#Two Sheep Staring at Stars

[fuckmymunson]

Confidential. — Eddie Munson.

☆ 18+, smut, lowkey hate sex, fingering. | word count: 1.2k

☆ my montly post ;) or maybe I'll find more inspo soon.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: .☽ . :☆ﾟ. ───

“Can you leave me alone for five fucking seconds?”

“For what? So you can keep talking shit behind my back?” He asks back, crossing his arms. Leaning against the dirty bathroom wall, Eddie stares at you with a cocky smirk. He isn’t usually this confident, not around you at least. 

“I don’t want the whole school to think I’m your fucking groupie, dude. Just leave me alone,” You bite back. You wish you could erase that smirk on his face. The anger is bubbling up your throat, burning your insides. “Just because I’m the only one who lets you get your dick wet, it doesn’t mean you can go around bragging about it.”

“Why wouldn’t I be bragging about it?” Eddie laughs, he has the audacity to laugh. “Don’t you think it would be a juicy conversation topic? You, little miss perfect, fucking the freak?”

“Shut the fuck up. Seriously— or I promise you I will beat the shit out of you.”

“Jesus, you kiss your mother with that mouth, sweetheart?” He mocks you again, again. Eddie is really testing your patience. Lowering his arms, he steps closer, his heavy boots tapping on the greasy linoleum. “I think we both know you look better with your pretty lips wrapped around my cock rather than talking shit.”

“Fuck you. Literally. I don’t even know why I agreed to this,” Done with this conversation that will surely lead to nothing, you grab the doorknob. “You talk a lot of shit when we are alone, but you are such a pussy when people bully you. Just say you don’t have the balls to man up.”

“Man up?” Eddie takes another step. He is willing to chase you if you dare to open that door. “Oh, sweetheart. You know what kind of man I am. The man who can actually make you come, not like those preppy fuckers that share you.”

Your head whips at his words. He couldn’t have possibly said that. Perhaps you are having a stroke. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me, cutie. The same whores you talk shit with, talk shit about you too— behind your back, I might add,” His hand takes yours, gently removing it from the doorknob. Eddie bites back a laugh when he sees your expression, how could you be so oblivious? “Haven’t you noticed? Or are you that stupid?”

Shaking your head, you push him— or try to, at least— the action surprises him, but he doesn’t move an inch. Eddie quickly wraps an arm around your waist, pushing you against the wall. He knows what you need, wherever and whenever, he knows what you want. Your hatred has no fundament, you are just a dumb sheep that follows the horde, but he can’t blame you; there’s the need to fit… and there’s the need you can’t escape from no matter what.

“Come on, you know you don’t want to break our little deal,” He whispers.

“Let go of me,” You choke. “You are lying. They are my friends—”

“You know what they say, sometimes your enemies live in your own home,” Nobody says that, Eddie is just making it up to play with your newfound insecurity. “Perhaps you are a freak, just like me.”

Smashing his lips against yours, your hands grope his shoulders. The logical thing would be to push him, to yell and run, but you can’t. Whatever he has, is drowning you. Eddie can make you see stars, and the problem is that he is the only one. A thing that happened by a stupid mistake occasioned by the stupid join you agreed is now escalating and threatening to ruin your reputation— he knows that. You know that. Outside he is no one, but when you two are alone, he makes you feel like you are no one. 

“You talk so damn much,” Your words are weak when his lips reach your neck, when his hands slide underneath your skirt. “I hate you.”

“I hate you too, pretty girl.”

Lifting one leg to wrap it around his hip, you bite your lower lip when his thumb traces the outline of your folds, rubbing the fabric of your panties against you. Keeping you steady with his free hand on your waist, Eddie bites down on your neck, relishing on the sweet cry that escapes your lips. He is so close he can smell your perfume, of course is the one he has been seeing advertised on TV. You fight so much to be perfect that it breaks you how pathetic your yearning is. He quickly finds your clit— now this is true, you know what they say… practice makes perfect— circling it slowly.

“You want to keep it so low, yet the only thing you keep low is your voice when I fuck you in your bedroom,” He taunts you. He hits you in your weakest spots. “Just accept it, I’m your escape— I don’t mind. As long as you are honest.”

“Fuck you,” You spit, buckling your hips when he pushes your underwear to the side. It is an endless battle, not only with him, but with yourself.

With a sigh, Eddie shakes his head, his curly hair bouncing softly. “As you wish, sweetheart.”

Sliding a finger, his cold rings make you gasp. He never takes them off, not even when he fucks you. Eddie says it makes him look cool, you say it makes him look idiotic— and you maintain that thought, even when he is adding a second finger and curling it, rubbing your tight walls slowly. Moaning louder, you clasp a hand over your mouth, if someone finds you, God, you’d be ruined; he, on the other hand, has other plans. Thrusting his digits slowly, Eddie groans lowly every time he feels you tightening. The moans you fight so hard to swallow are a confidence boost, and right now? He wants to hear them all.

“Take that hand off your mouth or I swear I will leave you here,” His threat makes you shudder. What games is he playing? “I’m being serious.”

Reluctantly, you agree. The smile that appears on his cheeky face shouldn’t be as pretty as it is. Now you are sure he is toying with you— yet you can’t be mad about it. Not when he is speeding up, not when he is nibbling on your neck, not when you can feel his erection grinding against your thigh. Being finger–fucked by the town’s freak is already embarrassing enough, so naturally, orgasming so quickly would be even more embarrassing.

“Why do you fight it?” Removing his fingers, Eddie clicks his tongue when you protest. “I could fuck you every day if you weren’t such a bitch,” Yanking your underwear down, he pushes you harder against the wall, spitting on his fingers and returning them to his favorite place. Your pussy greets them back greedily, squeezing his digits and wetting them until you are not sure if it’s dripping down his wrist. “At least I know one part of you actually likes me.”

“Shut up— Shut up,” you repeat over and over, keeping your eyes shut. Your moans flow freely now, urging him to continue. Eddie loves how pliant he can get you, how just a little pleasure gets you this dumb. “Fuck— don’t stop, please.” There it is, what he has been dying to hear.

“I wouldn't dream of, princess.”

[strangeshoepatrolbandit-alt]

A Wolf In Sheep's Clothing.

Summary: He's a wolf in sheep's clothing. You're the sacrificial lamb. (What it was like.)

Warnings: Wolf and lamb imagery, mentions of sexual interactions, one of them being Non-Con... I think?("Making love", "fucking", "thrusting".), naivety, mentions of murder and blood, killing Lucy Gray Baird, being a Trophy wife, lies, mentions of breeding, being trapped in a marriage, getting hunted, guns, mentions The Hunger Games, mentions hanging(Sejanus' death), rebellion, being a shell of yourself, being tied up, getting rid of a body(Lucy Gray), toxic relationship, controlling!Coryo, Coriolanus' being 'bony'.

Fem!Reader.

I'm trying something new with my writing.

He lured you in.

He was one of the best Academy students and the only power he had was his name.

He spoke with you over open and discarded books, spewing with his charming words.

Sweet naive you.

He pressed soft kisses to your lips and thrusted in a pattern that made you see stars. Cosmic. Making love.

He was kind to your family, he was kind to your friends. He cared for you.

°•°•°

He was a mentor in the tenth Hunger Games, his tribute was Lucy Gray Baird. He helped her win, cheating for her from behind a screen while you supported him without knowing what he's done.

He was caught, and his punishment was becoming a Peacekeeper. Originally for District 8.

You threw a fit in his bedroom, crying and crying over again, begging the universe to not separate the two of you.

Dependent.

His hands held your face as he looked between both of your eyes, his own going back and forth. Left and right.

"No, you wont." He sounded so firm, but his voice still held the softness he could only have for you. "I'm going to 12. I will make sure to see through with it. You will go to 12."

And like a lamb led to the slaughter, you did.

°•°•°

You watched him beat a man, defending Lucy Gray like she was still his responsibility. You swam in the lake with him, holding onto him and laughing without a care in the world. You broke down with him after Sejanus' death. You stayed in the cabin with him and Lucy Gray.

The three of you planned a future that would get you all killed. You spoke the same words that had your dear friend, Sejanus, hung in front of a galore of witnesses.

Murdered.

Martyr.

You were oblivious to the way Coriolanus was cracking, something finally going off in his brain. He broke down.

He revealed what he's done. He told you both about Sejanus. He's why Sejanus Plinth, Bobbin, and Mayfair are dead.

Backstabber.

Murderer.

Lucy played it cool, keeping her calm as to not draw suspicion.

She grabbed your arm and a basket, making it seem innocent as she told him the two of you were going to pick katniss.

"Lucy Gray," He stared as she opened the door, a bright smile on her face as she gripped you tighter. "It's still raining."

"Well, we're not made out of sugar." And with that, she pulled you out. The two of you walked together until you were out of sight from the cabin windows.

And then you heard him.

Screaming, yelling, gunshots, running.

Cat and mouse.

Snake and bird.

Wolf and lamb.

Lucy Gray was dead beside you, and Coriolanus Snow was her killer. You were on the ground, your lover on top of you, tears spilling from your eyes as you stared at your lifeless friend. Coriolanus' hands dug into the plush of your body while he forced you to stand, holding your wrist with one hand while dragging Lucy with the other.

Back at the cabin, you were bound enough to where you couldn't run, but watching as Coriolanus wrapped up Lucy Gray's body and dumped her in the lake you all swam and laughed in just days before.

"No loose ends." He repeated to you as he forced you into the cabin, tying you to the bed the two of you slept on. "Besides you. But you won't tell anyone, will you?" He asked softly, wiping your tears and pushing back your hair.

You shook your head repeatedly, breathing heavily and staring at him with wide eyes.

"Good." He let out a breath as a smile grew on his face, now caressing one of your cheeks. "Good girl."

He leaned in and kissed you, ridding you of your clothes while you cried. He wasnt sweet. He didn't kiss the tears away, they just seemed to egg him on. This was not making love. He was fucking you while you were vulnerable.

×

You didn't get to leave Panem. You didn't get to run off and live a fairytale.

Coriolanus brought you back to the Capitol, solidifying you to him by announcing your engagement to him.

He didn't stop. Not even when he moved in with Sejanus' mourning parents, not even when he killed them.

Not even when he became the president, and you the First Lady.

You were both in your twenties, living better than you used to.

Coriolanus was no longer bony, no longer hungry. He no longer wore the clothes his cousin, Tigris, would make him. His hair was no longer buzzed like it was when he was a Peacekeeper, and his personality was different than when he was eighteen.

You're still intimate. You live, work, eat, sleep together. Your womb is warm for his seed. You're married by Panem and Capitol law. But you are not partners. He is the dictator. You're the trophy First Lady. You dress exactly as he likes. You act exactly as he likes. You move exactly as he likes. His word is law. Yours is nothing. And every moment you are his, you wonder what it would be like to not have to dance to his puppet strings.

He lured you in.

Sacrificial lamb.

[tearueful]

Play With Fire ( Homelander x Reader)

18+ for language, female (plus size♥) reader | You walk into an elevator with Homelander...💋 [AO3 Link] Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, AO3 Link

You can only stare at Ashley’s cold dismissal. Not Ashley Barrett, of course. You’re not high up enough to get personally fired by the CEO. Her assistant is the one doing it, also Ashley. 

There were too many fucking Ashleys in this office.

Your head is buzzing and you can’t exactly focus on the words that spill out of her mouth. She has such a pleasant smile plastered on her lips. A fake, corporate smile as she tells you that as of today? You no longer work at Vought International. A job you had scraped and clawed for. Survived an unpaid internship in fucking New York City for, moonlighting as a waitress in a diner where patrons had sticky hands even for one such as you.

You stare at her, having no idea what words her placid smile makes. Something about turning your badge in at the front desk on your way out. That they’ve packed everything up at your desk already and it will show up to your house in two to four business days. An easier transition, she says. How kind.

Neatly packaging your existence away and shipping it off in the post as if it didn’t fucking matter. You blink and you’re already stalking out of the office. The dismissal had been clear. They had saved it for when you normally would be packing up for the day. Less drama. Always better to fire someone on a Friday afternoon. Not many witnesses. At least you can slink out with some scraps of your dignity. Before you realize it, you’re fast walking through the hallway to the elevator lobby. All your mind can focus on is getting in that elevator and escaping this fucked up place. That is your one goal as your insides churn with bitter anger and your brain buzzes.

Your rage is impotent, with no outlet. What could you even do? Nothing against Vought. Not with their airtight security. You knew how Vought paid everyone and anyone off to make undesirables vanish. How they mopped up the ‘accidents’ of their precious supe products. How your firing was another one of those casualties, dismissed at a whim of the Seven. You knew specifically who. That star-spangled blonde bastard. One typo led to one tantrum from the supe and you had to suffer for it.

Rage pushes your feet to move a little quicker as you spot the open elevator doors. Someone must have just exited, you see the retreating forms of a handful of people down the opposite end of the hall. Perfect, except those doors are closing and you’re too impatient to wait in the lobby a moment longer.

At the sight of the closing elevator doors, your feet pick up their pace. You can’t stay in this building a moment long, not in this hallway with the chance of spotting anyone you know who may recognize the set of your face as something amiss.. Some of them know you well enough to know that would mean something’s wrong, or they knew the bad news before you. That gives you the motivation to snap a hand out to stop those closing doors, praying it’s empty so you can take a breath alone. You need it.You deserve it. It’s the least the universe can do for you at this moment. The universe is not kind today.

The doors stop at the presence of your hand while you slip through the opening. Your regret is almost instantaneous as you step into the re-opening doors because there stood Homelander.

Fucking Homelander in his stupid suit, looking all the world like Uncle Sam shat out the perfect Boyscout. Except, you know far better. There was a monster in that human suit.

He looks ever the caged predator within the confines of the enclosed metal space, wholly uninterested in you. There’s only the briefest of glances your way before his attention is back on the elevator’s LED number display. Oh, but you hate him. Stuffed up supe, high on his own importance.

You’d seen him about the office, from a distance. A wolf among doting sheep, bleating for his attention. How did anyone dare to get close when he flashed those canines? You should flee, but the elevator doors click behind you with a finality. No, fuck it. Fuck him. You don’t care. All you care about is getting out of this shit hole and this elevator ride will be your last here. One way or another. The white hot rage is back to roiling in your gut and you feel as if you’d choke on it.

Homelander’s cold blue gaze flickers over you once more as you stew, taking you all in within an instant. Your badge and your name. Another useless Vought employee, a wriggling worm at his feet. The Hero Management Department by the logo on your badge, but he’s never noticed you. No wonder. You’re too short. Someone who could get lost in a crowd. His lips turn up in a cruel sneer. Fat, too. A pudgy, little grub. At least you’re dressed well. You need to be if you work here. Almost demure in that dress that must have cost half your pathetic paycheck. He wants to be disgusted by you, but you meet his eyes. People rarely did that. There’s fire burning in those wide eyes. A defiance he’s not used to seeing often. Especially not from something as breakable as you. It gives Homelander pause. He’s puzzled. That sort of volatile hatred was usually reserved for dear William, but you? It was almost comical seeing such a delicate thing like you sparking with it. You looked like a little firecracker about to go off and Homelander wonders what sorts of sparks you’d show.

Your expression was utterly, almost eerily calm yet he could feel the rage rolling off of you, it was a palpable taste on his tongue. An almost bitter tang that made Homelander reflexively lick his lips. That gets your attention. Previously, you’d let your eyes dart around the elevator in your unrest. Now your eyes fixate on the flick of Homelander’s tongue while the wheels within your brain begin to whirl. What is the stupidest thing you could do on your last day at Vought? Something reckless and impulsive. Suicidal even.

He watches you with interest now that you’re daring to meet his gaze, scrutinizing this little mortal confined in the elevator with him with anger steaming off your body. Normally, Vought employees fawned over him while reeking of fear. They cowered and all but tried to tongue his taint in their need to appease him and soothe Homelander’s volatile moods. Yet here you were, looking as much like a caged animal within the confines of the elevator as he felt most of the time. 

Homelander senses the shift in you, from anger to something else. He can’t pinpoint it, not yet. Not with how the adrenaline pumps through your veins as you fix your eyes on his face, a heady perfume if there ever was one. It’s a little like prey backed into a corner, finally deciding fight over flight. Homelander doesn’t fear you or any possible outburst you could throw his way. How could he? He’s a god and you’re an ant. Still, he’s curious as to what you’ll do. Homelander can see the tension in your body, how your muscles coil before a pounce.

You weren’t quick, by any means. Homelander could have deflected you with his pinky finger, but the determination in your eyes kept him still. What were you even planning to do to him, of all people? Seeing you unleashing your anger on him would amuse the supe. Give him a valid reason to crush your fragile skull in his fist with a satisfying wet crunch. Yet, you surprised him. All that anger and vitriol boiling over shifted into something else entirely, but it still burns.  It burns so much that you need to let it out. Which you do, by pressing your lips against Homelander’s. It’s pure impulse and oh so reckless. He’s killed people for lesser slights but you don’t care. Not in that moment. You want this, maybe even need it. Need to vent out all your frustration on the man who caused all this in the first place.

So you dig your nails into the leather fabric of Homelander’s suit, having to get up on your toes to press your lips against his own. 

They’re surprisingly soft, Homelander’s lips. You hadn’t expected it. A contrast to the lack of give against his body because leaning into Homelander is like leaning into a brick wall. Unmovable. The only give is from his lips and you suspect that’s because you took the supe by surprise.

The audacity of this little bug!

Homelander’s eyes are wide, shocked even at your brazen act. Staring down at this impertinent little human daring to touch him.There’s a desperation in your act, in how your face is still twisted up in rage and confusion but softening as you stubbornly keep your lips moving against his own.

Still so curious. 

He lets you kiss him, even goes as far to settle into the kiss himself. He can’t help it. Softness was a rare thing for him to feel and you really are oh so soft against him. Pliable and willing now that you’ve settled into properly kissing him. You’re not bad at this either, knowing exactly what sort of coaxing pressure to give him while teasing Homelander into giving back more.

So he does.

Homelander hooks you in the steel grip of one hand, fingers digging into your waist and he finds you yielding. Soft and giving as your lips. He should have expected that given your size, but he finds that he likes it. He can dig his fingers in a little deeper with no fear of snapping ribs with the slightest of pressure.

Homelander is kissing you back. Fucking Homelander! You half expected to get thrown across the elevator shaft for your action, but he was almost holding you gently. Almost. This close you can feel the restrained power of him that all but hums through the supe’s body. It should frighten you, but it’s thrilling having a monster yield so readily to you of all people.

You need something to ground yourself because this can't be real! You grab for Homelander's hair, sliding your fingers through it. Idly, you muse at the softness. It wasn't gelled and hard to the touch as you expected. Leave-in conditioner, that must be it. The thought makes you smile into the kiss, tightening your hold on Homelander's hair with a playful tug to coax his mouth closer.

You don’t expect the needy moan Homelander releases against your lips at the gentle tug. Would have never expected such a sound from a man like him. You greedily swallow it up, using it to your advantage to slide your tongue over his lips. They part under the pressure and then you’re kissing Homelander deeper. This is far from an innocent, impulsive act now. He’s meeting your fire, consumed by the flames as much as you are. More so because now Homelander seems intent on devouring you as he fits his lips to yours, bruising them while his tongue slides slick over your own within your mouth. He growls. Homelander fucking growls into the kiss and you feel that tremor down to your toes, arousal a white hot flash through your system. Thus it really can’t be helped when you mold your curves into the hard lines of his body, fingernails scraping at Homelander’s scalp while you try to taste every corner of his mouth. His free hand even comes up to take an ample handful of your ass as he pulls you flush against him properly, and is that- Holy fuck.

The chime of the elevator hitting the ground floor snaps you both out of the moment. You jerk apart and even in his surprise, Homelander’s grip is loose enough for you to step away safely. You stare up at him a beat, taking in Homelander’s flushed features and how he pants.

You did that. You did that to the most powerful supe of the Seven, possibly the most powerful supe in the world. Smug satisfaction settles on your shoulders for a moment.

You can see the rage building in his eyes, disgust twisting up Homelander’s features and there’s even the glaring threat of red sparking in his gaze. Holy shit. Your heart squeezes as the smugness shifts to the instinct to survive. It’s time to flee or die.

Homelander sneers at you and you know he’s about to say something scathing to put you in your place before he obliterates you. Instead of cowering, you flash him a thousand watt smile. The sort you’ve employed on dates with hapless men to get them giving dopey grins right back to you. It works well enough.

He blinks, the red glare vanishing from his eyes. People in this tower never smile at Homelander like that. Another surprise. You exit stage left before he recovers, almost running into someone on your way out of the elevator. It’s Ashley. CEO Ashley this time, with tablet in hand.

Her gaze flicks up from the screen as she gives a little start before suspicion tinges her features. “Weren’t you fired?” She whispers the words under her breath, brushing past you before stiffening up at the sight of the supe still within the elevator. “Homelander! There you are!” She chirps out with faux cheerfulness and a dead smile. “I’ve got fantastic news on your latest numbers!” That gives you enough time to slip away, with Ashley crowding up to Homelander eagerly to stroke his ego so he’s kept calm for another day and no one dies. You certainly didn’t die. Personally, you think the supe’s mind will be occupied by other things today. You turn your badge in at security’s front desk with a self satisfied smirk.

For his part, Homelander silently steps out of the elevator with eyes fixed on your retreating frame. He doesn’t register Ashley’s yammering as she tries to tell him the good news about a ten point boost. No, Homelander’s mind is too busy contemplating what he will do to you. Little bugs like you can’t get away with taunting gods.

A wide, shark-like grin spreads Homelander's lips now that he has revenge on his mind. He snaps his attention to Ashley, voice sharp as Homelander lifts a finger in her face for silence “Ashley. That woman. Give me her name, now.”

[psuedosugu]

2am ★

suguru geto x reader

synopsis: your friend (?) comes into your room at 2 in the morning because he can’t sleep.

notes: hes so precious i just wanna kiss him ahhhhhh

the glowing numbers on your alarm clock read 2:00 am. the sky outside your semi-open window shows pitch black while the curtain covering it occasionally flutters due to the wind.

you lie in your bed, still and unable to sleep due to the thoughts running through your head plus your efforts to suppress them.

these days, your mind seems to always wonder back to the star plasma vessel mission, to riko herself.

riko amanai. a young girl, no older than 13. she didn’t deserve to die. you can still remember the sound of the gun hitting her, the sound of her now-still body hitting the ground, and her cold lifeless gaze. what could you have done differently to save her?

moping about it was doing you no good, though, so you decided that you would stop thinking about it all together, which was easier said than done.

you stared up at the ceiling, trying to think of something, anything else. counting sheep was turning out futile. sleep. sleep. you just wanted sleep. it felt like you hadn’t slept in months.

the familiar click! of your doorknob turning snapped you awake. you almost never lock your room, but only one person would come in here so late at night.

“nnh…suguru.” you sat up to look at him.

“did i wake you up? i’m sorry.” he asks sheepishly. his dark hair is outside of its usual bun, cascading onto his shoulders and part-way down his back. his eye bags are obvious, he must be just as tired as you are.

“i can leave if you wa-“ he starts but you interrupt him. “you didn’t wake me up! i- i couldn’t sleep either and even if i wasn’t awake, you’re always free to come in here.”

he had already stayed the night in your dorm a handful of times so him still being nervous about it was confusing, but cute nonetheless.

“you’re too kind to me,” he says, a smile adorning his face. that smile. that stupid smile.

admittedly, when your mind wasn’t occupied with dead girls toppling onto concrete floors, it was usually filled with him.

you scooted over and patted on the space next to you. as you started to sink back into the warm sheets, he made his way beside you, sliding into the covers.

“how’d your mission tod- yesterday go?” you ask, turning your head to look at him. he’s gorgeous, so gorgeous, you think.

“mmh, about as good as it could’ve gone.” he sighs.

sometimes, you feel like he’s the only person who will ever truly understand. he was there, right next to you when it all went down. maybe that’s why the two of you are so close now, a trauma bond of some sort.

the two of you lay together, only a few inches in between. that space was slowly shrinking as you gradually shifted closer every time you stole a glance at him. it felt taboo, these feelings that you were having for him. you weren’t supposed to feel this way. not about him.

unaware to you, suguru had been having similar thoughts. as much as he’d try to deny them because you would never ever like him back, he thought, they always sprang back up. he was tired of having to hide them.

to him, you were the sun itself, the center of his galaxy. he was so lucky, he thought, that you let him in your space so often, that he was able to breathe in your presence.

your shoulders were now side by side, touching, and he didn’t say a thing. suguru’s comforting presence had your eyes drooping.

your mind started to wonder to what it would be like to sleep next to him every night, maybe in a house the two of you would own instead of these dorms. you knew were getting ahead of yourself with your white-picket-fence fantasies, but you were too tired to care.

half asleep and absentminded, you snuggled closer to him, burrowing your face into the crook of his neck and slipping an arm around him. maybe you were feeling bold. maybe you were too tired to fully comprehend what you were doing.

suguru froze, his heart threatening to thump out of his chest. he was sure you could feel it against you. could you feel it? could you feel his emotions for you? did you know? he wanted you to know. he wanted to spill his hear out, to kiss you like there was no tomorrow, to have you.

he needed this. he needed you.

“[name]?” he murmured. you let out a faint hum in response, teetering between the border of awake and asleep.

“look,” he braced himself. he didn’t know what would come out of this, if your friendship would survive. he didn’t want to lose you, the only one who, he thought, truly cared, but he couldn’t live like this.

“..I’ve been having these feelings….these feelings about you. i..I’m really glad we’re friends, but every time you talk to me i just don’t know. i don’t know if i want just this. i want more. i want us to at least try having more. i know its sudden but its how i feel.”

he waited in anticipation for your response, staring at the ceiling. a few moments passed and he called your name. “[name]?” he asked, “..please say something.” a few more moments passed and he heard a soft snore. he looked down and sure enough you were knocked out, your chest rising and falling.

he smiled, moving a piece of your hair out of your face. had you heard any of what he said? would you even remember? probably not, he thought. oh well. there’s always tomorrow.

his eyes started to droop too, and he slipped into unconsciousness to thoughts of you, you, you.

[navia3000]

Under the Stars - T. Riddle

Pairing : Tom Riddle x Slytherin!Reader

Warnings : Slight use of Y/N, use of the word ‘damn’

Genre : Fluff, or, in which reader and Tom go on a much unexpected date

A/N : Part two of Amortentia is here! Thank you to @vivisandg @cats-and-sheep and @kenobi-baby for requesting a part two! I really am proud of this, so I hope you guys like it as much as I do! Also, two posts in one day, I feel so proud 🥲

Part 1

Masterlist

Requests are OPEN

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It had been a week since Y/N’s fate was revealed to her, a fate which led her straight to none other than Tom Marvolo Riddle. They had talked now and then, he would wait for her and walk her to class, but she felt awkward around him, as though her lips were sown together by the string of her shyness. He noticed this, of course, yet he still put in the effort to talk to her, a fact she greatly appreciated; one which would make butterflies express their wings in her stomach.

It wasn’t until she sat in the library studying, when an opportunity for more arose. As she flipped through her Charms textbook, a folded piece of parchment fell onto her lap.

Confused, she glanced around, yet the library appeared empty. She plucked the note from her lap, and gasped as she read it.

‘Meet me in the Astronomy Tower at 10.

Your dearest,

Tom M. Riddle.’

She didn’t know what to think. He wanted her to break curfew to meet him, but, as she thought about it, she couldn’t help but be curious as to the nature of the meeting. Is this a date? Should she dress nice? Damn him for being so ambiguous in his note.

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Her hands shook as she ascended the steps to the Astronomy Tower. She didn’t know what to expect, nor what would be waiting for her. Her fingers tugged her coat tighter around her frame, a shield against the cold and the nerves.

As she went up the final step, her eyes found the back of Tom Riddle, his figure turned away from her and leaned against the railing. What caught her eye, however, was the hundreds of candles which littered the floor.

He turned to face her, her gasp alerting him of her presence. She was left speechless as her eyes adjusted to the tiny flames, his eyes trained on her and her reaction.

“Do you like it?” He asked after a moment.

“Yes, this is,” she took a beat to find the words, “it’s beautiful,” she spoke as she stepped closer to him.

“I’m glad.” He held out his arm to her, which she gladly took, as they settled on the railing of the tower, his grip on her steady to give her a sense of safety.

The pair stood in silence for a couple minutes, both enjoying each other’s presence too much to speak.

“You know, I- I once read a book in which there was this boy who was in love with this girl, and she tells him that if he wants to be with her, he has to catch a falling star for her, and so he spends the rest of his life trying to catch a star, but, every time they reach the earth, they shatter. And, in the end, she marries someone else and he dies while chasing stars. It’s quite tragic, but, every time I look at the stars, I can’t help but think about how they represent his devotion and love for her, yet it will never be enough, cause every time, it shatters.” She turns to look at Tom, and finds him staring intently at her. “Anyway, that just came to mind.” He kept staring, the corners of his mouth turning up. “What?” She asked, becoming self-conscious by his staring.

He shook his head, “nothing, you’re just,” he paused, “you’re incredible.”

Heat rushed to her cheeks, and she had to break his gaze to keep from melting in front of him. It had only been a week since their discovery, yet she felt as though she had known this introverted boy her whole life. He was nothing like she expected him to be. And she loved it.

“Thank you.”

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The rest of their night was spent talking; they shared anecdotes and discussed literature, and the seconds turned into minutes and the minutes turned into hours.

They found themselves sitting in the middle of the candles, facing each other and laughing constantly.

Once a comfortable silence fell over the two, Tom felt compelled to speak. “I want to ask you something. You are absolutely in your right to say no, I respect you and your answer.”

She began to get nervous at his words, wondering what on earth could be so important for him to word that way. He was always so well-spoken, something she deeply admired, however found intimidating in the moment.

“I would like to take you out. On a date. Again, you can say no. I know it’s only been a week since we began to get to know each other, however, I can’t stop thinking about you ever since that class. It’s as though you have enchanted me, and I welcome it with open arms. I want to court you, if you’d do me the honor.” His words melted her heart as though he was the sun and she was the snow. She was sure she was falling for this boy, and she didn’t want any parachute to soften her landing.

“I would love that,” her words were like honey to him, her soft hand covering his. He took her fingers in his, bringing them to his lips, leaving what can only be described as a most gentle touch, and moving them to his chest.

Serenity took over the two. As he committed her features to memory, he thought he would gladly spend the rest of his life putting together the pieces of a fallen star if it would make her smile.

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[halcyone-of-the-sea]

hello! i hope you’re doing well! i would like to request something for alex keller! could you write something about sunshine!alex being absolutely smitten by his girlfriend who’s a grumpy!reader? sorry if this request doesn’t give a lot of ideas. love ur fics btw!!!! <3

Sun and Stars

Pairing: Alex Keller x F!Reader

Synopsis: Bloodied, the two of you find yourselves alone in a mountainous forest, surrounded by the termite-eaten walls of a lone shack. But Alex always finds a way to make the world brighter.

Word Count: 3.6k

Warnings: Canon typical gore & themes, blood, a teeny tiny bit of angst, lots of fluff, banter, sunshine and grump dynamic

A/N: This is a bit shorter just because I wanna understand Alex's character more - take this as a test fic lmao. Enjoy, Anon!

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

He was peeling back your skin like layers of paint on a canvas, gripping at the dried bits and ripping them to the side. Growling as your teeth sink deeper into your boyfriend's leather belt, your eyes swirl with hatred that you direct to the man kneeling beside your propped-up form; digging the bullet out of your left arm with all the delicateness of a rhino. 

“Stop,” Alex grunts under his breath, “squirmin’ for me.” The tweezers go deeper, trying to find the sweet spot where the metal pellet had dived into your flesh at high velocity. Of course, it had been where the thick kevlar of your vest hadn’t been able to stop it – flew right to the place where the skin was uncovered. 

Alex’s breaths are steady as you stare daggers, minutes away from yanking him off of you and doing it yourself. He was so damn slow, sending concerned glances every other moment with a furrowed brow and concentrated eyes. From under your makeshift gag, there so you won't bite off your tongue, you grumble with pain lacing your barely understandable words.

“Hurry up and get the fuckin’ thing out of me, Alex!” It didn’t sound like that, obviously, but the general heat to your words made – hurrey uh ahn geh tha fuhking thing ou of meh, Ahlex! – clear enough. 

The light-haired man clears his throat, gripping your arm just a little tighter with his blood-stained gloves as his mustache rotates, scrunching his nose. His eyes are locked onto the entry wound, lids scrunched in a way you would have found comedic if you didn’t want to smack him upside the skull. Lord, could he just hurry up?

“I’m gettin’ there, Hon…just quit trying to make my head explode with your mind over there, yeah?” Alex dares to smirk when you take your free hand and slap his heavily tattooed forearm. You’re shaking your head to the side with displeasure that would transcend any barrier known to man.

A velvety chuckle leaves your lover’s lips before he leans close to your shoulder, placing a kiss on the fabric of your shirt in apology as your narrowed eyes don’t let up an inch. He pulls back and continues his exploration of your gaping puncture with focused eyes.

Prick. You chuff through your nose like a cat, fingers twitching in your lap as you fight the pull to bring it into a fist.

Sweat travels down your nose only to plop on your bunched abdomen, and in the back of your throat, you force your esophagus to hold back a whimper of restrained pain. Everything burned like your flesh was being placed on a hot spit – like you were a sheep carcass slowly rolled around and around and around–

“Here we go.” The pressure dissipates at the heavy whisper, and without even realizing it had happened, your head had tilted back into the wall and your eyes had ground themselves shut. Opening them quickly and blinking away the black dots, the soft face of your boyfriend pops into view; beaming as you deadpan up at him. The man holds up the tweezers in one hand, showing off the red-dripping metal almost lazily with a tilt of his head and a raised brow, speaking slowly. “Told ya’ I could do it faster than you.” 

Letting the belt drop from your mouth with a metallic clink, you rotate your jaw at the ache your clenching had caused. You settle with a simple, “I said I could do it better not faster. What the hell were you looking for in there anyways – gold? My whole damn arm’s numb.” 

Alex chuckles, rolling his eyes with an easy smile. To anyone else, the two of you would look like the strangest couple in the world. Covered in blood but you still have the time to bicker back and forth like a married pair. The Agent’s eyelids crinkle.

“Yeah, alright, Miss World-Class,” he motions with two fingers and a smug look, “scoot upwards so I can pack that wound before blood gets stuck in your gear. Can’t have my girl bleeding out in the middle of nowhere, now can I?” He huffs, placing the tweezers and bullet on the floor of the safe house before taking off the ruined gloves with his teeth as his neck muscles peek out from his scarf. 

His gear was all covered in fluids – blood, mud, you name it the two of you were drowned in it. The Op could have gone better, to say the very least, but, hell, when does an Op go well? It had been too long since you and the man had a break and it was starting to weigh on you. Long nights and little sleep, it was like SAD was trying to go get you both killed with all the orders being given. Do this, do that…and what happened today? You feel a weight in your chest. 

But the bullet wound wasn’t what was bothering you. 

Sighing, you take a deep breath before grunting, forcing your back farther up the wall with shaking legs and a weak stomach to comply with Alex’s request. Your arm still blazes something awful, but the numbing agent your boyfriend had been insistent on you having was finally starting to work.

“Blood loss sucks ass…” You growl under your breath, lips twisting into a frown as you force away the haze in front of your eyes with fluttering eyelashes and sheer spite. The man spares you a pitying glance as he grabs fresh gauze from the medical punch on the floor. 

Inside your chest, your heart warms despite the outward hatred you feel for getting put in a situation like this. Blinking at him, Alex tilts his head to the side as he sits up, one knee on the floor as the other behaves as an elbow rest.

“I know, Sweetheart, I’m sorry. Just bare with me, alright? I’ll take such good care of you, ya’ won't even feel a thing.” You roll your eyes with an infectious smile, head tilting back to rest on the dilapidated wall once more, and say nothing.

“Hey, now,” your boyfriend teases with tell-tale amusement in his voice, and you mumble a half-assed ‘quit it’ under your breath that goes unheeded. “I saw that smile there – you can’t get past me that easily.” 

“Keller, shut up and patch me before I bleed out.”

An amused pause makes your cheeks hurt from holding back laughter.

“...Yes, Ma’am.” He says it so smugly you can’t help the exasperated chuckle that leaves your lips. The man’s hands caress your stained skin like you were formed of glass, rubbing soothing circles as he pushes back your shirt sleeve just the tiniest bit more to see what he’s working with. 

Alex was quite good at keeping his emotions in check, knowing how to act when he needed to, and even how to change his personality to get the job done with minimal hiccups. But there were small tells – the way his hands held your skin slightly tighter, the flickering of his eyes over the crimson-coated skin. He was used to blood, but he didn’t think he could ever get used to yours. Swallowing saliva in this mouth, the man focuses on the thrumming pulse of your heart; your skin. 

She’s right here. Alex tells himself. I’m gonna fix her up, and she’ll be just fine. 

If he had the chance to shoot the man that did this to you again, he would do it in a heartbeat.

The story of how you two met was one mentioned often by friends and coworkers back in the CIA-SAD headquarters. It never got old, apparently, and as Alex gets to stuffing and wrapping your wound until the extraction team comes with proper supplies, he hums a song under his breath softly. The song.

When Alex’s presence presses nearer, you tilt your head to the side, watching the wrinkle in the large man’s brow as his careful hands fix your marred skin with the patience of a saint. Unlike him, you were more than content to bask in the silence of each other's company, gazing with hidden love at the twitch of his large nose or at the way his hair stuck every which way. 

“You remember how I asked you to dance at that ball while Frank Sinatra was playing? The one in Washington back in ‘02.” Alex asks, looking up at you with a small smile under his mustache, skin peeling back to show perfect teeth. You nod, transfixed, as the light from outside gets dimmer, watching the dying rays play in his eyes that shine like shades of blue sea-glass, “God, I thought you were going to laugh straight in my face. I swear you nearly did.” 

“The stupid corporate thing that Laswell made us go to? Yeah, I remember it,” you frown at the accusation, annoyed, “and I would never laugh at someone asking me to dance.”

He raises a light brow, and after a brief staring contest, you concede with a scoff. 

“Okay, I’d never laugh at you asking me to dance…Better, Sunshine?” Alex laughs and you swear you nearly melt into the floor, cheeks feeling hot. 

Oh, when he laughs.

“Maybe, I don’t know yet. We’ll have to go dancin’ to make sure.” 

“I hate dancing,” you tease, only biting your lip when the knot he ties in the gauze makes your blood pump faster. “Thought I told you that the first time you asked?”

“You did – but I like when you’re swayin’ in my arms. Plus,” running his hands over the bandage, pulling at the fabric to make sure it’s secure, his blue orbs sparkle with his unique mischief you’ve come to tolerate. If only for the fact that it was his. Your face softens. “I did get you to join me eventually, if my memory’s correct.” 

Smirking, you bring your hand up to his chin, tilting it towards you without hesitation. Alex complies easily, setting some of his weight onto the limb as a particularly smitten glimmer sparks over his face; he stares down at you with his mustache twitching. 

“As I recall,” your blank words echo out over the small shack, “I only said ‘yes’ so you would stop following me around like a lost dog in search of its owner.” 

“Is that it?” He jibes, a smile so wide on his face you feared he would rip his lips open.

“Hm,” leaning closer, you watch Alex’s breath stutter not a second later with satisfaction singing in your blood like a hymn, “you had that same look on your face too…Absolutely whipped.” 

“And is that such a bad thing, Sweetheart?” He whispers, not missing a beat, breath fanning your cheeks as the scruff of his beard hairs scratches your flesh. “I don’t see you complaining when I make you dinner every night.” 

Scoffing, you squeeze his chin, “how could I? Your mother blessed you with her culinary skills. I’d be a fool to pass it up.” 

Alex’s chest rumbles in a purr.

“So you’re usin’ me?” He asks, his smooth voice tilted in a tone of bold cheekiness. Like a steady wave rocking a boat.

“Would it be unethical if I was?” You counter, staring dead on into his eyes without blinking. His lips nearly brush yours when he speaks.

“Incredibly.” 

“Hm…Pity.” You release his chin and lean back into the wall, murmuring complaints under your breath about the weakness of your arm and the sweat that makes your clothes stick to you. The regular grumpy frown on your lips re-takes its place where the easy smile had once been, unknown to you.

Alex’s heart beats loudly in his chest, but he refrains from showing his disappointment at the lack of lips pressed to his, only happy that you were still acting like your normal self. It would take more than one bullet to keep you down, he knew, and his admiration only continued to grow. 

His girlfriend was a badass. 

“Here – let me.” You allow the Agent to loop his strong arm under your shoulder, taking your weight like it was nothing and helping you to your feet. The comfortable conversation slips to the back of your mind when your feet are connecting to the ground. 

Alex keeps a hand on the small of your back to make sure you don’t fall, whispering a small, “steady,” as your feet momentarily stumble.

“How far out is Evac?” You force through gritted teeth, the back of your neck heating in wounded pride. 

You loved Alex - you really did - but if anything made you feel powerless it was not being in control of your own body. In the corners of your vision, black dots swirled like paper mache puppets, their phantom bodies leaving long streaks of mist behind as they danced from one position to another. The man at your side watches closely, face going tense; ready to catch you if your legs give out. 

After a moment’s hesitation, you once more gain control over yourself and clear your throat, shaking your head from side to side. The light brunette takes a step forward so his body brushes yours, leading you to blink and look up at him with curious eyes. 

“I’d say about three hours, give or take.” You can’t help the utter annoyance that enters your expression, eyes going half-lidded as you turn to stare at the barricaded door. 

No one would be coming after you from the city – and the safe house was so far off into the mountains, no one would want to try. If your thoughts hadn’t been running so fast, you would have reveled at the situation; Alex and you alone with no one coming for hours. Now that was a blessing in disguise. 

But there was something wrong. 

She’s not acting right. Those sea-glass eyes narrow, optics flickering to try and find what exactly you were staring at, but lands on nothing but an old door with moldy wood before he gravitates back.

Concerned confusion builds in Alex’s chest. 

Now that he thought about it, you had been more snappy on this mission than the others; less open to letting his jokes and quick quips curl your lips or soften your constant scowl. He’d refrained from mentioning anything due to the fact that he knew some days were worse than others – in this line of work sometimes it was best to take a breather than to blow up. But this was different. When those days came around, you always told him about it first thing – there hadn’t been anything this time.

“Sweetheart?” Alex asks, tilting his head forward to stare at you. “...Something going on?”

“No.” Straight-faced, your hands go to work the straps of your vest, peeling at the velcro at your sides. The man’s eyes widen, taken aback, and his soft smile freezes as his eyebrows pull in. You go back to shoving away pouches and hucking off your weapon, setting it to the floor before righting yourself.

Continuing, Alex feels his worry grow tenfold. 

“Would you–” he laughs heavily in his chest to try and dispel tension as you try harder to force the vest over your head, scowling. Your arm was ripe with needles, static living under the skin as your gauze turns more red. “Would you just let me take care of you?”

“...You shouldn’t have to.” 

A moment of brain-shattering silence. 

Fuck, you curse with a burning face, did I say that out loud? He wasn’t supposed to hear that–

“And what if I want to?” Alex utters, feet carrying him in front of you and sighing. You slow your still unexplained actions, avoiding his eyes and feeling your chest tighten. He continues, bringing his hand up to your cheek to tilt your head up to him. Losing some of that tension instantaneously, you glare at his collarbone instead. “Accidents happen, Hon. We can’t always come out of this at one hundred percent. I’m not disappoint–”

“We don’t get second chances, Alex,” you interrupt loudly, motioning around you at nothing, eyes flashing as they lock with his. The man just runs his thumb over your cheek – leaving molten heat behind. “Not us. Not when every mission could be it.”

Alex halts, body suddenly going stiff and muscles bunching. His forearms seize, the vibrant tattoos that you love to trace with your fingers jerking as if being lifted from the sun-kissed skin. His thumb ceases.

What?

“...Where’s this comin’ from?” You turn away quickly, moving back a step with your hands at your side bunching into fists, “hey,” Alex follows after, hesitant, but when you don’t move away he lays both of his hands on your shoulders. “Hey. Talk to me, Sweetheart. Tell me what’s wrong.”

You shouldn't, but Alex just makes everything so much easier. It was like the words just fell out of you; whispered like a prayer. 

“...If someone would have snuck up on you while I was down…I…Y-you would have…” Your tongue bunches, catching on syllables and finding walls embedded in the vowels. God, you couldn’t even say it. 

Alex had become so important to you – the thought of something happening to him while you were unable to help…It broke you. 

What would have happened if even one more hostile was there; if he was outnumbered? And all I could do was watch. Your jaw clenches tight, throat holding back a growl.

No one had ever mattered this much to you, and that made you incredibly nervous. 

The hands at your shoulders tighten, a gentle squeeze before you’re being brought into a warm embrace without another word. Immediately, you reciprocate, the one wounded arm remaining at your side as the other digs past pouches and spare ammo to curl over Alex’s back, where you latch onto his shirt like a child. This was unlike you.

But it wasn’t like that mattered to Alex.

His body kept you close, security leaking from the locked position of his hand on the back of your head and the even swelling of his lungs. Home could mean many things to many different people, but for you, it would always be here. Colorful tattoos and a well-groomed mustache. Kind eyes. 

Sunshine smiles and sea-glass blue. 

Your lips thinned, keeping the glossiness in the corners of your vision away as you bury your head into Alex’s neck and suck down a deep breath. You both stay like that until the last light of dusk stops making shadows of the termite-eaten furniture, content to listen to each other's heartbeats and in the warmth of living skin. 

He speaks in whispers.

“How about we take a vacation? Just the two of us – take a breather from all of…this.” His words move your hair, spreading over the skin of your scalp as he presses his lips to it, murmuring into your skull with utter devotion. “You said something about Iceland to Laswell once, yeah?” 

Alex knew just as well as you did how draining this job was; how it was bad most days and horrible the next – never having choices, doing things that made an identity crisis seem like a holiday in comparison. There were some things the Agent would never tolerate, and that was you going off the deep end and him not being there to fish you out as you do with him. Being together meant fighting for one another when the battles were physical yet more so when they were unseen. 

All you had was each other. 

He feels your fingers grip his shirt slightly tighter, and a mocking laugh.

“You remembered that?” Your voice is garbled by his gear, but the vibrations spread over his skin as he fights the closing of his eyes; weaving his fingers just a little more through your locks. When you press kisses to his neck, Alex swears he’ll bend to one knee without hesitation.

“‘Course,” he smirks softly, lightly beginning to sway the two of you back and forth despite your half-hearted protests. “I remember everything my girl says. But if we’re goin’,” the Agent leans back, prompting you to look up at him with fatigued but bright eyes, “you owe me a dance first.”

“Alex,” you roll your eyes, chest lighter and mild panic gone. Funny, how the man could make everything disappear so simply. “We don’t even have any music.”

“You’re insinuating that we need music, Sweetheart.” 

“...You’re exhausting, Keller.” 

“Shush – you’re getting me off beat.”

“There is no beat–!” He presses his lips to yours, and the melody of your heart becomes song enough. Your eyes flutter shut as the scratch of Alex’s mustache leaves you grinning, his own lips peeling back in a smile in answer. 

A great bout of chuckles spills over the room, separating your supple flesh but never making you move far apart.

“...Just be careful. I’m still sore.” You hum your admittance, and he connects your foreheads together more gracefully than butterflies wings. 

Sea-glass blue. 

“Yes, Ma’am.”

The stars might have been out, shining through the dusty window of that old shack in the middle of nowhere, but you didn’t need the illumination from them to guide your unhurried steps. You had a sun of your own to light the path, and he was keeping his arms around you; squeezing as if you’d leave. 

As if. 

Gentle laughter spills out from under the doorway, seemingly making the rocky forest outside come alive. Birds sang songs to their adoring mates, deer grazed in lush green meadows in contentful calm. Wood Nymphs frolicked to and fro on fast feet, but would pause near the ancient forgotten building with termites living in the frame; taking quick peaks inside through murky glass and pressing moss-coated fingers to lips. 

They watched the two lovers dance with awe-filled expressions. For they had seen many lifetimes but had never once glimpsed such a sight as this – proof of every principle that Eros had preached as he and Psyche became inseparable. A love so pure and giving, some would call it divine.

The immortal beings watched just a little longer, lichen-lips parted into smiles.

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[howyouloveyourdragon]

Remnants

pronouns: she/her warnings: smut, use of the word ‘whore’, angst, disease, character death, fluff, infidelity, slowburn, classism at first (daemon is a shit) summary: They say that you never forget your first love but the vultures are prey to weakness and intend to infiltrate Daemon’s own desires to preserve his adere riñus (slippery girl). Some say the woman will forever remain in his conscience, guiding his bloodied sword and singing sweet lost lullabies to lay his rest. For it has been too long since the volatile dragon slept peaceful. A prince with more gold than he can keep. A prince who can demand whatever he wishes and command any army. And yet all he is left with…All he is left with are the remnants of her which he swore to cherish as religiously as he would an idol. A/N: reader has dark hair for a plot point to work but i think you can still ignore it if you want to :) dividers by: firefly-graphics wordcount: 6,797

There is nothing like a sunset that is more comforting to him and yet his comfort is limited. How he stares at the strewn stars like figments of grace and kind. How he stares each as though in the eye and recounts sonnets as they emit. How he begs and pleads for the Gods to last the warmth of sunlight just a little longer each time. And each time it fades. Each time his eyes grasp any trace of her to sew back into his mind after it has been torn from him with viscous delight. He should have known. The Gods do not listen to begging. Not even from Crown Princes. No matter how many bottles he shatters in the heat of his dreams. He likes to think that their love was red and as flowing as his ever-heating dragon’s blood. A Syrax in its own right. But there was no Goddess of ecstasy blessing them. No. It was a curse of bluebells and belonging to that of Gaelithox, surely to punish him for his foolishness. He looks up at the sky. The dark array of black and blue. Of silver specks and promising folds of purple. There is nothing like a sunrise better to send the Rogue Prince into a spiel of decay and sickness. The absurd golden bonds squeezing out another day like an artist with their last inch of oils. The crawling brightness that comes to threaten the moon. Abysmal lies sung to him as his brother attempts to push him into seeing beauty in all that inductees his churning stomach. 

He wills the flowers to wither. 

It was under the rising sun that Daemon had stumbled and forced his way out of the obnoxious hooting Street of Silk. Perhaps he had been desiring only ale or the rancid smell of sweat to intoxicate him. At just two and twenty, he had been visiting the volatile heap of taverns and brothels for the past eight years. It was religious in his dark desires. For dragons did not obey the whims of men and Daemon did not obey the whims of his brother nor father. And certainly not the whims of his wife. His nose turns up at the thought. Marriage would not contain him like they desired and yet still, he receives the constant demands to visit her. Of course he only intends to sink them in water until soft enough to shred, rejecting their presence all together. It would be easier to burn them but he does not think them worthy of his flame. His begrudging circle had even begun threatening to hail her to the Red Keep. To keep her in his presence all torturous times of the day. He knows his mother wouldn’t have let this happen, surely. Never would she sell him like prize cattle just to tame him. He is a dragon does not fuck plain featured sheep, he burns them but he would not devour them like his brother wished. His tastes were precise and he would not settle. He is a prince. He deserves nothing less than a woman matching his silver strands. Which is what he thinks of as he stumbles through the dark night struck streets, hopefully back to the castle gates at least. He despised people seeing him in such a state but he could usually hold his liquor better than tonight. And he assures himself that all will be well…until his cloak catches on a hook and he crashes to the floor in a surge of red blurred vision. 

He blinks awake the next morrow with a pounding headache the size of Caraxes. A wince cracks at his muscles. Daemon grunts, a rough sting along his left cheekbone. A blur of dark hair and feminine presence has him assuming he had fallen asleep in the whorehouse again but instead his eyes flit across the plain room, brows pinching at the plain room. It is unfamiliar, he realises. His lips part in time for a resounding click of the unknown woman's fingers to snap him into alert. Anger swells in his chest but his limbs are weakened with exhaustion and ale. His sharp eyes choose to narrow instead as quickly as she takes a step. His brain swishes with questions. Where is he, why is he here and most importantly, who is this already insufferable cunt of a peasant? "You." He sneers, clicking his own fingers but she ignores him, returning to a small room he presumes to be a...kitchen? It is small and brown and littered with pans, some empty, some filled. "Tell me, who are you?" It is a demand. They both know it is a demand and yet it goes ignored. Rage firms his brittle state. "Answer your prince!" He stands on slightly shaky legs, uncaring to his indecent layer of clothing, or rather, lack of. His tunic...Where is his tunic? It isn't panic that raises the bile but it is discomfort. The odd woman merely chuckles at him. Anger flares once more. Daemon's swift hand snaps to his scabbard only to find it empty. "Relax, your highness," He doesn't like the mocking lilt seeping from her untrustworthy tongue. "it will be returned to you, I merely made certain you would not awaken with a missing appendage." His face scowls petulantly at her and he takes a step forward. 

Daemon builds up his broad shoulders to square though he is not entirely a man full-grown yet and his boyish features attempt to harden. Intimidation is a powerful tool he knows. "You will hand me my possessions and I will take leave far from your slums or I will–" She spins around, facing him not with fear or mal-intent but with curiosity. Her sly smirk is the first thing he notices alongside her narrowed fox-like eyes. “Or what?” She returns, impishly .His mouth hangs. She had been washing one of her thick pans but now she has tucked the pathetic wet towel into her small apron and folds her arms. The pan is left forgotten on the side after a loud clang. She raises her brows. “Or what, your highness?” She repeats as though he is nothing more than the village idiot or town fool. Begrudgingly he has never felt more like a child, not even after marrying the bronze bitch. Daemon’s mouth moves but nothing comes out. She snorts. “Will you harm a sweet village girl? Add blood to your taxes? Ah, apologies, my lord, you are no foe of such demands, you are the taker.” The snide doesn’t pass him. “No girl is of worth to a Dragon.” He says, finally regaining composure. She doesn’t cower, she sneers. “In that we can agree.” Her voice, once mellifluous and playful, now turns cold. “Except the ones fucking dragons and I assure you, I have no intentions.” He swallows, noticing just how close they have approached once the hit of warm breath fans over his mouth which towers just above her. He ignores when his eyes flicker to her wet lips. How can a peasant look so nourished? 

Daemon may ignore it but the peasant does not, her lips slowly curling upward smugly. She hums as she takes in his dilated pupils now wielding more than just rage. Slowly, her calloused hand begins to dip into her apron pocket. In a flash, his palm snatches her wrist and rips it out of reach. She blinks, slightly disoriented, but then raises her brows comically. “Do you not wish me to return your sword, my lord?” She lilts, Daemon’s face softens. “I am your prince, not your lord.” He snarls. Again, her sickening chuckles lift in the stale air. “You are an ingrate that we are all in service to, my prince. Do you wish for your dagger or not?” He hesitates. Who is to determine that she is not attempting to fool him? That she will not snipe his weapon and slice it through his throat; would she leave him bleeding on her floor or scatter him amongst the mongrels of flea bottom? Daemon casts his eyes at her apron. She sighs, allowing his thick fingers to swipe through the various utensils stashed away. The prince grunts when he makes contact with a blade, groaning behind his taut lips. He slides it out once he finds the hilt and dances it between his fingers like a peacock presents its feathers. A smirk twitches. 

The peasant girl sighs, unamused as he watches the shining steel. “Do you intend to frolic through the streets and freeze?” She asks with a thin layer of mocking. His eyes narrow on the blade. “No,” He articulates in a frozen phrase. “You will lead me to the garments you have stolen from me and in return I shall allow your pitiful life to remain.” It isn’t a chuckle that escapes her this time but instead a snort. His nose wrinkles at the unabashed noise. “Will I?” She returns, biting the inside of her cheek. Daemon lets a glower settle, breath heaving at the disrespect. He clenches his jaw. “You will or you will taste your own blood.” Daemon spouts the words, attempting to poison her flesh, he can already imagine the boils that would litter her soft skin. The peasant merely winks. “It wouldn’t be for the first time but I am afraid that it would be in your best interests that you stay a moment more.” She sighs as though the fact physically pains her. A hand sneaks behind her back, which connects against the rough counter edge, and produces a small wooden bowl, heat emitting in steam from the top. “Would you not prefer to break your fast before you leave? A weak prince is not a wise one.” 

He leans down, sneering. “I am not weak.” She leans up at him and tilts her head. “Then how do you know I was talking about you?” She pushes the strange broth to his chest and slips past him once his confusion lessens his hold on her other wrist. His head snaps to face her figure again. “You are an insinuating little tart.” Daemon comments but much less interrogative than before. He eyes the broth cautiously as he takes a seat at her short stocky table. His legs plead for freedom under the trapment. He ignores them. The girl glances him over and he can feel the scrutiny piercing his skin, ready to seep inside. Begrudgingly, the heir seats himself at the small table of her home and huffs like a petulant child.  The threat of judgement crawls like an insect over his tense muscles, it feels like twenty-thousand little cockroaches are bumping one another from the inside of his skin. It begs to clamber into the strange peasant instead, what does a peasant fair against a prince? She must know that it would be further than a sin to place judgement on a Targaryen prince while she is nothing more than a lowly film of dirt atop his shoe; filth he is desperately trying to scrape off until his hands are raw and bloody. 

His eyes take this moment to rake over and through her as she stumbles around the much too small hobble. Her hair reminds him of toiled waves, crashing messily and unkempt–even though it is tied up–against the harsh wind sneaking through her window. Her apron is dirtied and there is flour on her face. She looks every inch the commoner he despises. Because she thinks she’s better than him, he’s sure, he can see it in her smugness, her eagerness to keep him dependent on her already. She has a vile brown dress beneath it, his skin itches just looking at the rough worn-in cloth. The prince’s eyes trail to her bare feet, he winces but attempts to ignore it, glancing over the muddy wet end to the dress. He lets a sigh release and shakes his head, inspecting the rest of the abode. Just looking at her made him long to cleanse himself. Daemon’s nose turns up at the sight of a myriad of blue wilting flowers in the corner, well he supposes to her it is reminiscent of a myriad. Her. Why is it her mind, her thoughts, that he wants to explore like the depths of the great sea he has always been kept from? Then his eye catches on the deep red cloth that drapes along a lone wooden chair. His eyes narrow. Is it stolen? She doesn’t look as though she could afford such vibrancy. Or perhaps she is a whore and it was gifted by a client. That must be it. She’s a whore. Daemon clicks his tongue and looks down at the half-eaten broth. He stirs at the odd liquid, raising the too large spoon and pouring the broth back in the bowl before dipping it back in again. It takes all his willpower to stuff it into his cheeks and let it play on his tongue. 

He swishes it across his taste buds. Daemon wants it to be foul, he wants it to reek of vomit-inducing grossness. It is a childish word but he is running out of insults. His hope also falls flat because for some reason it tastes good. It tastes better than any soup the high paid cooks have ever offered him, it tastes almost better than any rich meal he’s consumed. His eyes narrow. Is she a witch? Is this set to bewitch him or send him into sleep? No, it makes him feel much too energised. Then is it to gain his favour? Constituted to trick his submission? She will not achieve it, he refuses. He finishes the lukewarm meal while taking his time. He watches her hum and shimmy about the room, searching for something he does not know. He scans her curiously. “My garments.” He states in demand, standing and approaching her swiftly. She doesn’t react, doesn’t even stop humming. She moves about a few thick books, all handwritten and all with olden pages–yellow with use. 

His fist rests sideways against the presumably oak bookcase so he can lean over her, forearm following suit. He wants it to reflect dominance but instead it twists his gut and warms his lower stomach. “You have something that belongs to me,” Daemon purrs. His eyes narrow. His free palm outstretches. “I want it back.” “I have more than one thing, milord.” The snark drips from her tongue with charisma he loathes. His jaw clenches at the forced display. “Then return them and I shall return this.” Her eyes snap up to him and frown at the sealed letter in his grasp. Daemon can see as the panic swells and tenses her muscles, he can see as she takes in an inhale sharper than Dark Sister, he can see as her eyes widen because Daemon is not merely a swordsman and soon-warrior; Daemon Targaryen is also an observer. The peasant girl swallows. “Very well.” She chokes out and he finds himself surprised to have won this game of cat and mouse. Of dragon and sheep. Almost disappointed. The prince nods and steps back but as she prepares to swipe it from his hands and pulls it back with a visibly pensive expression. “I will give it to you once you return my possessions.” Eyes meet and again, his gut twists. She tilts her head, guard seemingly lowered. “How curious,” She breathes out. Daemon’s brows knit. “What?” He questions. “You said possessions not belongings. Most would use the latter.” 

When he eventually does return to the castle, fully clothed and prepared to sleep off the remainder of his disturbed night, He keeps a firm stance and intends to forget the strange day so far but his mind circles the events like a fly. Daemon growls as he shrugs off his shirt to replace it with one of pure white and tosses the prior into a drawer. He roughly grasps a red doublet in his hands and tugs it over. His breath comes out in grunts and curses until he is redressed. It is the same shade as the peasant girl’s cloth, of course it is. It was his favourite until today and now childishly, it feels tainted by the resurging memories of humiliation being sewn inside. His nose scrunches up, a grotesque taste rubbing against his tongue as he recalls one incident in particular. The prince, a man to be respected, can visualise as he was shoved to a thin mattress and tossed up the mix of bile and sickness from his stomach. All. Over. Her. Floorboards. Daemon winces and shakes his head, trying to shake the memory into the deepest depths of his subconscious, never to be seen again. He sighs and turns around, pausing when a slight fluttering falls as soft as a petal from his trouser. He frowns and peers down at the paper. There sits a thin parchment, not unlike the letter he had returned to the peasant girl. This one however is in cursive words much more eloquent than the past one and written in a phrasing he’s unsure of. He looks at the wax seal this time. It’s blue and the paper around it is curled. Daemon glances over the creases. Perhaps his business is not yet forgoing. 

A moon passes before he finally returns through the winding streets, trying to recall the pattern in which he returned home, backward. Daemon finds himself humming a tune to which he should not be familiar with but it is the only thing that consumes his mind as he passes through the Street of Flour. Finally, he reaches a small doorway and raps at it. No one answers to which he sighs and takes a step back, peeking through the opening of his hooded cloak at the abundance of civilians. Daemon’s eyes dart amidst the unknown area and his feet follow, investigating a series of yells and glances one last time at the door. The street is in uneven bumps and the people there are clumped together as they holler and whistle. Daemon halts his tune and uses his substantial height to attempt to see over the large mass of bodies. He can barely make out the sight of steam and two large wooden stands. The hollers burst through his ears like pellets of rain, forceful and punishing as a storm. 

Then a familiar voice is raised above the others, a mock resounding in his ears but with the playfulness and wit of a friend. His violet eyes snap up to find the woman haunting him. She’s laughing raucously, obnoxious and loud. Daemon’s lips slightly twitch at the teeth she bares. Again, his gut stirs. The heat becomes smothering but that doesn't stop him in his pursuit in finding the peasant girl who he now sees tossing around a pan filled with water and meat. From the brief glances he can snatch up, she’s almost finished while a man beside her is kneading a similar meat lined in fresh pink. Daemon pulls his lips taut, tensing as he watches the show. His little peasant seems to be enjoying herself. Witch, he thinks briefly but she doesn’t look like a witch and nor does she particularly sound like one. Are witches not supposed to be tantalising and hibernate an illusion of raw sex? Of primal appeal to tempt him? She doesn’t appear to be trying very hard. The flour is gone from her face now, he notes, but in its place lays a curved slice, colour as deep as that of Dornish wine. If she is a witch, would she not surely cover it? The hiss of her heated pan hisses throughout the street and Daemon finds himself surprised that no one has stolen from the small bag of coins in the centre. 

A cacophony of enjoyment and not one has a trail of bitterness. He watches as the girl glides a hand around her neck to push back the hair escaping its tight wrap atop her head. Only joy amongst the miserable. Perhaps that should worry him but he is too enthralled in the display. The woman’s hair is tied high again but much clearer than the moon prior–the day he last saw her. She is still wearing the same rags but this time that revolting red cloth is wrapped around her shoulders like a shaul. Not a whore either then. A whore would not be parading her squeals for free and nor would she wish to wear rags when surely many men had solicited them. So she is not a witch and not a whore and yet he finds himself stalking after her presence like an injured pup. Daemon growls at the very thought. He is a prince. How many times must he remind himself? Princes do not chase after strange peasant girls. The scolding floats through the wind when the peasant girl cheers and hurls the pan down on the wooden market stand. Her opponent groans half-heartedly, grinning like a mad man as he stretches out his arms and embraces the girl, one rough large hand resting to cup the back of her head and his other reaching to slap her back like Daemon has seen other knights behave. But this is not a knight, this is a peasant. The fact twitches his nose in distaste. But so is she. A voice whispers in his ear, he swats it away, watching as the surrounding peasants cheer. 

Daemon watches as the children let their little hands grasp the food and jump in bubbles of excitement. If he had a warmer heart, he may have found the sight sweet. But he does not, he has a mission to complete. He approaches the peasant girl with sly steps but she has already noticed him, how, he does not know. He steps behind her and opens his mouth but she beats him to it. “My prince,” She speaks with a burning smugness he doesn’t have to look at to be aware of. Against his better judgement, a sly smirk spreads across his pale lips. “You remembered.” He quips to which she hums in approval and folds her arms over her chest. “Unfortunately I did.” Daemon shifts in intrigue. He hesitates for the first sun of his existence. “I almost thought you wouldn’t bring it back.” She comments, amusement slipping in between her teeth. A snicker passes his mouth, a mouth rarely barred. “I had not imagined you would need use of such a thing left so easily misplaced.” Daemon’s hot words burrow through her ear, as determined as their wielder. She turns her head, baring her soft neck and piercing eyes to look up into his. The heir’s breath hitches. 

“I misplaced nothing, my prince.” The peasant purrs boldly. The intimacy of a whisper drips from her like an aphrodisiac. Daemon grins. “Is it my name or merely my title that you know of?” He chuckles, a confident hand reaching wind at her waist. Her own hand cups it. “Of course, my Prince Daemon Targaryen.” He swallows and a shuddered chill draws down his back. “Might you tell your prince your own for adequate compensation?” She leans a little closer, only a breath apart and fanning across his twitching lips. She interrupts his thoughts by slapping his hand enough to stun him. “I shall not.” With him vulnerable, she twists away from him with cautious grace. “I like to leave my men wanting.” She calls with a growing impish grin. He surprises himself by returning the gesture, straightening his back as he does so and raising his brows. “And I am one of your men then?” He retorts easily and watches her sashay apart from him. Before she is too far, he pats down to find the letter in his pocket but already knows it has been swiped. Instead of berating his own foolishness, he smirks at the smart, slippery girl and steps away, sure to see her more in the growing time. 

As the moons pass and his brother grows increasingly irate with him, Daemon Targaryen sneaks away into the night. He ignores the hailings of his Lady Bronze and replaces her calls with the sweet melodies his newfound companion intoxicates him with. The soothing lilt of her lullabies and the calm braids she strews across his hair. Daemon stands, now a man of 27 years, at her side. Y/n, she had told him. Her name was Y/n. She was of no surname and no wealth but she was beautiful and kind. She was fresh and witty and every inch the insinuating tart she had been the night they met. Her fingers stroke through his tangled mane with a snort before landing her hands, rough with work, on his shoulders. He leans back and flutters his eyes shut. With all the bread she has kneaded, this is not the first time he longs for her embrace. He hums in swift pleasure, reaching up to coil his fingers with hers. “How is sweet Rhaenyra?” Y/n asks, voice ripe with interest and honey as always…Only this time, there is something burrowed beneath, he can feel it. He can feel it better than he can sense Caraxes’ heartbeat. “She is well…Almost full grown already.” Daemon responds, his fingers lingering as they caress Y/n’s hand. Why does it feel so much frailer than it did before? “Are you hiding something from me? Are you aware that it is a crime to lie to your prince,” The joke falls flat as she leans forward and shakes her head, arms stretching across her lover’s chest. She doesn’t speak and he doesn’t pry but they are both aware of the deep mulberry bags beneath her eyes. 

But Daemon has always been a man of actions and impulses and so, he lets instincts take over, leaning back his head to look at her. His hands both reach up to cup her face and descend it toward him with gentle prompt. “I brought something for you,” He breathes, twirling a strand of her hair around his fingertips. She tilts her head and tightens her lips. “Whatever for?” He lets a mischievous grin twist his mouth and stands, settling Y/n down in the chair instead. Daemon cups her cold hands in his warm ones and folds them in her lap. “Close your eyes.” She does so begrudgingly but she is long past arguing with him when he’s in his moods. She chuckles. “You told you there was nothing you required for your namesday and while I respect–” She interrupts him, groaning with amusement. “Because it is not a namesday, I will never know my namesday,” She chuckles but her tickling throat gives her away, choking the words out of her dry throat. Daemon hums lowly. “But it is the day that you were given shelter.” She rolls her eyes at the quip. “That place was hardly a shelter.” He leans down to kiss wetly along her jaw and up to her earlobe. “And yet it brought you to me, kept you safe and waiting.” She snorts and raises her brows, a pointed expression inching over her. “I was hardly waiting.” He chuckles this time and kisses up the column of her throat. As she begins to breathe out gentle moans, he takes her distracted presence to skillfully thread his hand over hers, sliding cold steel onto her finger. She gasps and flutters her eyes open to see his cocky smirk. “Well?” He asks and kisses the finger. He licks his lips and lets a shaky breath flow through him. 

Y/n regains composure and stares at the ‘something’ he had brought her. She brings it to just in front of her sights and swallows. “Is-Is it…?” “Yes,” He whispers and looks at the carefully crafted jewellery too. “I want you to have a part of me, always. And in return…” He pauses and turns the ring around her finger slowly to reveal a carved dragon, its wings spread for flight. “I want all of you.” He slowly kneels in front of her. “I want you to marry me.” It’s instantaneous that her mouth parts and her eyes widen. “Daemon…” “That woman is not my wife.” He states coldly before warming at the sight of her softening brows. “You are my wife in body, in soul and I want so in law too.” He takes in a breath. “Please, do not this deny of me. “I told you I would give you everything and I intend to. “Your brother will never approve of it.” A growl ripples through his mouth. “I do not care, he has tried to be my dictator since we were children and now I am a man grown, I should be allowed to choose my own wife. To let her choose me. He has not yet had an heir, let me take you to Dragonstone.” He leans closer until only a single breath can part them. “Let me make you my wife in the ways of my ancestors.” Silence cups them in a bubble, so easily popped. Too easily popped…and yet, she turns the ring, roaming the dotted rubies that form the dragon’s eyes and in slow movement, she stares into violet irises as she kisses the dragon’s head. “Yes.” She whispers. “I will be your wife.” 

He doesn’t take a moment more to grasp the sides of her face and kiss fervently at her soft pliant lips. She returns the force in tandem as the sun sets behind them. The golden rays darken in a way only the most beautiful of moments could demand. Daemon’s hand drops to scrunch at the material at her thigh, at the skirts of her dress. It is in moments that both his hands reach to pop and tear at the incriminating fabric, ripping away her bodice until he can paw at his prize like an animal starved. Her teeth sink into his lip and the wet resounding noises surface upon their lips. His breath grunts as hers quickens in high pitched desperation. Her own hands slash roughly at his doublet, shoving it away from him like a criminal. His hips grind against her in hard strokes, desperately trailing his kisses down her neck while she clutches and pulls at his long silver hair. A high moan tears from her mouth as he sucks his marks into her, the need for possession clawing at his veins. Her pearl throbs as she twists to plunge him onto the floor. She straddles his thighs and wraps her arms around his neck and pushes his face against her neck again. He growls and snaps off her smallclothes. “When we met,” He groans, eyes fluttering back. “I thought you were a whore.” A breathy cackle drips from her animalistic mouth. “I’m starting to rethink denouncing that. You are much, ah, much too talented to be a baker.” He moans and burrows his head into the pillows of her breasts, lips wrapping to suction once more, to claim. “And you,” She interrupts herself to moan, tossing her head back. “Are much too unkempt to be a prince.” He bucks his hips. “Tell me,” A shriek breaks as he tugs roughly at the pelvis of his own trousers, desperately trying to be rid of the material. “Tell me you’re mine, Rogue Prince of the Seven Kingdoms.” A gasp drips from his tongue while he finally gets a grip of his fabrics. He tosses her to lie on the floor, her back pressed against the wood. “Fuck, I’m yours,” He babbles like a hormonal desperate teenager. With thick hands grapple his own trousers and tears them off with haste. “All yours, only yours.” 

He throbs as he kisses down her body, planting wet marks as violet as his eyes and crimson as his blood. He props up her right leg to drape over his shoulder and sucks at her thigh. His tongue probes at the flesh. His palms squeeze at her thighs as he slowly dips down between them and worships her mound in deep licks, drinking in the slick. He wants to drain it into a flask and carry it in his satchel. He wants to carry her around to sip from at any moment. He could die happily between her legs. Daemon Targaryen does not need wine or whore because she is his sin and he will anger the Gods happily if he can keep this temptress at his side. He pulls back to fan his breath along her throbbing cunny. Such a sweet filthy little thing, he thinks to himself, blowing down on it and revelling in her small jolt. His tongue drops to play with the bundled pearl, rolling it over the muscle and sending vibration as reward for every little moan that she lets pass. Her hands reach down and tug at his hair. “You should not have tempted me, adere riñus,” (slippery girl) His dark eyes level to meet hers. “I told you I want all of you and I intend to take it.” With an animalistic grin, his mouth descends once more to lap at her. Her back arches, grinding into him impatiently. “Be careful,” The woman pants. “Or I may start suspecting you to be a whore yourself.” He growls as she smirks and pushes up her body, slamming a forearm by her head and stretching her leg. She winces for a moment but recovers as his fingers replace his tongue. “A private whore then.” He speaks, removing his hand from her bud to palm at his length. “For a have already told you,” He grunts, chasing her mewls as he plunges into her entrance. “I am yours.” And so he pushes deeper, pushing roughly and lets his sweat pound into her flesh until they absorb one another. 

Months have passed. He knows they have but he doesn’t feel it. All he can do is fight and slay and watch as men burn and bleed. So long it has been since he last saw his true wife, since he last kissed her lips. A comment in passing has devoured his entire mind. A half-hearted promise that he has clung to now is visible but only in part. He wants it now more than he has ever wanted anything. “Yes, well, you may marry her if the Stepstones are ever retaken.” A King will be true to his word and his brother has never proved untrustworthy but the phrase was meant in jest, he knows. However, Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince and man of twenty-eight years, will let himself be damned before he rejects the prospect. He will make his wifey his own if it is the very last thing he does. He has returned to his brother, a crown of bone within his grasp and presented it to him with but one request. He shall take his own wife and he shall take her at court for all to see. Before every lord, lady or royal proudly. For the first time, it isn’t frustration or malice in his brother’s gaze in response to his boldness. It is gentle and merciful. Because that is what it feels like to be gifted the honour of his adere riñus. It is mercy, it is a blessing, it is his salvation. It is the rise of his sun and the fall of his stars because he only needs one. He only needs one shining star to keep his moon afloat and begging. 

Finally he can return home to her with more than a title and unfair vows. He can return with a heart full. Daemon’s hand twists at the wooden door he has slipped past so many times before but he freezes at the sight. An array of mess greets him and horror balls in his throat to gag him. His eyes snap at every corner, panic rising like the flow of sharp wind. His feet travel through the cluttered space, wariness biting at him but then he sees blood splatter on a cloth. It is as crimson as the shirt beneath his tunic and that alone makes him scream for her. Her name resounds through the open space and his legs run swiftly to the only other room there, the one where he had professed his devotion to her until the words bled out. He bursts the door open with the force of ten thousand men, the hinges yelling at him. He settles his sights on his weak love. She is shivering. With widened eyes and swiftly snaps to her side in one breath and kneels there, clutching her hands. “What is wrong, my love, who has hurt you?” The words are loud, demanding and cold. She almost doesn't respond and his heart stops. “I am well, husband.” She calls him such…She calls him such without even knowing the good news, the news he had only dreamed of whispering into your ear but not like this. Never like this. “My love, you are not.” Daemon chastises and fumbles with her bedsheets. He reaches to cup her cheek. “My love what has happened, has someone thieved you, please tell me what has happened.” She merely shakes her head. “I,” She coughs into her hand, rich thick blood dripping from it like a cursed potion. His face hardens but he lets her finish, lets the quiet remain. She’s trembling like a little lamb. “You knew that I was in an…unseemly state when you left. I am glad to have you return to me.” She has never spoken so proper, so rehearsed to him before. How long had he been blind? “I am taking you to a healer.” He snaps instantly and stands. She winces. “No,” She begs weakly. He shakes his head. “No, please, I do not wish for you to see me in this state.” “Shame is not for this time!” He yells. “I return home to my wife sickly and bedridden and you expect me to not alert a maester? Nonsense, you are coming willfully or I will make you.” 

The nights are cold and they pass without progress as he lays by her side at all hours. Her eyes stare up at the ceiling. “It is in the sky that you are free,” She utters. “Caraxes will be missing you.” Daemon shakes his head and glides a hand up her waist. “And if I should fly him then I shall be missing you.” “He is an animal as wild as you, my love,” She berates with the softness of an angel. “And he will wait.” “And for how long? Until I am old in my grave.” “Do not say such things!” Daemon chastises. “It is mere truth, husband.” She sighs and curls his hair in her fingers. “He needs flight and so do you.” He doesn’t respond, his petulance growing.”I am not getting better.” She wags a finger in his face when he tries to argue. “I will continue not to but if you do this justice for me then I will grant you an army of love.” The mischief still holds on her tongue after all this time. The gentle mocking of his salvation and he smiles. He smiles as water pricks his eyes. He can’t speak. He won’t make it so, not if it is only going to claw at him. 

Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches as the ivory moon lowers before him. He watches as gold forgives the darkness and they embrace. The twine of beauty and misery thread together in a beautiful seal. A seal of love and beauty. He twists a ring in his hand, one made of Valyrian steel and shattered promises. He sits upon a red cloth. Parchment is strapped to his thigh, awaiting acknowledgement, a web of bluebells encapsulates it. A letter of hopes, a letter of dreams unfulfilled. Daemon Targaryen, Rogue Prince, Lord of Flea Bottom, wielder of Dark Sister sits upon Caraxes and watches the sun rise and with it, his future. He has felt his slippery girl slip from him and now it is time for him to breathe new air. He is only left with the remnants of her but that is enough for him to resume his newfound duty. A duty to her, to her memory and to her desires. As he watches the night close, he finally takes acceptance. He accepts peace. Her love is not red, it is not blue. It is in what she has left behind and it is in what she has gifted onto him. Finally he understands what she meant that fated day. She does not own him. He belongs to her.

Her love is her remnants. And he has an army of it. 

Remnants Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @chompchompluke @eyelinerandcigarettes

HOTD Taglist: (if your name is in italics and bold, that means i couldn't tag you, you will need to check your settings) @wrendermedone @hopelesswritergall @blackdreamspeaks @its-actually-minicika @gettheetoanunneryimmediatly @adelusionalwriter

[queen-of-the-avengers]

Wolf In Sheep's Clothing

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female!Reader

Word Count: ~2k

Warnings: tw: rape, tw: talk of being raped but not the act itself, tw: verbal abuse, tw: emotional abuse, john is a really bad person, super sweet bucky, relief and being free at the end

Summary: Ever since your failed one-night stand with John, you two have been in a "relationship". He won't let you leave and treats you like less than. Will you ever find your way out of this abuse cycle?

Squares Filled: romania (2021) for @star-spangled-bingo

Author’s Note: any and all comments are appreciated <3

x

The person staring back at you in the mirror is someone you don’t recognize. How did you get to this point in your life? You used to be so full of life and loved going out with your friends. Now? You’d rather stay in and not see a single person in fear they’re going to see who you really are: a weak bitch. At least, that’s what John tells you daily. Your eyes used to hold so much light but now they’re sunken in. Your skin used to be glowing but now is pale.

Thank God for makeup.

You paint your face to make yourself look happy, to conceal the tear stains away, and to make your skin shine like how it used to. Just as you put the final brush down, John walks in with a scowl on his face.

“You take fucking forever to get ready. The boys are waiting on you. You’re either ready in five minutes or I’m gonna leave you here and I’ll punish you when I get home.”

“I’m ready.”

You turn to him with a fake smile plastered on your face.

“Fucking finally. Come on.”

As soon as John leaves the room, your smile drops. This is getting to be very exhausting and you’re not sure how long you can do this for. Still, you grab your purse and meet John at the car. One of his good friends is hosting a small party with drinks and dinner, so he doesn’t live far from you and John. John has his hand on your thigh the entire ride as a sort of reminder. His touch makes you want to throw up, everything about him you hate, and he’s not a good person. 

Not only is he mentally, verbally, and emotionally abusive toward you, but he crosses the line into physical abuse almost every night. He’s only hit you once out of anger but the physical abuse is sexual. One night a year ago, you were looking for a meaningless hookup to get over your ex and John had taken you back to his place. Everything was going great until the point where you two got into it. You backed down at the last second because you didn’t want to do that to yourself, but John didn’t take no for an answer.

He ended up raping you that night and has been almost every night after that. He became obsessed with you and had been for months before that, and now that he got his hands on you, he didn’t want to let you go.

He won’t let you leave, and you don’t know how to break this cycle.

You and John arrive at his friend’s house just as Bucky and Sam get there. It was John’s idea to invite them as a sort of “get to know my neighbors” type deal. He wants to prove to them that he’s just as capable of being Captain America as Steve was. Bucky isn’t going to go for his bullshit but Sam made him come here.

Bucky smiles when he sees you. He’s always thought you were too good for John but he’s kept his mouth shut because it seemed like you were happy in the relationship. However, when you pass by him to get into the house, he can see how terrified you are in your eyes.

“It’s good to see you two. I’m glad you could make it,” John smiles.

The worst thing about John is that he’s super charming and can convince a town full of people that he’s the good guy.

“Sam made me come.”

“Hush,” Sam says and whacks Bucky on the back of his head.

All four of you walk inside and greet the men who are already here. The only other woman who is here is one of John’s friend’s wife. You’d much rather go off on your own with the wife and make small talk but John keeps you by his side all night. Even as he’s talking to Bucky and Sam about his plans regarding Captain America, his arm is tightly wrapped around your waist. Bucky looks at you briefly and sees the look in your eyes. You’re smiling and agreeing with what John is saying but your eyes are telling him a different story.

Something is wrong here but he doesn't know what or how to help you.

Eventually, dinner is served and you’re seated next to John and the other woman. Bucky and Sam are on the other side of the table but Bucky’s eyes haven’t left you since you walked past him. It’s bugging him that he knows something is wrong without knowing exactly what it is. Everyone is eating and having a good time while you pick at your food cautiously. You can eat only what John approves of you to eat since he’s told you constantly that he doesn’t want you getting fat on him. If you look a certain way, he’ll force you to lose weight until you can fit into the clothes he buys you.

It’s your fault for eating too much anyway.

You’re not sure how the conversation ended up on languages, but John is always looking for an excuse to talk about this. You’ve pretty much tuned out this entire evening.

“I don’t know if you guys know this but Y/N can speak five languages, Romanian being one of them. It’s the one I find the most romantic.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I grew up with it,” you nod.

“Tell them how great I am in Romanian,” John chuckles.

The only other person at this table who can speak Romanian is Bucky. This is your chance. This is your chance to ask for some real help without alerting John you’re doing it.

“Am nevoie de ajutor. John nu mă lasă să-l părăsesc. Mă violează de câteva ori pe săptămână. Este abuziv fizic, verbal, mental și emoțional. Mi-e teamă că mă voi trezi într-o zi să-l văd cu un cuțit în față. Vă rog să mă ajutați. Nu mă va lăsa să plec.”

I need help. John won't let me leave him. He rapes me several times a week. He's abusive physically, verbally, mentally, and emotionally. I'm scared I'll wake up one day to see him with a knife in my face. Please help me. He won't let me leave.

You can’t look at anyone in the eyes, especially Bucky. Still, you peek a look at him to see shock written on his face. He understood every word you said but John is still smiling next to you as if you told everyone how loving and kind he is. John reaches over and grips your thigh gently to let you know he has all the power here.

“What did you tell them?”

You look at John and smile at him.

“How much you love me and how much you treat me like a princess. How much I love you.”

“See?” John chuckles. “She’s a keeper.”

John goes back to eating and chatter resumes as normal. However, Bucky can’t stop looking at you. You lock eyes with him before looking down and finishing your meal. The rest of the dinner goes by without a hitch and John is saying goodbye to his friends.

“I’m going to run to the bathroom real fast. I’ll be quick.”

John can’t be his usual self around company so he kisses the side of your head and allows you to do that.

“Hurry back.”

It’s a simple request but it holds so much threat behind it. You leave his side and head to the upstairs bathroom since that’s the only one working. As soon as the door is closed, you rush over to the toilet and throw up everything you ate. You want to cry until there is no more water in you but you have to remind yourself that John is waiting and he’ll get meaner the longer you make him wait.

Someone knocks on the door and the panic and fear in your body spike to a high level. You wipe your mouth with toilet paper and flush the toilet to make it seem like you’re done.

“Who is it?”

“Bucky.”

Relief replaces your panic but the fear is still there. He knows what John does. He knows everything. What is he going to do? You open the door carefully and he pushes his way inside with determination.

“Is what you said true?”

“I can’t do this here, Bucky.” If you talk about it openly, then you’re going to cry and John will know for sure something is up. “If I talk about it, I’ll cry and I won’t be able to stop.” You look at your reflection to make sure your makeup isn’t ruined. “I have to go. John is waiting.”

“Wait just a minute,” Bucky says and prevents you from leaving.

“Bucky, please. John will get angry. I need to leave now.”

“John is no longer going to hurt you.”

“What?”

“Stay here and wait for my return.”

Bucky leaves before you can say anything else. John sees Bucky come back alone and he’s getting a bit frustrated with you. He can’t do anything in front of his friends but just wait until he gets you home.

“Where’s Y/N?”

“In the bathroom. It sounded like she was washing her hands when I passed by. Can I talk to you for a second outside?”

John looks confused but follows Bucky outside nonetheless. John passes by Bucky while he stares at his vibranium arm. The metal flexes with power and Bucky is trying so hard to contain it.

“You want to know an interesting fact about me?” Bucky asks and looks at John.

“What?”

“Vorbesc fluent Romana.”

“What does that mean?”

“I’m fluent in Romanian.”

John immediately gets nervous. You told him you told everyone how much you love him but based on Bucky’s reaction, he knows you said something else.

“That’s cool, man. You and Y/N have something in common.”

With his vibranium arm, Bucky sends what’s supposed to be a deadly blow to the face. It would be deadly if the person he is punching didn’t have the super soldier serum in him. John crashes into the car behind him and sets off the car alarm. Everyone inside rushes outside to see what the commotion is.

“Never lay a hand on her again!” Bucky yells angrily.

Bucky sends another hard blow with his flesh hand to the side of John’s face. This is when the fight or flight response in John kicks in. He starts to fight Bucky back but there is no use in stopping the Winter Soldier. They both have the serum in them but Bucky has always been and will always be stronger than John. Bucky grabs John’s collar and pulls him up to his feet only to slam him to the concrete down below. Bucky punches John’s chest so hard with his metal arm that John’s ribs break and he coughs up blood.

“Hey! What the hell is going on!” Sam yells and pulls his friend off your abuser.

“He’s a fucking abuser and a coward! He’s hurting Y/N, and it’s gonna stop now. Don’t fucking go near her or I’ll do more than break your ribs,” Bucky threatens.

Everyone looks at John who just groans in pain with his eyes closed. Bucky pushes past everyone to get back into the house and to the bathroom where you are. You’re sitting on the toilet biting your nails nervously. You have no idea what is going on out there or what Bucky can do to help you. The bathroom door opens and Bucky enters without a second thought. You stand up to greet him when you smell blood. Your eyes trail down his body until they land on his flesh hand which has open wounds on it.

“What did you do?” you gasp.

“I should have killed him.” The realization that you’re free, at least at this moment, hits you and the floodgates open. The tears come flowing out and won’t stop, and Bucky pulls you into his arms. “He will never hurt you again. Sam and I have an extra room you can use.”

Your grip on him gets tighter.

“Thank you,” you cry and shake in his arms.

x

Follow my library blog @aqueenslibrary​​​​ where I reblog all my stories, so you can put notifications on there without the extra stuff :)

[tojisloft]

loml. gojo satoru.

wc: 1809 words

tw: wine, mentions of death, mentions of violence, heartbreak, marriage.

summary: gojo angst ?? jjk manga spoilers. DEVOTION.

a/n: this was inspired by loml by taylor swift at 3 am forgive me "i'll never leave" "never mind" JUST KILL ME RN OMFG. lmk if i made any mistakes. i wanted to go ahead w a sad ending but we're already going thru that in the manga so uhm lets win for once, yeah?

ao3 link

you had a bad habit of going back in time and visiting the past, not literally, you were not tony stark. you liked to subject yourself to emotional torture, thinking back on old memories that made your heart burn as if someone had dipped it in hot lava.

you took a sip of the pinot noir as your eyes glossed over the pictures affixed in a photo album. your heart ached, so much you almost thought it was a heart attack.

the picture stared back at you. it was you and satoru kissing, his lips on yours. your hands around his neck, resting on his broad shoulders. his hand gripping your waist, the other cupping your jaw. you could taste his lips on yours even now, you could never forget him. he tasted of unfulfilled dreams and chocolate.

your eyes fill to the brim, tears threatening to overflow down your cheeks. you hated him. so much. you hated him more than paper straws and caramel popcorn. you loved him so much you didn't realize when you started to hate him.

he was so perfect. always so considerate, always so loving and caring. always so, so soft with you, so delicate. his touch felt like feathers but held the weight of his love altogether, so light yet it felt like penetrated your skin and settled into your bones. he made a house in your heart, your body. you had never experienced something so divine. you wondered if you'd gone insane.

you felt that stab in your heart again. you refused to cry for him. to mourn him. he had to return, he had to.

he had a habit of breaking promises and you had a habit of believing him every damn time. but this was the one promise, he'd never break. you know that right? you had to.

despite all the bad things in his life, you were his star, his burning, blinding hope that he can be saved. that he was worth saving, because you chose him, over and over again. he had you. at the end of the day, he wanted nothing more than to sink in your arms and beg for redemption to his god.

your arms were sweeter than heaven; warmer, softer, forgiving, merciful.

you received whatever he provided with open arms, always so tolerating of his sins. so accepting. how could he not fall for you? when you saw him. you saw him. for what he was, a horrendous mix of god and monster, not benevolent enough to be a god, not barbaric enough to be a monster. somewhere stuck in between. but you didn't mind that not for a minute. you were hungry for love. and you didn't mind if the hand that fed you was of a beast.

it was a weird pair, the two of you. you were an angel reincarnate, not any less guilty than satoru, he was a wolf in sheep's clothing. if he was the large, empty black hole then you were light, entering the dark with no escape. one incomplete without the other.

you sipped on the wine again, the bitter taste on your tongue lasting for longer than it was supposed to. you missed him. you ached and you burned and a little part of you died as you looked at another photo.

it was one of you, satoru, and the kids. yuta, maki, toge, megumi, yuji, nobara. your breaths were coming shorter than usual. satoru was smiling, you could just die looking at him. his arms around your waist as he pulled you snug against him. the kids were happy too, as they should be as kids. it was your birthday, oh.

it had been a year since that photo was taken. oh. the glass you had been nursing fell from your hands, shattered into pieces. or was it your heart that had burst in your chest again? you didn't know.

your birthday had always been a special occasion, more for satoru than you. he celebrated it as if it was christmas or new year's. you were against it, but he never listened to you, did he? always made sure to shower you with multiple gifts. the platinum infinity necklace that you always wore, the bracelet he got for you. the ring. the clothes. this house. the wine. everything reeked of him.

were ghosts real? because all you felt was him, even though you knew. you could smell his deodorant, feel his electric touch that made your skin burn, his presence that smothered you, drowned you. he loved you so much. oh god, he loved you so much. there was a hole in your chest, where he was supposed to be. there was a hole in his chest where you were supposed to be.

whatever happened to the strongest and his lover? they crashed and burned.

you flipped again, another photo. if pain was all that was left of him then you'd stab yourself all over again.

it was one from your wedding day. you had eloped. he was in a black three-piece, you remember you tied his bow tie for him. spoiled child never learned how to do it himself, now that he had you, he had no reason to because you'd never leave him. you wore a simple white dress with thin spaghetti straps and it extended to your mid thighs. he was looking at you, in the photograph, he was looking at you with so much love that it transcended time and space and you could feel it even now, through the paper.

it had been the best day of your life, you had made kento and shoko your victims for the day, forcing them to be your witnesses and shoved a camera in their hands. they had done a wonderful job.

the stabbing pain in your heart was different now, it was burning now as if it had been lit on fire.

your phone chimed from beside you. it was shoko checking up on you. you ignored that and your fingers tapped on satoru's chat.

i'll be back soon baby.

you wiped the tears before they could fall. what a shame.

your phone chimed again. your eyes glanced briefly at the text. your heart nearly leaped out of your heart.

coming home. i love you.

you allowed yourself to cry now. finally. letting the tears run down your cheeks.

but how? you didn't care if he had burned out the world to come home as long as he came back to you in one piece. it was insanely selfish but you couldn't bring yourself to care. your momentary bliss turned to dread, what if this was all in your head?

you'd finally gone insane, hadn't you? hallucinating about your dead lover coming home to your arms when you saw him get sliced. you scoffed, smashing your phone against the wall.

you buried yourself in your bed again. hiding from the world, from yourself, from the ghost that haunted your very being.

thirty minutes pass, you cannot sleep. his face flashes before your eyes. he is everywhere. he is in your dreams, in your heart, in your head, in your room– wait.

he is in your room. you slowly slide off the bed, delicately making your way towards him, walking on eggshells. you didn't want him to disappear. not when he was so close to you.

once you find yourself standing in front of him, you hesitantly reach out to touch his cheek, his eyes flutter and he leans into your touch instantly. you can only try to regulate your breathing, but it's a futile attempt.

it's his turn to touch you now. his hands cradling your face, his touch is healing. you don't care if this is an illusion as long you get to feel his touch on your skin again. he looks down at you with such anguish it makes your heart shatter and you instantly wrap your arms around him, pulling him into you, afraid to let him go again. as if you'll close your eyes and wake up and lose him all over again. it's okay, you tell him.

his arms crush you against his frame, literally. he pulls away after a few minutes, studying your face. his fingers tuck pieces of hair behind your ear, wiping a few tears that escaped your eyes, caressing your cheeks as he drinks in the sight of you. of his angel, his saviour. his lifeline. he gulps as he looks at you. he was so afraid he won't be able to see you again, look into your kind eyes again. you were running a fever, his heart cracks all over again until it shatters. looking at you so broken, so small. he felt sick, he had done this to you. he caused this. fuck, he felt like punching himself. how could he do this to you? his sweet, sweet wife?

you couldn't take your eyes off him, even as his hand slipped into yours. his burning skin against yours once again, you couldn't believe it. it felt like a fever dream, to be able to see him again, to feel his hand against yours again. your fingers play with the ring on his finger and you push yourself in his chest. fisting his shirt and sobbing.

he holds you close, his hands rubbing your back and the other in your hair. god, he could take upon all your pain if he could right now, this instant. but he knows you won't let him, so he holds you in his arms, safe. he wipes your eyes as you pull away from him. standing on your tiptoes, you press kisses onto his face. all of his face. his cheeks, his nose, his forehead, his eyes, the crinkle of his eyes. you shower him with kisses.

until his lips meet yours in a sincere apology and you find yourself out of breath once again. oh. it's his turn to shower you with kisses. your eyes. your cheeks. your jaw. your neck. your arms. your fingers. he bares himself in front of you, dropping to his knees. his face pressed against your stomach, as he wets your blouse with tears of his own. your hands run through his hair in an attempt to soothe him. his cries muffled against you makes your heart ache again, if that's even possible. stabbing pain returning to your chest, it's not as bad as before you notice. now that he's here, with you.

you fall to your knees, he buries his face in your neck. pressing light kisses as your hand gently strokes his back. satoru pushes his forehead against yours, capturing your lips in a desperate kiss again. god, he loves you so much.

you will be okay, the both of you. as long as you have each other.

a/n: that infinity necklace lore. so its not infinity shaped. it has gojos infinity like his cursed power or wtb, so yk how no ome can touch gojo ?? no one can touch her either, bc gojo spelled it that way so that way he is always w her even when he isnt EVEN IN DEATH

[stealingyourbones]

It's not much but I have five dice made from the knuckle bones of sheep for you. Be careful not to loose one, as while five is a very lucky number, I find four to be very, very unlucky. If one day you should find there are six, don't panic. Simply choose one and bury it under a bush.

Tim had plenty of contingencies for just about anything that could happen, and he knew this would happen eventually. Both of them did. In fact, they had gone over possible plans together and chosen a cover story ahead of time. But now that it was time to use it? Tim felt internally nervous. It was never a good thing to have to explain to your family full of detectives that you have a secret boyfriend.

The story they settled on was one that was easy for them to maintain due to not being able to see eachother much because of both of their rouges galleries. They decided to go with a classic "star crossed lovers who could never be together for they are of two different worlds", which narrowly beat out "Romeo and Juliet".

When asked about his boyfriend, Tim will gladly tell his family about how his boyfriend is beautiful and strong and smart, but also dumb and silly and sweet. He will tell them stories about the time Danny got ice cream on his nose and insisted he could reach it for three full minutes while going cross eyed trying to reach it with his tongue, followed by the time Danny single handedly knocked Mister Freeze out for interrupting their date. The family remembers the time Freeze just showed up in Arkham after spraying ice for two minutes, knocked out and tied up, ready to be put in a cell but they could never figure out what happened.

However, no one gets to meet Tim's mystery boyfriend until a night when Tim was supposed to be off. It's the March Equinox so of course a villian decided to attack. Tim and Danny help Dick, Jason, and Damian with the fight, grinning internally when they notice the time. After the villian is all wrapped up and their plot to end the city at midnight is done with, Tim's own alarm goes off and he immediately hugs Danny saying in the softest voice he can manage, "please don't go."

Danny has a sad look on his face as he hugs Tim, using his powers to slowly turn himself invisible as he replies, "I'm sorry my dear but I have to. The veil is thinning again." Danny nuzzles the top of Tim's head, voice getting more distant with each word, "but I'll be back in a few months. The Solstice isn't that far away. I'll see you then, I promise."

Danny almost isn't visible as Tim holds him as tight as he can, like if he clings tight enough his boyfriend won't slip through his fingers. Tim gives Danny a kiss before he says, "I will await your return with baited breath as always. Perhaps some day we'll find a way to anchor you to this world." Danny almost isn't visible and his voice is hardly a whisper as he replies, "if only it were that easy my dear." With the final word, Danny vanishes fully and goes intangible so Tim's arms slip through where he was. Tim stares at the place he knows his boyfriend is for a few moments, trying to think of sad things so his heart broken voice sounds convincing as he says to his family, "I'm going home."

Tim has to grapple to his boat house as fast as he can so that his family won't see him break out into laughter over how well he tricked them. Dick looked like he was going to cry! Danny shows up and says, "guess who got Kitty to record their faces while invisible." This only makes Tim laugh harder. Truly this was the best idea.

You scheming fuck /lh. I was so so enraptured and then I remembered that these two gremlins are mischevious little bastards.

Oh I adore this so much. How long do they play this up for? I know that the bats are now both EXTREMELY wary and also want to help Tim find a way to be with his boyfriend. They start trying to experiment and figure out ways for Tim to let his boyfriend through the veil. Issue: that’s not at all a problem.

[laurellerual]

ASoIaF: Arya’s change of clothes

AGOT 

Arya III: His claws raked at the front of her leather jerkin. (...) Arya whirled, felt leather catch and tear as a huge fang nipped at her jerkin, and then she was running.

Arya V: Some of them stared at her boots or her cloak (heavy woolen cloak) (...) The silver bracelet she'd hoped to sell had been stolen her first night out of the castle, along with her bundle of good clothes (a velvet skirt, a silk tunic, some smallclothes, a dress her mother had embroidered for her,  a satin gown) , snatched while she slept in a burnt-out house off Pig Alley. All they left her was the cloak she had been huddled in, the leathers on her back, her wooden practice sword … and Needle.

ACOK 

Arya VI: "That hair is a fright and a nest for lice as well. We'll have it off, and then you're for the kitchens." (...) Goodwife Harra slapped her so hard that her swollen lip broke open all over again (...) They gave her a shift of grey roughspun wool and a pair of ill-fitting shoes, and sent her off. (...) On the road Arya had felt like a sheep, but Harrenhal turned her into a mouse. She was grey as a mouse in her scratchy wool shift,

Arya X: They required dressing like a page and washing more than she liked. (...) In her cell, she stripped to the skin and dressed herself carefully, in two layers of smallclothes, warm stockings, and her cleanest tunic. It was Lord Bolton's livery. On the breast was sewn his sigil, the flayed man of the Dreadfort. She tied her shoes, threw a wool cloak over her skinny shoulders, and knotted it under her throat. 

ASOS

Arya I: She was still dressed in her page's garb, and on the breast over her heart was sewn Lord Bolton's sigil, the flayed man of the Dreadfort. (...) "Who dressed the poor child in those Bolton rags?" 

Arya IV: They insisted she dress herself in girl's things, brown woolen stockings and a light linen shift, and over that a light green gown with acorns embroidered all over the bodice in brown thread, and more acorns bordering the hem. (...) Lady Smallwood said as the women laced the gown up Arya's back. (...) one sleeve was torn on her stupid acorn dress. 

Arya IV: The dress she put her in this time was sort of lilac-colored, and decorated with little baby pearls. The only good thing about it was that it was so delicate that no one could expect her to ride in it. 

Arya IV: So the next morning as they broke their fast, Lady Smallwood gave her breeches, belt, and tunic to wear, and a brown doeskin jerkin dotted with iron studs. "They were my son's things".

Arya V: Then they stole all the clothes that Lady Smallwood had given her and dressed her up like one of Sansa's dolls in linen and lace. 

AFFC 

Arya III: In the black of night she rose again, donned the clothes she'd worn from Westeros, and buckled on her swordbelt. Needle hung from one hip, her dagger from the other. With her floppy (woolen hat patched with leather) hat on her head, her fingerless gloves tucked into her belt, and her silver fork in one hand, she went stealing up the steps. (...) She emptied her pouch into her palm; five silver stags, nine copper stars, some pennies and halfpennies and groats. She scattered them across the water. Next her boots. They made the loudest splashes. Her dagger followed, the one she'd gotten off the archer who had begged the Hound for mercy. Her swordbelt went into the canal. Her cloak, tunic, breeches, smallclothes, all of it. All but Needle.

ADWD 

The Blind Girl: The blind girl tied a strip of rag around her head to hide her useless eyes (...) The waif had shaved her head for her when they took her eyes; a mummer's cut (...)  she gave her pox scars and a mummer's mole on one cheek with a dark hair growing from it.  (...) The clothes she wore were rags, faded and fraying, but warm clean rags for all that. Under them she hid three knives—one in a boot, one up a sleeve, one sheathed at the small of her back. (...) A cracked wooden begging bowl and belt of hempen rope completed her garb.

The Ugly Little Girl: An ugly girl should dress in ugly clothing, she decided, so she chose a stained brown cloak fraying at the hem, a musty green tunic smelling of fish, and a pair of heavy boots. Last of all she palmed her finger knife.

The Ugly Little Girl: They brought a robe for her as well, the soft thick robe of an acolyte, black upon one side and white upon the other. 

TWOW

Mercy: She shaved, donned her smallclothes, and slipped a shapeless brown wool dress down over her head. One of her stockings needed mending, she saw as she pulled it up. (...) Her boots were lumps of old brown leather mottled with saltstains and cracked from long wear, her belt a length of hempen rope dyed blue. She knotted it about her waist, and hung a knife on her right hip and a coin pouch on her left. Last of all she threw her cloak across her shoulders. It was a real mummer's cloak, purple wool lined in red silk, with a hood to keep the rain off, and three secret pockets too. She'd hid some coins in one of those, an iron key in another, a blade in the last. A real blade, not a fruit knife like the one on her hip, but it did not belong to Mercy, no more than her other treasures did. 

[marvelmymarvel]

Home

Madara x Senju!Reader

Synopsis: Being the black sheep of the family was hard, and loving Madara Uchiha was harder.

The fall air was crisp and cold, signaling that winter was soon on its way. He held you close as you two stargazed in the middle of an open training field, neither of you worried about the others clan finding you. Considering the fact that you were the black sheep and he was being shunned, nothing mattered anymore.

Nothing except each other.

"Why must we live in a world full of hate? If it was my choice, all of us would live in harmony" you whispered, cuddling deeper into his side as the cold started to penetrate your skin. Madara let out a soft hum, the vibrations from his chest echoing in your skull.

"The world isn't fair my love. I'm afraid good people like you suffer the most." You nodded silently at his words, sad that they were true when they shouldn't be. His thumb caressed the bare part of your arm, making a mental note to bring a blanket next time so you could stay warm.

"You know something" you breathed out, heart hammering around in your chest like a drum. Madara didn't say anything, causing you to sit up from his embrace - "We should run away"

His eyebrows crinkled at your proclamation, but he didn't argue. Instead, he mentally ran through all of the pros and cons of doing such a thing. In all honesty, there was nothing left for the two of you here in Konoha.

So why stay?

Madara raised his hand to cup your face. It was cold and with the stars shining brightly behind you, he was able to make out the slight red tinge to them. You looked breathtakingly beautiful. "Madara" you squeaked out, embarrassed at his staring. "Can I not admire how beautiful you are?"

"Madaraaa" your whine was loud and obnoxious, causing him to let out a booming laugh. He finally sat up, coming face to face with you once more. For a moment, you just sat there staring at one another, not quite ready to break the peace.

He leaned in first, lips landing on yours as you let out a soft moan. He always felt so warm and inviting, he always felt like home. Konoha wasn't home anymore, it was him and him alone.

Pulling back, you rested your forehead on his before exhaling shakily. "Let's do it then..." your e/c eyes snapped to Madara's, shock evident in them as you realized he was being 100% honest. "Your clan-"

"You're more important to me than anyone else in this village. Frankly, I don't want to be somewhere where I can't be with you... So, let's do it. Let's run away"

Your confusion turned to joy as you leaned in once more to kiss him, and this time, the kiss felt different. It felt secure. It felt like pure love.

It felt like home.

[ty-the-trainwreck]

imagine a year after everything, robin and nancy move to boston together.

they get an apartment in downtown boston and they even adopt a talkative tortoiseshell cat named stanley. they share a bedroom, since a two bedroom would cost both of their arms and legs.

on most nights, robin falls asleep before nancy.

nancy likes that she can watch the way that robin’s chest rises and falls and she can hear the soft snores that she found that she couldn’t sleep without. she likes to tuck herself into robin and listen to the other girl’s heartbeat. it’s a nice reminder that robin is here, robin is alive, and that she’s with nancy.

she likes to trace robin’s face with a hover of her finger, hesitant to touch her as she looks so peaceful. she sits there and counts the freckles on robin’s face like they’re sheep jumping over the moon.

she falls asleep as she counts and listens to the soothing sounds of robin’s snores. she falls asleep to the silence but also the noise.

that’s how nancy realizes that she’s in love with robin.

that she’d like to share this bed with her as lovers.

that she’d like to live in this apartment with her as lovers.

everything, nancy would like to do with robin as lovers.

she tells robin one night. robin is asleep though, so of course she doesn’t hear when nancy whispers a shy ‘i love you’. but, the next morning as robin is rushing to go to work, she kisses nancy on the cheek and tells her ‘i love you too.’ right before she leaves the apartment. nancy nearly lets stanley out by accident, but chases after her while she still has her pink fuzzy slippers on.

when she catches up to robin, she grabs her by her shoulders and kisses her.

kisses her so hard that both of them almost fall to the ground in the middle of the apartment’s lobby.

nancy likes that she can stare at robin for longer than a few seconds now.

nancy likes that she can kiss robin all she wants.

nancy likes that they call themselves stanley’s moms.

nancy loves it, actually.

loves it even more when robin proposes to her infront of her childhood home under the stars. she loves it when she says yes and robin holds her with such love and warmth that she cries tears of joy.

nancy loves robin.

and she loves that she gets to listen to this clumsy, lanky, and adorable girl snore softly in their bed for as long as life lets them.

[moderator-monnie]

The Awakening (A COTH Story)

Eggman suddenly jolted 'awake' or what can be described as awake; his body was sleeping yet he found himself aware of his surroundings. It was like a lucid dream; he knew exactly what he was doing before he got here and how he got here.

The place was a completely black void, and for the most part, it seemed to be covered in a white mist, with a few specs of what looked like stars but not many—not enough to create much light but enough to be seen here and there.

"Truly a marvelous place, though I expected a dream god to have something a bit more... Imaginative, I won't lie, but I digress best not to judge the god before I get to meet it."

He just started to walk through the void, being careful about his steps. The further he walked, the darker it got—darker, darker yet darker—it became more void-like as he went along. At first, he found it interesting, but the further he went, no matter what direction, he wasn't finding anything.

Eggman found himself starting to get annoyed, and when he turned around, the white mist and stars were no longer there, which confused the doctor, but seeing he was making no progress, he huffed and puffed loudly.

"ALRIGHT, WHERE IS THIS DAMNED GOD? THIS PLACE HAS NO VISIBLE LANDMARKS, AND I CAN'T EVEN SEE WHERE I'M GOING. I'M A DOCTOR WHO'S QUITE BUSY! I KNOW I'M WHERE I NEED TO BE, SO WHERE IS ZEPPER-"

Just as he was about to continue shouting, suddenly some torches appeared and a large path was created out of nowhere in front of him. Each torch had coloured fire matching the chaos emerald's colours; there was even a cobblestone path. What made the path interesting was that it was carved to look like each stone was the letter 'Z', and as Eggman could see every few feet, there were eyes on the ground.

The eyes all turned to look at him, and Eggman gulped nervously, following the path, making sure not to step on any of the eyes. After a very long walk and torches continuing to appear and brighten the way, there lay a large throne made of solid gold and two statues of sheep with sleeping caps on their heads.

The sheep turned to look at Eggman and began to drool in a purple liquid that even Eggman could smell at a distance; it appeared to be toxic ... but familiar it seemed to be the liquid Eggman had mass produced in chemical plant zone, and soon enough, with the blink of the doctor's eye, the path he followed was completely gone.

Hundred's of eyes suddenly appeared all around him, all staring at him, and the laughter of everyone Eggman had ever met in his life could be heard around him. Then suddenly they all exploded into confetti, and sitting on the throne was the god of dreams itself.

ZEPPERAITH.

Eggman jumped when Zepperaith's head was suddenly just a few feet before his own, Its massive eye staring directly at him, looking almost like it was examining him.

"WOAH! Look at that! A talking egg! I didn't expect to get some breakfast in bed. Boy do you have any idea how rare it is for me to have a proper meal? I mean, not that I really need to eat like you little creatures do. But sometimes I want to be included!"

Eggman gulped and a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead. As much as he hated jokes because of one blue pest, he hoped that the god was joking. It wasn't going to ….

Then their head pulled away and spun like a ball being tossed, landing on the shoulders of the god who now was sitting on its throne. A leg crossed over the other and its cheek rested in its hand, the other petting the dripping statue of a sheep beside it.

"So what's a guy like you doing here? Been forever since I've seen anyone 'round these parts. Well, been asleep for a good long time, that's probably why."

An intense anxiety fell over the doctor, that anxious feeling he always had when he was having a bad dream, a bad dream about that blue rodent foiling his plans. He hoped a bit that he would suddenly wake up like this was just a bad dream, but he couldn't, as long as the god knew he was there he couldn't wake up. So much happened at once; he just didn't know how to feel.

He exhaled and bowed his head towards them as a sign of respect. He didn't get onto his hands and knees though, he had to much pride in himself to do that.

"Oh, Im quite sorry to disturb your slumber, Zepperaith the-"

"Oh shut up!" Zepperaith said loudly to cut the doctor off. "That stupid hogwash … " It lifted one of their hands, a crude sock puppet of one of the ancients was on it. Zepperaith moved up and down as they spoke in a voice that was vastly different than its own. Mocking the words that it had heard over and over again. "Oh, we love you, Zepperaith. Please give us good dreams! Let us kiss the ground you walk upon!" It groaned and threw the puppet away.

"I know, I'm great." It said softly. "You really don't need to tell me what I already know. What I want to know is … WHY ARE YOU HERE?" It slammed its fist into the armrest of its throne, the impact making a loud bang.

Eggman flinched a bit when the god slammed it's fist down. He kept staring at them with that continuous anxiety, but two new feelings came over him, confusion … and mild annoyance. This god seemed so intimidating at first, but oddly reminded him of …. Sonic.

Of course, that annoying pest always seems to nuzzle his way into every single one of his plans. Even if he wasn't here at the moment.

He cleared his throat and spoke. "Right, we'll, Zepperaith. My name is-"

"I already know your name." Zepperaith rudely cut him off again. "Just get on with it, egghead."

Eggman's eye twitched. He had to grit his teeth to prevent himself from insulting the god who could easily rip him apart. "Yes, we'll, you see, I performed this ritual to meet you and wake you because I want your help, almighty god of the mind."

Zepperaith looked down at Eggman, rubbing their chin with a finger in curiosity. "Help? You want my help? With what exactly?" It bent forward in its chair, it's single eye narrowing at the doctor.

Eggman stood up, pulled at his collar, fixed his clothes, and cleared his throat.

"Oh, we'll discuss the details later. What I need your help with is dealing with a little … problem of mine. You see, my goals are to make the world a better place for everyone alike! But there's this …. Little … idiotic …blue …. PEST! I-" He cut himself off and looked back up at Zepperaith who had a brow raised to him. He needed to contain his emotions before the actual truth slipped, and he would be done for.

He cleared his throat and composed himself. "My point being. I want peace for the world. But there's been a thorn in my side for all too long, a thorn by the name of Sonic the Hedgehog. With him gone. I can finally fulfill my lifelong dream of creating Eggman Land. And bring joy and peace to the world!" He looked back at the god. "That's what you want, right? Peace? Tranquility?"

"Yes."

"Well, there you go! I wake you up, you take care of Sonic. The perfect plan! You can do whatever you want when the deed is done!"

Zepperaith liked the points the doctor had thrown about, after all, its whole deal was to make people happy. Shame that's what caused it to go to sleep all those years ago. People just don't understand the vision.

But the god knew there was something off about what the man said. It could tell his ego was so thick that they could practically feel it in the room, it was near exhausting. And with that ego, it made Zepperaith suspicious. That maybe what he was saying wasn't actually what he really wanted.

An anxiety came over Eggman again and he grinned nervously as he awaited the god to respond. He stood there as he stared into the endless void of its face, its eye had disappeared while it was silently thinking. The silence around them was deafening. He cleared his throat to get his attention again.

"So? Yes or no?"

Zepperaith made a low hum as it tapped the tips of its fingers together in thought, then it's eye reappeared and opened. "Fine. I don't have anything better to do."

Eggman practically bounced as he clapped his hands. "OHOHOHO! Splendid! I promise you won't regret it!"

The God's lower lid of its eye curled up like an invisible smile. "Oh I bet I won't." It stood up from its throne and moved close to the doctor. "But now if we need to get me out of here, I'll need your help in doing so."

"Ah, yes! Of course!" The doctor paused, he couldn't remember if there was anything else to do to bring the god into the waking world. "Er … what is it?"

The god jutted its hand out to him. "Oh, there's many different ways. But just a handshake would do this time. Think of it as to seal the deal of our partnership."

He hesitated, but Eggman grasped the god's hand and shook it firmly. Then everything disappeared, including the god before him.

"Rise and shine, doctor." He heard its voice.

Eggman awoke and saw the blue sky above him. He sat up and yawned out the tired from himself. He felt so refreshed, he hadn't had a good nights sleep like that in ages. Man, it was true, that god really did wonders.

He got up from his sleeping bag and looked around, he didn't see the god yet, it did say it would be awake soon, just how soon he didn't know. He looked at his hands then pinched himself to make sure he wasn't still asleep, nope. He was awake. And he now has the power of a god on his side.

Eggman cackled loudly into the sky. "NYAHAHAHAHAHA! YES! OHOHO! I DID IT!" He grinned madly and rubbed his hands together. "NOW I WILL FINALLY GET RID OF THAT BLUE NUISANCE ONCE AND FOR ALL! AND WITH A GOD ON MY SIDE, NO ONE WOULD DARE TO OPPOSE ME! I WILL FINALLY BUILD EGGMAN LAND AND RULE THE WORLD OF MY DREAMS!"

The doctor cackled again, but this time he was cut off, as the sky began to fade to a dark crimson colour, turning the world into a deep reddish hue. He looked down and saw the ground in the middle of the halo he slept in turn to pitch black. This was it.

He ran from the halo and watched as he saw the god pull itself up from the ground, and oh, it was massive, maybe as big as perfect chaos was, maybe bigger. It took a deep breath in and exhaled out a sigh, looking out to the world before turning its attention to the doctor.

"OHOHO! This is fantastic!" Eggman laughed. "We can get started right away!"

"Right. To get rid of this Sonic the Hedgehog … " Zepperaith nodded then leaned down to the doctor. "And 'rule the world of my dreams' ... " it repeated the doctors words from before.

Eggman's face went as pale as a ghost. He didn't think the god would have heard him before he appeared. "Uh … I-listen … I … uh … " He stammered as he tried to come up with some excuse. But he was grasped by the gods hand and pulled up to be face to face with it.

"I have to say, good Doctor … You are pretty good at swaying others into your favor. And you are right; I do want the world to be happy! But you are forgetting something … " Its grip tightened around the doctor slightly. It didn't want to crush him, no matter how much it would enjoy that. "I can do that just as easily, by myself."

Eggman was practically trembling in the god's hand, though he tried to hide his obvious fear from it. "Oh, but don't worry, doctor! I am Zepperaith the Dreamer, after all! And I'll make sure you'll have such a pleasant dream. Why, even …. The world of your dreams." It's last worlds sounded ominous and threatening.

And before Eggman could say a word of protest, Zepperaith put a finger onto his forehead and he was out cold. Now in a dream of his own. A dream … A dream full of pure, unbridled agony. Whatever dream the god had given him, it was there to punish him.

Perhaps a little intense of a punishment for the doctor, but Zepperaith didn't care. It hated it when people thought they had the right to trick and use them. It wanted to make the world a better place, and it wouldn't be subjected to such selfish idiocy. Speaking of which …

The doctors body had transformed into some wicked puppet, laying still in the gods open palm, eyes pure white and mouth agape in pure agony. Zepperaith picked him up with his other hand by his jacket and pondered what to do with him now. Certainly it didn't want to use his body for whatever it had planned, it didn't want to look at this selfish man anymore.

So, Zepperaith hung the doctor onto some strings that reached down from the abyss of the sky, pulling down on him before letting go and he shot up and disappeared into the sky above. Now, to business'.

It bent down and picked up its halo from the ground, dusting it off before putting it around its own head. Taking a second to adjust it to sit right. It needed to look nice for these people after all.

"Well, looks like I have my work cut out for me if that imbecile was of any note." It snorted. "PAH! Please, if someone like him could cause harm, then these people need my help more than anything."

It laughed to itself in amusement, but then it trailed off when it saw one of the feathers from its wings fall off and disintegrate into mist. It let out a noise of disappointment. "Already? Hmm … guess that took more out of me than I thought … "

It tilted its head, a small city was just barely visible across the horizon. A perfect place to look around and see what has been going on since it was put to rest, as well as find something more suitable for its figure.

And so the god moved. It brought itself out of the crater and into the forest that surrounded it, eyes pinpointed to the city ahead. It's halo gently bouncing against its head with its movements and its wings draped behind it like a large cloak, feathers plucking off every few minutes and turning to mist.

Maybe that Sonic the Hedgehog would be a good help. Yes. It just had to find him first.

[fountainpenguin]

"Though we both know one day there'll be blood on the floor... but which one will betray the other more?" (x)

New Fairly OddParents 'fic today!

Rated T - 6,900 words

50 Words of Dale and Vicky

📖 Read on FFN || Read on AO3

🌃 City Lights AU

✨ More Fairly OddParents 'fics

🎲 Randomlists.com's 50-word generator

50 scene snippets about two inseparable BFFs and a string of bad decisions. Predates lemon pit torture.

OR, Dale and Vicky were friends when they were kids.

(First 5 prompts under the cut)

50 Words of Dale and Vicky Friday August 14th, 1992 - Friday April 14th, 1995 Summer of the Pink Star - Spring of the Small Sunflower

1. Balance

Even Dad raised an eyebrow at the redhead who took the mutton bustin' like a piece of sticky tape. The sheep charged through the Dimmsdale Dimmadome's mucky arena, the girl thumping up and down on its back. With every second she clung, the crowd surged higher and higher with excitement- cheering already! Did she sew her sleeves to its wool or something? 6-year-old Dale, safe behind the chute fence, braced his arms a little straighter; craned his neck a little higher.

"Whoa… She's cruisin' like a roadrunner."

One flump of a small body later, the little girl went tumbling through the muck. But she won, of course (and scored the traditional belt buckle emblem plus a set of 4 family tickets to Wave 'N Rage to prove it). The girl cheered into Dad's microphone and jumped up and down. Watching some black-haired woman and a redheaded guy (who must be her two parents) fawn over her, Dale had to wonder… if she had any siblings.

That was wicked…

Her name was Vicky Aingeal. And he was about to be the best friend she never asked for.

2. Cattle

The next time he saw her, it was at the state fair. The scruffy scarlet ponytail hadn't changed. She wolfed down a funnel cake at a table, her parents to either side (and sharing their own). Powdered sugar smeared her lips and fingers. That stuff had to be so greasy… but it looked delicious. Dale, who had already been a Bright Young Man and a Very Well-Behaved Good Boy (semi-interchangeably) for the past 5 minutes while his dad talked about cows and bovine and steer and heifers with Mr. So-'N-So (Cue laughter; they were friends), decided he'd finished standing in the hot sun, bouncing on his toes. He darted his gaze between Vicky and the back of his dad's head. Another 20 seconds flickered by. This time, Dale's stomach even growled. And if that wasn't a sign, what was?

"Dad-"

Dad didn't stop talking, but he did move his hand to Dale's shoulder and gave a quiet squeeze. Not now, said the gesture, so Dale went quiet. He played with the big brim of his hat, staring at Vicky and her funnel cake until she stopped eating and raised her head. Their eyes flicked across each other. Dale jumped and glanced away. Back to the cattle. The Dimmadomes showed fat and healthy cows every year at… the cow-showing event. "Open dairy," Dad called it with his friends (SO awesome; all fancy). Dale never remembered the name except this time of year, but he definitely knew cows.

"Dad," Dale tried again. But dad kept talking, squeezing his arm again, so Dale went quiet for real and softly picked at his nose. The grown-ups talked cows, milk, and hormones… And when that all wrapped up, Doug scooped him up and set him on his hip in one shwoop.

"Now, what's all the fuss, son? What's got your knickknack paddy whacking?"

"Dad, I want a funnel cake."

Doug Dimmadome (owner of the Dimmsdale Dimmadome) threw an unreadable glance at the table where Vicky and her parents ate. It might've been unreadable because Dale was only 6. "Too risky, kiddo. It's probably got dairy. Now come on, son- You wanna lead the herd with me?"

3. Instrument

"Huh," was the first thing Vicky said when she came across the refrigerated butter sculpture. Seriously? Three giant cows playing in a band? "Pretty weird." It was a huge amount of butter and that was kinda impressive all in all, but… did it serve any purpose? It wouldn't last. Who would want to keep that thing cold for months? Even winter wouldn't get cold enough to not melt it. She looked for a price tag, a card- anything that indicated it might be for sale. Was this thing just donated? Free of charge? I wouldn't want it either, but that feels like a waste. I'm sure SOMEONE would buy it. Some kind of stupid, rich…

She was still there, leaning so close to the clear case, her nose could've touched the nearest instrument, when someone tapped her shoulder. She yelped, hit the case (with her face), and spun around. "Who-? … Oh." That weird kid who'd been staring at her while she ate lunch. When Vicky blinked at him, he pushed the brim of his big hat up with one thumb. He even smiled.

"I saw you at the mutton bustin'."

"The what?"

"You rode the sheep? Most people don't stay on that long."

"Oh, yeah. That sheep was a loser."

The kid blinked, like he actually cared about some random sheep's feelings or something. Honestly, with a name like mutton bustin', whoever was in charge of that thing probably cooked it up and ate it by now. "Well," said the kid, pretty slow on the word. He put out his hand. "I'm Dale… Donovan. And you're Vicky, right?"

"Uh, are you following me?"

4. Sheet

He showed her the chicken tent, the pigs, and the cattle (with their parents trailing behind, of course- Dad had a lot of business to talk and Vicky's parents didn't seem to mind he was there, even if Vicky still gave him weird sideways looks like she couldn't decide just what to make of him). But little by little… those shoulders that looked like tall fenceposts started coming down like a gate sinking underwater.

Then he showed her something super interesting over her shoulder while he tore down the sheet with the name Dimmadome scrawled across it. Look… Is it so wrong to want a friend who likes you without asking about your dad getting rich?

He ignored the confused looks the cows shot him as he bunched the paper in his hand.

5. Resonant

Y'know what? There was something REALLY funny about watching the awkward kid jump about 10 feet in the air (skeleton practically leaping from his skin) when a piercing whistle carried through the air.

"Th-that's my dad," Dale stuttered. "I have to go. Um. 'Bye."

Huh. So, did he not like to add the 'good' in 'good-bye' either? Maybe he's more self-aware of the crushing weight of existence than I thought. Not the worst quality in a friend.

Read on FFN || Read on AO3

[sapphire-dreamsky]

one name amongst a hundredth 

inspiration: heavily inspired by The Hunger Games starring: ryomen sukuna | female reader pairing: sukuna x reader warnings: violence| death of minor characters setting: alternate universe | hunger games universe previous

It was one slip of paper amongst 100 others.

Sukuna stood amongst a crowd of boys dressed in white and grey. He certainly stood out with his pink hair and red eyes. In a sea of monochrome colours, he was the sun. 

His peers feared him. His teachers disciplined him the hardest. He was different. And humans hated different people. In a class of thirty students, he was the black sheep. It didn’t matter how much effort he put in his studies or his projects. It would never be enough in a sea of grey and white. 

And yet, there was no one else who could outmatch him in a game of wit. After a hunt, he would always bring back deers during winter; hares during summer. His skills were unmatched. But it didn’t matter at school. In class, he was a disturbance. The troublemaker. He could live with this title. He had four years left in school before he could start working. He didn’t know yet what he wanted to do. But one thing’s for sure, he wanted to do something ludicrous. He wanted to live comfortably. He wanted to provide (name) with a comfortable life where she wouldn’t have to worry about tomorrow anymore. He wanted to make every girl who dared mock her, be jealous of her; want to be her. And to do that, he needed money. He needed to make a name for himself. But not like this.

The Capitol’s representative, a woman with an interesting wig that most probably cost more than both his father and mother ever make in one month, dug her gloved coloured hand in the fish bowl; ruffled the slips to create unnecessary tension and stress. A permanent grin etched on her pink coloured lips. If (name) was by his side, he would have remarked that the lady was the very inspiration to the Red Queen in her favourite book. They would laugh at the comparison later on while stuffing their faces with those black sesame filling buns as promised under the willow tree. They would run across the meadow like children should, worrying only when the announcement for yet another game came. Until they both reach their eighteenth birthdays; both of their names forever disappear from the slips of papers in the fish bowl. They would get married when he would be twenty-four and working, and she would be twenty-two forging pieces of jewelleries to sell to those rich enough to afford. She would wear a beautiful white dress with the red ribbon he gifted her on her tenth birthday attached securely to her hair to make it apparent that she was his and he was hers. 

He had a whole life ahead. He had so many things he wanted to do. He still had so many things he wanted to say to (name) still. 

“Ryoumen Sukuna.”

Ryoumen Sukuna. The pink haired boy dissociated. It was one amongst one hundredth. What were the odds? Not in his favour that’s for sure. He watched blankly as the sea of monochrome clothed boys parted ways. He never felt more exposed than on that day. He could feel the relief on the boys’ shoulders. Their relieved sighs. Their happy stares because it was not them. The slip belonged to the odd one. The one who never belonged. He shouldn’t have been angry. He shouldn’t have been cursing them one by one in his head, wishing their day would come next year. Because if he was in their place, if another slip was drawn by those fucking ugly gloved hands by that damn Capitol representative, he would have felt relieved as well. It was a dog eat dog world. The bottom feeder was always fodder for the sharks. And right now, he was a bottom feeder as he was led by peacekeepers up the podium to join the crying female tribute to give a salute worthy to be broadcasted all over Panem. 

“Sukuna!”

Red eyes widened. (Name) was scrambling outside the crowd of girls. Her arms were outstretched towards him. The peacekeepers grabbed at the hysteric kicking girl. He inwardly seethed as their hands dared to lay on her. But he knew, now that he was a player in the game, he had to be strong for the both of them more than ever. Less she becomes a target for the Capitol. 

So, he turns around despite the peacemakers’ digging fingers in his back forcing him to walk forward.

“Brat. I will see you when I come back. Behave until I come back.”

Because he was coming back. With each step he took towards the grinning powder-covered representative, his resolve at surviving these games became stronger. His face became colder; eyes losing the innocent gleam he attended the reaping with. They were now replaced with a strong will to survive. No matter the cost. 

“And we have here District 12's male tribute, Ryoumen Sukuna!”

Red eyes focused on the girl with the red ribbon being comforted by his mother. His mother’s face was long. Her tears wouldn’t stop streaming. His father put on his bravest face. But Sukuna knew that behind his façade was a man mourning for the death of his only child. His family was all mourning for him. But he wasn’t dead yet. He wouldn’t die yet. He looked down upon the faces of those he went to school with. Their faces all showed relief and happiness. Happiness that he would finally be gone. He committed each face to memory. His hatred for everyone will be his fuel to victory.