cut on her upper lip. She rubs her eyes and begins to scowl at the boy before she follows his gaze towards me. Her mood instantly shifts as she jumps up and starts walking towards me.

“You’re finally awake,” A smile comes over her light features, “You were touch and go for a while there, had everyone worried. But I told them you were a fighter.”

“That’s true she did.” The boy backs up Keiko.

Keiko turns back towards the boy and sends him an eye-roll.

“You can go now.” She shoos him away with one hand.

The boy just rolls his eyes and smiles anyway as he looks at me.

“Fine, I’m leaving. I spend all my time helping you damsels in distress and I don’t even get a single thank you,” He places his hand over his heart in a fake heart and then smiles at me, “Oh, and by the way Sleeping beauty, I’m Alastair, Son of Apollo. You should know the name of your nurse.”

Alastair smiles at me and Keiko looks over her shoulder at him.

“Don’t you have a mirror to go stare at?”

Alastair laughs as he goes to walk out the screen door.

“I actually might go walk in front of the Aphrodite cabin to bless them with my presence. The ladies have missed me since I’ve been here taking care of Sleeping Beauty. I’ll be back to check on you later Y/N.”

Alastair smirks at both of us and then opens the screen door and lets it slam behind him as he walks away.

“Don’t mind him, he’s a flirt but harmless. He should’ve been a Son of Aphrodite with the way he is obsessed with himself.”

I stare at Keiko silently as I listen to her talk about this stranger with a smile on her face. The longer I stare at the familiarity on her face though, I’ve realized that he was only a stranger to me.

I drag my eyes down to Keiko’s feet expecting to see her usual Doc Martens, but in their place are, Goat Hoaves. What the actual fuck.

“Keiko. Where the fuck are your feet?”

Pure shock must be written on my features, matching the shock I feel in my chest because Keiko sends me a small weary smile.

“Ya about that. Do you remember how I was telling you about the Demi-Gods and Greek stuff before we crashed?”

She questions me as I nod slowly.

“Good. Well, I am what you call a Satyr. I have half the body of a goat and the other half of a mortal. Satyrs are also protectors of demi-gods,” She gestures to me, “like yourself. That’s why I was sent to you last year.”

I stare at her in disbelief trying to make sense of everything she’s telling me.

“I know this can be a lot to take in and I don’t want to pressure you with everything, especially after the lightning bolt and the Chimera.”

I meet her eyes in confusion.

“Lightening bolt? What lightning? All I remember is getting attacked by the monster and then killing it.”

Keiko goes quiet for a moment and then glances at my wrapped arm.

“After you killed the Chimera I found you covered in blood. I was so worried about you, so when I saw you standing over it with the horn in your hand I was so surprised. I had lost a lot of blood myself so when I went to go to you I fell. You came to me but when you did,” Keiko stopped and I watched her chest deepen with each breath, “It came out of nowhere. A lightning strike. It was coming right at us, but you being your sacrificial self pushed me out of the way. That’s when it struck you.”

I glance down at my bandaged arm as I try to recall what she’s telling me. But nothing comes to mind. It’s like the lightning wiped my memory.

Keiko goes to continue talking before I raise my right hand to stop her.

“Did you know the whole time?”

I look Keiko in the eyes and watch the confusion enter them.

“Did you know that my parents, weren’t actually my parents? That I was some Greek freak of nature,” My voice hardening with each question, “Was it all a lie? Our friendship!”

Keiko opens and closes her mouth multiple times and I want her to lie to me and tell me that she chose to be my friend because she liked me for me. That for the first time in my life someone wanted to be my friend. But once I see the pained look in her eyes I already know my answer.

“Get out.”

Keiko stares at me and shakes her head.

“Y/N, I know this whole thing is a shock to you but,”

“Get. The. Fuck. Out!” I yell at her.

And for the first time in our “friendship,” Keiko flinches. She flinches because of me. Good. Fuck her and fuck this demi-god thing. Keiko shakes her head solemnly, then stands up and walks to the door.

As she reaches for the screen door handle, she pauses.

“I might have lied about a lot during our friendship, but I never lied to you about being your friend. I truly do care about you Y/N.”

She must be waiting for me to say something but all I do is stare at the wooden wall in front of me. I hear her let out a sigh and open the door.

“You can come find me when you want to talk.”

The screen door slams for a second time today, as the tears that were building in my eyes finally fall onto my cheeks. The truth of everything I’ve learned brings sobs to my lips and I close my eyes again hoping to wake up from this nightmarish hell.

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