#Yes. I am Bruise-deprived

[emzi-148]

After watching the Cole & Jay flashback, a headcanon popped out:

Cole is immune to Jay's lightning or any lightning, only if he's expecting it or if he isn't caught off guard.

To be honest, it makes sense on the number of times Cole got shocked. Then, in the flashback, we see Jay electrifying the controller, but Cole's not affected.

[hanjisick]

Orders.

genre. mafia au. bodyguard!lee know x fem!reader

desc. your father is an elite, high ranking official in a mafia family. after your first kidnapping, a bodyguard was hired to ensure your safety.

warnings. nsfw. fingering & sex. torture. kidnapping. murder. violence.

wc. 10k

✉️ : this is my first writing after a 9 month hiatus. i apologize for the unannounced break and i will be answering and writing again shortly. enjoy! :)

You sit in a wooden chair, wheezing and thrashing from days of sleep deprivation and torment. Your body aches, wrists bruised and bloody from the ropes, and you almost feel like giving in and spilling Daddy’s secrets— allowing them to kill you and the family.

But you knew better than that. You knew that you'd be saved.

The gunshots and cries for help weren't unexpected from above the dark bunker.

With an ear-piercing creak, the door swings open and the shadow of a man emerges through the doorstep, shoes squeaking with fresh blood underneath.

He doesn’t let out a single word as he kneels to grab your face and examine it. Your attention follows the ring on his finger. An insignia that he is part of the family. You can depend on him.

But still, you wince, sharply inhaling as his fingers aggravate your wounds.

“Don’t get their blood in my wounds, I don’t know what kind of freaks they are,” You grumble, voice husky from days of screaming.

You let him turn your head, retaining eye contact with the floor as you grit your teeth.

“Relax,” he mumbles, “I don’t bite.”

He leans closer to examine your wounds. “You took a lot of hits. How many people are here?”

He draws back as you reply, “Can’t tell you exactly.”

“About four of them grabbed me while I was leaving the house— stupid on their part, no wonder you were here so shortly,” You trail off before catching yourself back on topic.

“But I’ve only seen three different men since I’ve been here. Only to beat me and interrogate me. Don’t worry, I didn’t say anything to put Daddy at risk.”

“I heard two other unrecognizable voices. That would make nine people in the building that I know of. Of course, there could always be more. How many did you shoot?”

“Six,” he responds before looking down at your scrapes and wounds again.

You feel him caress your cheek once more, his cold skin sending shivers down your spine.

“You’re in bad shape.”

“If there’s more here, we need to get out as soon as possible. We can worry about my wounds as soon as these people aren’t on our ass.”

You struggle in your bounds, the ropes burning your already bloody wrists, “Could you untie me, first?”

“Don’t move.”

You obey his command, halting as he unties the ropes, uncovering the painful burn marks and blisters.

“That fucking hurt,” you rotate your wrists, “I could’ve gotten out without your help eventually, though.” Your voice is rough, breath coming out in harsh, sharp drags.

“Sure, you would’ve.”

You stumble to your feet as he pulls you into him for safety. He reeks of gunpowder and high-dollar cologne— presumably something that Daddy has made sure that he has the money for.

“Stay close to me, when we get to the front, you go out first and then I’ll leave right after.”

You follow the unfamiliar man out of the maze, almost slipping on the floor blanketed in blood.

You adjust to the bright sunlight— and it feels gentle against your damaged skin. It seems like time has stood still while you were captured. “Did Daddy order you a car?”

“Yes,” he answers, “Some men are waiting out front to take us to the closest hospital— which isn’t too far.”

“I’m being hospitalized?” You follow him into the backseat, finally slacking for a moment ontop of the fresh leather.

“It’s not my choice to have you taken to the hospital, it’s the orders.”

“Do I have a statement to tell the nurse?” You look at him in concern.

“Am I supposed to say, ‘Oh, I was kidnapped by Daddy’s enemies! By the way, he’s in the mafia! Who wants to arrest Daddy?’”

“Tell them you fell down the stairs.” His flat tone contrasts your own, remaining unfazed.

“How would that cover up my wrists' burn marks?” You hold up the bloody and bruised dents, “Nobody gets these from falling down the stairs. There's way too much blood— and some of it isn’t even mine.”

He raises an eyebrow, looking over to the burn marks on your wrist and then back to you.

“Then tell them you accidentally burnt yourself while cooking.”

“Are you even listening to me? Are you stupid?”

He doesn’t respond for a moment, not seeming to care about the situation.

“It’s not hard to pay them to be silent.”

“How about I tell them that I was heavily bullied at school and a couple of classmates did this to me? I think that could work.”

You two arrive at the front entrance of the emergency room, he follows behind you, strolling through the automatic door.

“I’m fine, really, I was just beaten by classmates,” You lie through your teeth to the front desk, “My boyfriend took me here to get it checked out.”

He raises an eyebrow.

You comply with the nurses as they check your weight and interview you.

“I don’t have any stab wounds, at least I don’t think so— I don’t remember what they did to me. I was held captive for a few,” Your voice trails off as you wince at a sudden pang.

You glance down at your bleeding side and are unexpectedly whacked with all of the distress that you had been repressing at once.

Your vision starts to fade, face pale as a ghost.

The man rushes over as they carry you to a bed, and he kneels beside you to review your condition. Your body is pale and cold, breathing jagged and rapid.

You hear the whispers of the staff panicking. One nurse checks your pulse, and another elevates your legs.

“I need my blood sugar up,” the first words that come out of your mouth sound weak and painful.

You look over at the man beside you.

You need to lie. But you don’t even know his name.

“Boyfriend,” you determine, “please get me a sugary drink from the vending machine.”

A subtle smirk forms upon his lips, but it vanishes as soon as it appears.

“Fine,” he rises to his feet.

You hiss as the nurses sterilize your wounds, shrieking and thrashing on the mattress at the sting. You try to stay still, but the pain is intolerable.

Footsteps echo and you find the man returning with a chocolate bar, which he holds out to you. He brings it close to your lips and holds the chocolate against your mouth for you to take a bite, “Slowly.”

“I told you to get me a drink,” You disregard his command, biting the chocolate quickly, almost aggressively.

His lips turn up, amused by your action.

The nurses finish stitching up your deep gashes and bandaging your wounds, recommending that you stay the night.

“Pay for the bill with Daddy’s cash and let’s get out of here,” you state coldly, “I need to shower and get all of this blood out of my hair. I don’t want to stay here.”

“As long as you can walk by yourself, we can leave right away.” He replies. The man takes out a wad of bills quickly counts the money and pays for the bill.

You stay speechless until entering the car.

“Who are you?”

“I’m your bodyguard. Your father hired me to look out for you after the kidnapping.”

You nod in acknowledgment. “Will you be staying at the estate with me? Or is it a ‘only when I leave the house’ kind of deal?”

“My primary duty is to protect you from anyone or anything that could harm you, whether that be outside or inside the house. I could go wherever you wish me to follow you, and I will be there.”

“You won’t sleep in bed with me though, right?”

He stays silent for a moment.

“You are correct, I am here to protect, nothing more. I will not sleep next to you. I am merely your bodyguard and take your orders.”

“Good boy,” you grin, “I bet Daddy will pay you very nicely. Why else would you take this job? How much does he give you? Either way, I’m sure you have enough to buy a mansion.”

The bodyguard holds back an eye roll. “I will have more than enough money. Not only that but he also provides me with a home.” He adds with a smirk.

“Good.” You reply.

You fall silent, allowing him to drive, taking in the past few days.

You were never worried about surviving, You understood that Daddy would handle it. But you didn’t expect to be as hurt as you were.

He could’ve saved you sooner.

“When we get home, order the chef to make me something sweet, I deserve a treat,” you state, “I’m going to shower and you are not allowed to enter my bathroom under any circumstance. Even if I’m dying.”

“You would die before letting me enter your bathroom? I get it.” He retorts.

Once you both arrive at the estate, you stumble out of the car. You don’t linger for him.

You’re welcomed by a handful of workers as you enter the home, but ignore them as you make a beeline up the stairs and towards the bedroom.

The door locks behind you and the room is silent. You feel the weariness creep on as your wounds sting. You lean against the door, sliding down.

After a moment of peace, you head towards the shower to comb the dried blood out of your hair.

You scrub your face carefully, avoiding the stitches above your eyebrows.

You wash your body entirely, removing the blood stains with soap, water, and a wash rag. Then you comb out the dried blood.

Once you finish, you dry yourself off and dress in a plain, silk nightdress.

Leaving your bedroom, you turn to look for your guard. He is at the doorway of your room when you walk out. His eyes roam around your body for a brief moment, examining the nightgown.

“Do you require assistance?”

“Did you place an order for something sweet, like I asked?” You peer at his suit, moving in to adjust his tie.

He follows your hand as it moves, eyeing you for a few moments before he utters, “I did, the chef will be bringing it to your room once it’s prepared.”

“Good boy.”

You look up at his face once you are pleased with the positioning. You grimace at his sharp, cold face. The blood was dried, brown, and unpleasing. The man’s hand relaxes on the gun holstered on his hip.

“I order you to come into my bedroom.”

His eyebrows crease. He understands his role as your bodyguard— nonetheless, he doesn’t get a kick out of being ordered around in this tone.

He takes a deep breath. “Your wish is my command.”

The room is massive, a silk-covered canopy bed sits in the center of it. He pays no mind to looking around, concentrating on the job at hand.

“Sit down on my bed,” you demand, steering towards the bathroom and pushing open the double doors.

He obeys your orders without question, crossing his legs, and keeping his hand resting beside his gun.

The bodyguard keeps a close, attentive eye on the doors, supervising the way that you soak a washrag with warm water, squeezing out the excess.

You sit beside him, grabbing his chin and leaning into his face. He tenses.

“Relax, I don’t bite,” you smirk, reiterating his first words from the moment he met you back to him, massaging the dried blood off of his face, “No guard of mine will have a messy appearance.”

You can tell that he feels uneasy, but he can’t reject you. If you wish for him to relax, he will make an effort to relax.

You can’t help but notice his complexion when he isn’t scowling. The apathy melts away as you wipe the dried blood, giving you a new perspective on his appearance.

“You’re handsome,” you state bluntly, “Especially without blood covering your face.”

You toss the rag into the laundry basket carelessly, waiting for a maid to take care of it.

“Thank you.”

“What is your name? You never told me.”

His eyebrows arch slightly at the question.“It’s Minho.”

“I am Y/N,” You reply, holding out your hand to shake his own. His grip is firm and warm.

He keeps a stoic face as he glances at your face and back at your hand, as if he is searching for an ulterior motive behind this handshake.

The food.

The bell rings and the sound of it shatters the stillness of the room. Minho’s head jolts towards the door, hand back on his gun.

He rises instantly, opening it to reveal the maid with a tray of sweet snacks.

He takes it from her. “I will bring it in.”

“What a good boy, Minho,” you praise, clapping your hands together as he sets the tray on your lap.

“I don’t take you for a man who enjoys sweet food much. Do you like sweets?”

“Sometimes.”

You unwrap a piece of high-dollar chocolate, “I command you to open your mouth.”

Minho can’t deny you, it would be disobeying your orders.

He opens his mouth as the chocolate is positioned between his lips.

You relish in the chocolates with Minho and once finished, you set the tray on the floor for a maid to pick up at sunrise.

“I don’t think I mind you being around all that much, Daddy makes good decisions.” You lay down on the mattress.

“Your father does make good decisions.”

His gaze wavered on your face until you drifted off to sleep. Only then did they slowly trail down to your body.

The way your body was built captivated him. Minho was glued to your sleeping form.

He stayed in the room, taking a seat on a chair in the corner to watch you.

He didn’t know how long it had been since you had dozed off, but by the way that the room was now pitch black and noiseless aside from your figure rising and falling, he would imagine that it had been a couple of hours.

“How long are you going to sit there?” Your sleep-filled voice questions him, causing him to snap out of his daze, hand reaching for his gun out of instinct.

“Do you sleep? Are you allowed to sleep?”

“I will only remain in the room as long as you order me to. I do sleep,” He replies, “Now is there anything else you need my assistance with? Or can I return to my duties?”

“So you’re only staying in the room because I ordered you two hours ago?” There’s a tinge of dismay in your voice, but it was masked by sleep, “You can leave if you want, I don’t mind.”

Minho felt a sudden pit in his stomach. You sounded disappointed by his statement.

Your words are perplexing him, and he can’t conclude what you want from him. To stay or to go?

“Should I stay for a bit longer?”

You were already asleep again once he had responded.

You and Minho both wake to a maid opening the blinds and ringing a bell. You groan, stretching your body.

“Miss, let’s get you dressed for today.”

She pulls your nightgown up above your head as Minho’s eyes wander toward your laced underwear.

“What’s on my schedule for today?”

He quickly forces his gaze to look away and stares back at the maid.

“We want you to heal from your injuries, miss,” she answers, “we will start with a nutritious breakfast to encourage recovery, and attend to your injuries, and then you will speak with Daddy about your incident.”

The maid buttons your fitted dress, glancing in Minho’s direction, “Your bodyguard will need to be there for your conversation with Daddy.”

“He will?”

“He needs to tell Daddy what he witnessed from the facility.”

You nod, following her lead down the stairs and towards the breakfast table.

Minho follows suit, remaining at your side the entire time and he watches you eat, staying observant and cautious.

“Are you hungry?”

This question catches Minho off guard.

“No.” He adds in a dull tone— but in actuality, he is starving. He was entrusted to watch over you. He shouldn’t eat on the clock.

“Maid, go order,” You look Minho up and down, “A side of crepes. Blueberry crepes. And two cups of coffee.”

The maid hurries to the kitchen to place the order, and it is brought out a couple of minutes later.

He stares at the crepes being placed on the table, and his belly grumbles. “Thank you.”

The maid carries the mugs of coffee to the table. But it doesn’t take Minho long to catch sight of her cunning smile and the perplexing liquid that the maid slipped into the mugs of coffee.

He stares quietly, calculating his next action.

“Don’t drink it.”

“Why not?”

Minho’s sight narrows as you bring the cup of coffee to your lips.

This time, his tone is warning and direct. “It’s better that you don’t.”

You halt your sip at his harsh command.

The maid pulls out a handgun swiftly after realizing that she has been caught, aiming it at you.

A switch swiftly flips inside of him.

He lunges forward, grabbing the woman’s wrist and twisting the gun to the right, snapping a couple of fingers in the process.

It’s a rapid movement, and he had little time to think before shooting her in the head, watching the life leave her body. His face is apathetic and almost casual.

The maid’s blood spilled onto the floor as the others ran to clean it up.

“He passed the test, we can keep him. A promising guard so far,” Daddy compliments from behind you, “Urgently acting to protect. He knew that she was mindless and weak. He comprehends crises well.”

The older man slips a wad of cash into the breast pocket of Minho’s suit. “Good on protecting her. That was a setup with a stupid maid who was just aching to betray us. You will have the same fate if you are wavered by another team.”

“I think he’s a good boy. He won’t betray me.”

“Y/N, meet me at my office. Guard, follow her.” He swiftly turns away to lead the two of you as you eye Minho.

“You can relax now. No more tests.”

He nods in understanding, heeding silently towards the office.

“Tell me about what you saw at the facility.”

You nod. “Four men had taken me from our garden entrance and used Chloroform to knock me unconscious. I woke up in their van, where my hands and legs were tied. I heard them talking about what they planned to get out of me. They had intentions of murdering me if they got to a week of no answers.”

Minho listens to your explanation with hawk-like eyes, paying close attention to all the details and descriptions.

You clear your throat, running your fingers across your bruised wrist, “I was tied to a chair in their questioning room, and they used forms of torture for me to open up.”

“I was deprived of sleep and beaten if they caught me closing my eyes— trying to get my lack of sleep to cause me to open up about your activities.”

Daddy nodded solemnly, leaning into his chair.

“Waterboarding was their favorite method, but they enjoyed beating me. I assume that was mainly for fun.”

You continued, “Minho appeared and killed a couple of them and saved me, but most are still alive.”

“Still alive? You didn’t find and kill them, bodyguard, why?” Daddy’s intense eyes moved toward Minho, who appeared unbothered.

The fact that he missed a few guys is enough to drive him crazy.

“I had to get her to safety as soon as possible.”

Daddy merely nods. “I will send my men after them. Y/N, did you get any names?”

“They wouldn’t tell me anything about themselves, but I saw a couple of signs of their rival gang.”

“Guard,” he veered towards Minho, “Describe the faces that you saw. I need as much information as possible.”

“They look to be between the ages of 20 to 30, their faces covered in scars. One man had dark skin, and his facial scars were faded. His most notable feature was a slit across his brow. He wore a dark suit. I left him alive but with a bullet in his arm. The other man had a lighter skin tone and his scars were similar to knife wounds. He had gotten away.”

The boss nods.

“Good. I can work with that. Never let my little girl get into trouble like that again, alright?”

The second the words ‘my little girl’ leave his mouth, Minho can’t help but gaze at you. He observes your reactions and motions.

His heart beats by hearing his boss call you that, and his attention is now focused on every single twitch that you make.

“The nurses will be waiting in her bedroom shortly. Be good and do as they say.” He adds, snapping Minho back to him.

“Guard, do not let her go against any of the nurses' rules. She can be convincing. Do not give into it.”

“Yes Sir.”

You roll your eyes, turning away to leave the room.

“Stay safe.” That is the last utterance of the boss before you drag Minho out of the room and towards the bedroom.

“Sit on the bed,” a nurse commands you, and you quickly obey.

She dabs at your abdomen stitches with antiseptic soap and your eyebrows furrow.

“You can’t move around much, got it? No exercising for three weeks until we get these stitches out.”

You agree as she moves on to your wrists, rubbing cream into them, “You’re going to visit us twice a day for six days until the healing is almost complete.”

She yanks a bandage off of your face, causing you to groan in pain. She rubs another ointment on it before substituting it with fresh dressing.

Minho supervises each step that the nurse takes, noticing how she takes care of your body as if it’s her most precious gift.

She turns to Minho, “I need you to make sure that she’s well rested, drinking enough water, and not doing many straining activities. Take her back here once again in the evening, and then we will see her again this time tomorrow morning, got it?”

“Yes, I will take care of her.”

“What about him, nurse?” You eye the small cuts across his face and hands.

She smiles and leans over to you. “He is well trained. Trust me, he’ll survive a few scratches.”

Your eyes narrow. “I order you to treat his wounds to the best of your abilities.”

She sighs. “Yes ma’am.”

She moves towards Minho and checks his wounds, patching the ones that were newly caused. She brushes his face softly with an ointment.

“I don’t like it when my guards don’t keep up a good appearance,” you try to explain away your worry for him, “and being injured will only slow you down when protecting me.”

The man stares straight ahead, listening carefully. “I’m fine. I’ll recover just fine. I don’t need much care as you do.”

“Let her rest now,” the nurse tells Minho, “order the maids to bring her a glass of water and have her sip on it until lunchtime.”

Once she leaves, Minho turns towards you, “I’ll make sure the maids bring you water. You need to stay hydrated”

Once water is on your table, your gaze returns to Minho

“Now, I order you to sit down on my bed with me.”

He examines you with a neutral expression and waits for you to say what you mean, not wishing to assume or take anything wrongly.

“Sit down with me,” you demand again, patting the spot beside you, waiting for him to follow suit.

As soon as you ask him to, Minho does not waver. He sits down beside you, body brushing your own.

You turn to meet his cold expression with intensity. “Do you like your job so far?

Minho is taken off guard by your switch of topic. He stays where he is sitting, but turns his body as well and faces you.

“I enjoy my duties.”

“Good. Because I’m fond of you. You’re handsome, and you are good at your job.”

He stares at you with slight surprise. “Thank you.”

Your hands grab for his, playing with the ring on his finger.

Then, you reach your hands higher, tugging his sleeve up to reveal a cluster of scars littered across his forearm.

“How long have you been in the business?”

“Since I was fourteen. I was trained from a very young age.”

“Have you always been in Daddy’s family?”

“I was loyal to your Daddy from the moment I knew what this life was like. I haven’t had a moment of doubt.”

“Good. That means you won’t leave us, right?”

“I will serve your family until my last breath. You have nothing to fear about that.”

“What a good boy,” you reach to ruffle his hair, landing a swift kiss on his sliced cheek. “That’s exactly what I like to hear.”

Minho stiffens.

“I order you to take off your jacket. I want to see your body. To see if you’re strong enough to be a good guard.”

Your words are sharp as a knife and they cut deep through his defense system. His jaw clamps and his breathing accelerates.

Minho swallows his breath, nodding his head. His movements are rigid, starting to cautiously peel off his jacket. It takes him a moment to unbutton it, but once his jacket is off, he stays there, waiting.

You slide his jacket to the floor, touching the muscles of his bicep through his button-down. “You’re fit. That’s good.”

Minho yearns for you to keep feeling him. To keep praising him. He swallows. Your words sound like a honey trap to him, and it’s working as intended.

“I order you to take off your tie.”

“Yes.”

That is all that he says, slowly slipping his tie from underneath his collar and tossing it aside.

Unexpectedly, you’re climbing on top of his body. “Take off your button-down.”

He unbuttons his shirt as your eyes sear into his chest. He is now only wearing a black undershirt.

“So many clothes,” you sigh out, groping his bare arms. You run your hands across his biceps, listening to him shudder underneath the touch.

“Take off your undershirt now. I want to see your chest.”

You can feel the heat radiating off him as he shivers. His body is now sensitive, and your hands are making it worse for him.

Your orders are evident, and he hastily lifts off his undershirt, waiting for what is next.

You can see his whole chest with all of its blemishes, with every muscle covered in sweat, exposed for you.

Your hands travel down his chest and abdomen, feeling each ragged scar with your bruised fingers. The delicate contact causes his breath to catch and a soft groan leaves him, fighting to not show that he relishes in your touch.

“Let me kiss you.”

He stares at you for a moment before his eyebrows slightly shift— his way of showing you that he approves of that request.

Minho leans in slightly and closes his eyes, gently placing a timid kiss on your lips.

You smirk against him, pushing him to lie against the bed frame and deepening the kiss. Your hands reach for his dark hair, clasping a handful in your grip.

He kisses you deeply and wraps his arms around you to pull you in closer, offering full control to you. His breath speeds up.

You pull away after a moment, lips brushing against his as you catch your breath, but only for an instant before moving towards his jaw, sucking marks onto his skin.

Minho quivers at your touch, his breathing speeding up once more as you leave red and purple blemishes on his skin. He bites his lip to stop himself from groaning.

Your mouth moves from his jaw to his neck, leaving kisses and hickeys all across him, making sure that he is covered in them.

Your hips grind against him, breathing heavily with anticipation as you make your way to his chest.

Your hands and mouth are touching all of him, and each sensation triggers a reaction that he tries to conceal.

Your lips hover back to his lips, staring at him longingly. “Do I have to command you for you to do anything to me? You don’t have to ask. You have my permission. Do whatever you want.”

You can see his gaze shifting from your eyes to your mouth, to your neck, and then towards your chest.

You swiftly lift yourself off of him to let him remove your dress, leaving your body as bare as his own.

You grasp onto his neck, bringing him in for another deep kiss. Minho remains silent as he kisses you, allowing you to leave him as many marks as you desire.

“What are you thinking, Minho? Speak to me.”

He takes a moment, letting out an unstable breath. “I’m thinking of what you are doing to me. I,” he stammers, “I want to make you feel good.”

“Then do it. Please.”

“I don’t want to harm you,” he breathes out, “you’re injured.”

“The nurses said to not do,” Minho presses his eyes shut as you bring your hips up to meet his, “fuck, anything straining.”

“Remember what Daddy said? I can be convincing.” You sneer as your bodyguard fails to keep his cool composure, but the aching cock pressing into you is giving his true desires away.

You eye his internal struggle between following your orders and his cravings, or the nurse and his boss.

“I don’t want to hurt you. I can go relieve myself in the bathroom.”

“I like being hurt.”

You notice his lip twitch at the comment, and you decide to provoke him further, grinding into him, and set a steady rhythm with your hips.

He groans as his head drops back, tugging onto your hair and trying desperately to control his breath, “Please, Y/N, I just want to take care of you.”

“You can take care of me in another way.”

“I need to follow orders.”

“Then I order you to fuck me.”

His eyes pinch shut as he tries to clear his head and reason with himself.

Perhaps if he were gentle, it would be alright.

But how long could he remain gentle when you were splayed out in front of him, willing to take anything that he gave to you?

He made his decision, gripping your shoulders gently and flipping you, pinning you to the bed, and surveying your face for any discomfort.

When he finds none, he impatiently unclasps his belt, throwing it to the floor along with his dress pants, leaving him in just his boxers.

You hold yourself up by your elbows, thighs pressed together and mouth watering at the man in front of you.

His hands were delicate, although they could easily snap you in half, as he unclasped your bra, leaving your top half bare.

Minho stopped to take in the view for a moment before grabbing at one of your breasts, his mouth attaching to the other.

Your whines were like music to him— something that he wanted to hear more of.

Your back arched in pleasure as he moved one hand down to your thigh, caressing it for a moment before slowly slipping his hand into your panties.

“Try to stay quiet, darling, I don’t want any staff checking on us,” He hushed you with his lips attaching to your own once again, feeling your wetness all over his calloused hands.

His thumb brushed against your clit and you whimpered into his mouth, clenching around nothing.

Minho then plunged two fingers deep inside of you and curled them. He was becoming lost in pleasing you, overlooking his own ache between his legs.

Your thighs shook beneath him, feeling him brush against your g-spot brutally. “Minho please, please just fuck me. I want you inside of me so bad.”

At your request, he slipped his fingers out, feeling your cries against his lips from the loss of friction.

“Yes ma’am.” He pulled away from your lips, replacing them with his now dripping fingers, lapping it up with his tongue.

Next, your ruined panties were yanked off of you, with his boxers soon to come after.

One hand gently relaxes on your hips, cautious to avoid aggravating your injuries as he uses the other to guide himself inside of you, a deep groan followed by your whines.

He gives you a moment to handle the stretch, but you hardly need it, already begging for him to move.

Minho cautiously thrusts, taking in a deep breath and furrowing his eyebrows in concentration. 
This is the ultimate test of patience for him. He needs to be as gentle as possible with you.

Ultimately, he sets a slow pace, hands locating themselves on either side of you, letting out uneven breaths as he tries to control himself from how good you feel around him.

“You really do care, don’t you?” Your hand reaches to cup his face, gazing into his eyes that are hazy with pleasure.

He keeps his response short, too concentrated on the waves of bliss through each thrust, “I do care.”

“Is it because you’re my bodyguard or something more?”

You study him, watching his adam’s apple move as he swallows deeply, inhaling sharply. He halts his thrusts for a brief instant.

“Both, maybe. I can’t tell.”

That was enough for you to continue, grabbing another handful of his hair and bringing him in for another hungry, deep kiss.

With each deep thrust, Minho’s mind got hazier and hazier, losing himself to pleasure bit by bit. You could feel it by the way his rhythm became rough and desperate, and his pace picked up.

One of his hands left your side, creeping towards your throbbing clit, causing you to let out sobs, all of which he ate up with his mouth against your own.

“Are you gonna cum for me?” He coos, knowing that you’re too lost in bliss to respond.

He takes your whines as a ‘yes’, his thumb rubbing circles faster, coaxing your orgasm out of you.

Your walls fluttered around him, squeezing your eyes closed and letting out a lengthy, drawn-out moan as his pace picked up even further.

“Just like that. You’re so good for me, so, so good, fuck,” he talked you through your orgasm between his thrusts, chasing his own high.

His brows crease, hips stuttering at how good it felt to have you gripping so tightly onto his cock. Finally, he let go, his load spilling inside of you and seeping out.

Both of you took an instant to catch your breath, coming down from your highs.

His hands slowly traced your curves in contentment, paying attention to the way your chest rose and fell.

Finally, he has a justification to gape at your body up close.

From your jawline to your hickey-covered chest, down to your bruised sides and stitches near your abdomen, and— Oh fuck.

Your wounds.

Minho slowly pulls away, feeling a sense of post-nut clarity and fright.

His hand slides away from your body, staring at you with concern.

“What’s wrong?” You ask, your own anxiety suddenly displayed on your face, “Do you regret it?”

“No! No,” He panics, “Are you okay? Did I hurt you?“

Back in reality now, your wounds ache and your head pounds with exhaustion and overexertion.

His mind calculates the solutions to the situation— ways to explain to the nurses, to fix you, to help you feel better.

It was his shortcoming, after all. He let his urges get to him.

“Let’s run you a bath.” He pulls himself up, tugging on his boxers and heading towards the bathroom.

You hear the tap turn on, lying in bed trying to catch your breath. Your breath is harsh from both adrenaline and pain, but you can’t help but feel as though the latter is more of the cause.

You had slept with a small handful of men, primarily Daddy’s men, but none of them were quite like Minho.

He was tough but breakable. He was still kindhearted at his core— something that wasn’t all that common in the business.

You could tell from the way that he ran the bath, bare muscles glistening from sweat, running his hand through the water to make sure that it was the ideal temperature. How concerned he was about your protection, even through his pleasure.

Not many other men that you’ve met throughout your life have been the same way.

You’re quite fond of the man that you have just met.

You hear the water shut off and footsteps coming towards the room. He holds a faint smile as his steps come towards the bed. Your gaze slowly wanders to his physique.

“It’s ready for you.” He says in a slight whisper.

“I order you to pick me up and bring me to the bath.”

He nods at your order, hooking his arms underneath your thighs and back, his strong grip securing you.

You inhale the powerful stench of gunpowder stuck to his skin, finding comfort in your bodyguard’s presence.

“Will you wash my hair?”

Studying his expression, it’s hard to read, but you let him carry you and place you into the water.

‘I do care,’ you recall his words.

‘Is it because you’re my bodyguard or something more?’ ‘Both, maybe. I can’t tell.’

Perhaps you had feelings for the man, especially while he massaged shampoo into your scalp with tough hands, making sure to rub your temples.

“Have you ever been a bodyguard before?”

When Minho hears your question, he hums while he proceeds to wash you, working on scrubbing the areas where he touched you earlier. “No, you’re the first one I’ve been a bodyguard for.”

“I did things for your father before this. Not as a bodyguard, a more, I guess, dangerous role,” he dismisses the question.

“Is that so?” You fall to silence as he continues to wash you, taking his time and guaranteeing that he gets every part. He hesitates when he washes around your injuries— every stroke and movement of his hands is smooth and temperate.

“Let me relax for a minute alone,” you murmur, “You should put your clothes back on, the maids should be here any moment to take my order for lunch. They won’t find it suspicious that I’m bathing, but they will question why you’re with me.”

Minho nods and pulls away from your body.

He stands up and his feet splash on the wet floor. He takes a double take at your closed eyes.

The way your body floats in the bath is something that catches his attention. You look very pleasing in such a vulnerable position.

He leaves the room, cracking the door to make sure that you are safe.

Minho buttons up his wrinkled shirt, pulling the jacket over it and smoothing it out to ensure that nobody suspects anything.

Minho’s eyes turn to the maid who enters the room with the ring of a bell.

His demeanor is unfazed, a hand on the gun in his pocket once more. He holds eye contact, his stare intense.

He would make sure that there wasn’t another incident.

“Where is Miss Y/N?”

“She is bathing at the moment.”

She nods, walking towards the bathroom and knocking on the door.

You hum, allowing her to enter.

“What would you like for lunch, ma’am?”

“I don’t know, surprise me.”

A few seconds go by as you immerse yourself entirely in the water before rising back to the surface.

“Minho,” you call out, “What would you like?”

You hear the faint sigh that Minho gives as a response back to your question.

“I’ll just have a sandwich or something, whatever you have is fine.” He replies to both you and the maid as she exits the bathroom, fulfilling her duty of reporting your lunch choice.

The bedroom door shuts behind her.

“Minho!” You call out once again, “I order you to take me out of the bath.”

A few seconds pass before you hear Minho’s footsteps come near the bathroom once again. He grabs a towel as you stand, body bare and dripping with water.

His eyes have an intense focus as he reaches out his hand.

Minho pulls you up from the bath wraps the towel around you, making sure to cover all of you, and begins to dry off your hair.

“Minho,” you begin, “Daddy can’t know about what happened. He’d shoot you dead on the spot.”

Minho pauses for a moment, his eyes darting across the floor.

He is silent for a moment. “I won’t reveal anything to him.”

“Good boy,” you cling to the towel covering your body, “Go fetch a maid to dress me. While she does so, I want you to change out of that suit and shower before lunch.”

“Then I’ll go shower now. I’ll be back.”

You hum in agreement, stepping towards your bedroom as a maid rings the bell.

You drop your towel, letting her sift through your drawers to find decent clothing.

She eyes a hickey on your breast, along with the other injuries across your body from the kidnapping.

“Your injuries look agitated, Miss Y/N, are you sure that a bath was the best idea for you?”

“Don’t question me,” you grumble, “I took a bath because I wanted to.”

“Yes, miss.” She pulls the dress above your head smoothes it out, and clasps a necklace behind your neck.

“You’re all set for lunch.”

The moment that you come out of your room, you can feel his presence. He is leaning against the front door of the room with an unreadable expression.

He has another suit on, a fresh one. Minho’s previously muskier, dark scent has been replaced by a new, sweeter fragrance.

“First shower at the estate?” You question, “Our soaps are quite lovely and mild on the skin. You smell wonderful.”

Minho’s lips curl at the compliment, looking you up and down, “Seems that we both are putting our best foot forward.”

You look around to see if anyone is watching before leaning to ruffle his damp hair and leave a kiss on his cheek, taking the man by complete surprise. He makes an effort to regain his composure, but you can see that his cheeks are blushed from the touch.

As soon as you lean in to lock arms, you feel him lean over to you to whisper something.

“I would love to do that with you again.”

You froze in your spot, heat rushing to your thighs.

You must regain your composure, caught off guard by his blunt words, something unlike the ordinary nature of Minho.

He takes a seat across from you, watching every move that the maid makes to be sure that she doesn’t try anything— he has learned his lesson.

“Pressed Italian Picnic Sandwiches and tea,” The maid states, setting the plates on the table.

You scrunch my nose up. “What’s in it?”

“Artisanal prosciutto, aged provolone, and sun-dried tomatoes inside of a crusty ciabatta,” She doesn’t hesitate to list the ingredients, “and a fragrant blend of rare loose-leaf teas with fresh cream and sugar cubes.”

She sets the teapot and cups out, along with a carton of cream and a bowl of sugar cubes.

Minho’s hand rests on his gun, waiting for her to leave before taking a sip of tea.

You follow his action, dumping a couple of cubes into your tea and bringing it to your lips.

I finish my lunch with Minho.

“Let’s go back to my room now. I'm exhausted.”

Minho nods his head and you both finish up the meals quickly.

You both leave the dining area and stroll back to your bedroom.

As soon as you get back into the room, you feel Minho close the door behind you.

You don’t hesitate to climb into bed and lie down.

The guard looks over at you, observing the way that your chest rises and falls as you breathe. He notices every movement that your body is making.

“I command you to lay down with me.” You lean back against the bed, your body still and eyes focused on his unmoving body.

He slips off his shoes silently, slipping into the canopy bed.

You grin, curling at his side, pressing against his body.

His breathing is deep and steady as he struggles to get into a more comfortable position.

Your mind began racing with questions about the mysterious man that you were slowly falling for, burying yourself further into the sheets.

“Minho,” you start slowly, “How did you become tangled with our family?”

Minho stays silent for a few moments and you feel his body shift a little against yours.

“I didn’t have a lot of money or family growing up,” he kept his answer short and simply, “the moment that this job came my way, I took it. The people connected to this business have always stayed on the down low, so this is an easy job to keep."

“Daddy seems to like you,” you grit your teeth.

Minho turns to you on the bed and sits up a little. He looks at you from top to bottom, reading the worry on your face with ease.

“You don’t have to worry about me.”

“He will kill you on the spot if he finds out. He’s done that to almost every man who has flirted or slept with me.”

You pause for a moment. “God forbid the one he hired as my bodyguard.”

“I am not so easily killed.” The words leave his mouth with a tinge of arrogance.

“I trust you.”

“Good.”

There is stillness between you both for a time, but he breaks it by grabbing your chin and leaning in to kiss you. You soothe into his touch, smiling against his lips briefly before he pulls away.

“I order you to stay here. Like this.”

It’s not difficult for you to drift off to sleep beside him, and as always, Minho pursues your request, keeping a close eye on you. You relax, your breathing slow, and he notes all of the occasional twitches and movements that you make in your sleep.

A couple of hours later, the door is knocked on by a maid.

“Dinner order?”

Minho jolts awake from the knock on the door, a hand swiftly placed on your shoulder to protect you from any threats before turning his head towards the noise.

His voice is full of sleep. “Repeat that?”

As she opens the door, there is a look of inquiry on her face, one that she won’t ask to ensure her job and health.

“Is she asleep?” She questions instead, glancing over at your peaceful figure.

He turns his head towards you to double-check, observing your napping body.

“Yes.”

“Alright. I’ll advise the chef to prepare her dinner later tonight.”

She gives a sharp nod to the guard and scurries out of the room, quietly shutting the door to not disturb the girl.

Minho’s eyes rest on the door for a moment, fully alert now with a hand resting on his gun.

Eventually, he turns over to you. He has his eyes on you for a few seconds before leaning down to kiss you on the forehead, letting out a small sigh.

You stir at the warm touch, scrunching your face up and stretching your body.

“What time is it?” You ask groggily before burying your head into his neck.

“Dinner is in about half an hour. You hungry?”

“Not really,” you pull yourself up and rub your sleep-filled eyes.

He notices your body shiver as you pull yourself up. Minho lets out a short exhale.

“Did you sleep?”

“A bit.” He doesn’t look away or turn his head as he admires the way you stand and stretch your body, smoothing your dress of its wrinkles.

You walk towards your vanity mirror, plopping down in the chair to readjust your necklace to the center. A few marks on your collarbone catch your eye.

“The nurses will be in shortly.” You grit your teeth. “I hope they don’t notice.”

“They won’t notice.”

His figure can be seen from behind you in the reflection of the mirror. His lips are turned upwards as he watches you fix your appearance.

You pull out a couple of foundations and concealers, working on concealing the marks left from earlier.

“The maids wouldn’t, but the nurses will tell the difference between a hickey and a bruise. Especially since these are fresh.”

Even though you are busy with your makeup and covering up the bruises, Minho’s eyes are never off of you. It is a feeling that you will have to get used to— always having a watchful eye on you.

Once you were satisfied with the coverage, you rose from your seat quickly.

“Get up, we’re going to dinner.”

“So bossy.” He retorts. “What will you have?”

“I want to go out, let’s go somewhere fancy. Daddy will pay.”

He raises an eyebrow. “You want to go out when you have had a beating just two days ago?”

He asks it like he thinks it’s an absurd idea, almost condescendingly, yet his tone of voice is soft and full of concern for you, causing your stomach to flip inside out.

“I’m tired of staying inside already. This estate is suffocating,” you pull on your slip-on shoes.

“That’s how I got myself into this mess in the first place. I left the house and got kidnapped. That won’t happen with you here.”

“I guess you’re right. We’ll go somewhere nice.”

“Good. I’ll go tell Daddy.” You leave the door open for Minho to come after but don’t wait for him, yet you can tell that he follows behind silently, attending to the way your body moves in the dress as you make your way down the halls.

The door is slightly ajar, so when you knock, it pushes open with a creak, revealing your father inside.

Minho stands behind you like a shadow, his lips pressed into a straight line, gaze locked on your father, keeping his distance from the both of you.

“Come inside,” the older man invites both of them with a welcoming grin, “sit.”

You can sense that your father has something on his mind, which is never a good sign.

“I was going to call you to my office shortly, anyway.” Instantly you assume the worst.

You sit down, taking a seat in front of him. Minho is still standing in the back, his priority on you and your father.

The man looks over at Minho. Their eyes lock for a moment. “Guard, go lock the door. There is a conversation that needs to be had.”

Minho nods and he turns his head, locking the door behind him.

He turns his attention back to you, who is frozen in your seat, breath hitching.

The elite man fiddles with a pen at his desk, clicking it to drown out the tense silence.

The silence in the room seems so heavy that you wonder how neither you nor Minho is feeling sick. Judging by the thick atmosphere between the three of you, it is easy to tell that he isn’t pleased right now.

He fidgets with the pen and you wait for him to finally speak.

“Do you find my daughter to be precious, Guard?” He addresses Minho with a stern voice, finally setting the pen down at his wooden desk with a smack.

“Yes sir,” Minho replies flatly.

“Are you willing to protect her at all costs, even at your life?”

After moments of silence, he answers back confidently. “Yes sir. I am.”

A hand comes to rest at his side, toying loudly with a handgun, which he eventually pulls out of his pocket.

Tears begin to well up in your eyes, yet Minho stays concentrated. There isn’t a single sign of fear on his face. He is unshaken, calm, and collected as if he had been foreseeing this exact scenario.

“Do you know why you were assigned to guard my daughter, Minho?”

“I know the reasons.”

“There was a leak to the rivals from a previous staff member that I had a precious daughter in my life,” He turns towards you, “the one that I had climbed to the top of my career to protect and assure her safety and security.”

He cleared his throat before darting back to Minho, “It took less than a day for her to be taken from my hands and placed in the hands of one of my greatest enemies.”

Minho pays attention to every word that he speaks and clears his throat, waiting for your father to continue.

“I care for my daughter more than anything in the world. Which is why I had appointed the most valuable, honest, and competent man in the family to ensure her protection.”

Minho nods.

“Please don’t kill him, Daddy.”

The boss meets you with cold eyes, disregarding your words to proceed with his lecture. “You are my most prized possession. I would hurt anyone or anything to make sure that not a single person touches you. The men who kidnapped you are all taken care of, wiped out by my command.”

He continues. “I know everything that goes on in your life. Every meal, every kiss, every injury, the staff must report every minor thing that occurs in your day. I have eyes on you at all times, and you’re more than aware of that.”

Your shoulders stiffen. He knew.

“Minho,” his stare is burning into the other man, “I’ll get to the point. Did you sleep with my daughter?”

He doesn’t blink. His body tenses up and his voice remains neutral.

“Yes.”

The boss turns the safety off of his firearm and you dig your head into your hands, unable to observe the scene that is about to unfold.

The gunshot is fired, but the man deliberately aims to the left of Minho, grazing his cheek with the bullet before standing up instantly from his seat. The guard doesn’t react with more than a blink as the blood pools at the cut.

“I trust you, Minho. You are a good man. If there is a single person who I would choose to give my daughter to, it would be you.”

Finally, Minho takes this as a sign to let his guard down for a moment as his shoulders drop, lip quivering slightly. It was evident that there was more emotion that the guard was holding back, especially when he took a moment to look away.

“You have my approval.”

Your eyes widen.

“Take care of my daughter. If you break her heart, I’ll feed your own heart to her for supper.”

“Understood.”

“Take her to dinner,” a wad of cash is pulled out from one of the drawers, “buy her flowers and anything else that she asks for.”

“Yes sir.” He responds, “I’ll make sure that she gets the treatment that she deserves.”

You run to embrace your father, to which he places an arm around you, rubbing your back before pulling away.

“Get yourself dressed more sufficiently, I will have a car ready for you soon.”

Minho follows you out of his office, letting out a breath that he had been holding in once the door was closed.

“Did you hear that?” Do you know what this means?” You beam at the man before grabbing at his cheeks and pulling him in for a kiss.

He lets out a surprised noise, hesitantly wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing back.

When you break the kiss, he stares back at you with the first big smile that you’ve seen from him displayed on his face.

“Let’s get you ready.”

[worldlxvlys]

complicated (part 3)

matt sturniolo x reader

warnings: smutttt, semi-public sex (kinda ? is it?), oral (fem receiving), degradation, choking, rough sex, spanking, p in v, cream pie, unprotected sex, squirting, cursing

a/n: previous part

when i woke up the next morning, my throat was practically screaming at me for water.

i had on one of chris’s shirts, which was long enough on me to get away with not wearing any pants.

i gently removed chris’s arm from my waist, careful not to wake him up, before getting out of bed.

i made my way to the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water.

suddenly, i heard a voice from behind me, making me jump.

“you guys were pretty loud last night” matt said.

my eyes widened at him, mouth hanging open as i blinked at him. i didn’t even know how to respond.

“so, i take it it was good then?” he said as he crossed his arms.

i narrowed my eyes at him, confused as to why he was asking about my experience with his brother in bed.

“it was nice, he was really sweet” i nodded at him.

“sweet? i thought you liked it rough” he tilted his head at me.

my eyes widened at that, my heart speeding up at his words.

yes, we’d talked about our kinks and the things we liked in bed. it happened to come up in one of our late night conversations, i just assumed he’d forgotten about the lewd things we talked about in our sleep deprived state.

clearly, i was wrong.

“you said you liked to be degraded and thrown around” he said as he made his way over to me.

“he do any of that?” matt asked.

“no” i whispered.

“guess i’ll have to, then” he spoke as he turned me around, pushing my front half to rest on the island in front of us.

he got on his knees behind me, pulling my panties down.

“matt, we- right here?” i asked in shock.

he ran his fingers through my folds, making me bite my lip to suppress my moans.

“nick just went to bed a few hours ago, he won’t be up any time soon” he spoke as he played with my pussy.

“w-what about chris?” i asked, struggling to contain the noises i wanted to let out.

“let him walk in, i want him to see the way you like to be fucked” i moaned in response, my hand flying to my mouth as it echoed through the room.

“like a fucking whore” he spoke before diving into my pussy.

i folded my arms on the island, resting my head on them as i tried my best to muffle my moans with my hand.

his tongue lapped at my wetness, the sounds of his lips smacking against each other and his mouth slurping my arousal echoing through the kitchen.

“f-fuck, matt! ohhh my god” my voice wavered as i tried my hardest not to yell.

he gave my ass a slap, making me let out a low moan.

i pushed my ass further into his face, making him groan against my pussy.

he pushed his tongue into my soaked entrance, fucking his tongue into me.

i gripped onto the edges of the table, pressing my forehead into it as my legs began to shake.

matt’s fingers dug into my thighs, his grip bruising.

“i’m close, matt” i moaned out.

“yeah? cum on my face like the dirty girl you are” he spoke against me.

i rocked my hips back into his face, practically riding it as one of his fingers began to circle my clit.

“matt, i’m-” i cut myself off with a moan as my orgasm hit me unexpectedly. i released all over his face, coating it in my pleasure.

when my legs began to give out, matt picked me up bridal style, carrying me to his room.

he closed the door behind us, and placed me down onto his bed.

i pulled my shirt off, throwing it to the side as he mirrored my actions.

i was left bare in front of him and he was left in his boxers.

“beautiful” he whispered as he brought my lips to his in a bruising kiss. his lips danced against mine as his hands wrapped around my waist.

suddenly, he flipped me over, pushing me down onto my stomach.

“tell me, you like being fucked by me and chris, not even a full day apart?” he asked as he pulled down his boxers.

“matt-” he left a harsh slap to my ass, making me let out a low moan.

“you were louder last night, am i not making you feel good?” he asked, slapping my ass again.

“you are! you are! please, matt!” i screamed.

“you sure? cause you were moaning like a little bitch last night” another slap.

“you didn’t answer me, ma” another slap.

“i- what was the question?” i asked as he slapped me again.

“haven’t even fucked you yet and you’re already acting dumb?” another slap.

he rubbed his hand against the irritated skin, soothing it.

“you want my cock?” he asked as tears began to form in my eyes. “fucking beg for it” he spoke.

“please, please, please. i need it so bad, matt. so fucking bad, please fuck me” i babbled, my brain going fuzzy at the thought of him buried inside of me.

without warning, he entered me from behind, making me cry out.

“fuck, matt! holy shit” i wailed as he thrusted into me harshly.

“still want this?” he asked as he plowed into me, holding my arms behind my back.

“yes, please! don’t fucking stop” i whined in response.

he leaned forward so that his body was flush against mine, wrapping his tatted arm around my neck.

“yes, yes, yes, holy fuck matt “ i chanted as my eyes rolled into the back of my head.

“he make you feel like this?” he asked as he bit my ear lobe.

i was losing my grip on reality, in my own little world due to the amount of pleasure i was feeling.

he squeezed his arm around my neck, choking me while he bit my ear lobe harder.

“answer me” he rasped into my ear.

“i-i mean, he made me feel good but-” every ounce of sense i had left in my brain was gone, i could barely even answer a simple question logically.

“that’s not what i asked” he said. “answer my question, or you don’t get to cum”

“no! no, he didn’t” his hips slammed against mine as he continued to fuck me into the bed.

“who makes you feel like this baby?” he asked.

“no one, just you” i groaned out.

“louder”

“just you, matt”

“fucking scream it”

“just you, matt. no one else makes me feel like this” i yelled, tears streaming down my face.

“please, i’m gonna cum! please let me cum!” i cried out.

“go ahead, i’m right behind you”

my toes curled as my face scrunched up in pleasure. my mouth hung open, but no sound came out as i squirted, my juices shooting onto the sheets.

i shook and twitched as matt shot his load into me, letting out low groans.

after a few minutes of just laying there, matt pulled out, kissing my shoulder.

“you ok?” he whispered as i turned onto my back.

“yeah, that was fucking insane. holy shit” i spoke as i continued to catch my breath. “sorry about your sheets”

“are you kidding? that was a hundred percent worth it” he grinned at me.

“stay here, let me go run a bath” he spoke before kissing my cheek.

once the water finished running, we got into the bath, and helped wash each other off.

he gave me a massage, helping my aching muscles to relax, and placing kisses all over my shoulders and back.

he whispered soft praises in my ear, reminding me how much he loved me and how good i did for him.

once we finished, we dried off and he dressed me in a clean pair of his clothes.

“want something to eat?” he asked when we were ready.

“yeah” i answered.

matt helped me to the kitchen, as i was limping due to the soreness between my legs.

when we got there, we found chris standing by the fridge.

the three of us all looked back and forth between each other, not knowing what to say.

suddenly, chris broke the silence, “well you just got your shit rocked, huh?” he spoke.

after just staring at each other for a minute, the three of us bursted out laughing.

🌀🌀🌀🌀

masterlist

tag list: @lustfulslxt @flowerxbunnie @sturnssx @mattslolita @its-jennarose @sophssturn @bernardsleftbootycheek @queen161718 @cupidsword @imwetforyourmom @nickmillersn1gf @mattsneezing @chrisstankyleg @sturniolobltch @ciarasturn1 @bethsturn @bernardenjoyer @mbbsgf @rac00ns-are-c00l4 @ssturniolo @blueeyedbesson @mxqdii @sturniolowhore @readerakayourname @defnotayonna @urmom2bitch @rootbeerworshiper @starsturniolo @hearts4chriss @theyluv-meee @carolinalikesthings @itzdarling @chrisstopherfilmed @judespoision @sstvrnioloo @littlebookworm803 @nicksdrpepper @chrisloyalgf @robins-scoop @fandomhopped @chr1sgirl4life @bbglmfao @55sturn @sturniolololover @meg-sturniolo @mattsnymphette @leah-loves-lilies @vanteguccir @ineedchriscock @junnniiieee07

[thelov3lybookworm]

Soon, My Love.

Summary: Eris never thought he would be much of a poet, but being with Y/n has proved him wrong.

•○●⛦●○•

Word Count: 1845

Warnings: hints of beron being a meanie, curse words ig, uhh and a beaten up eris :( uhhh also its kinda cheesy ngl lmaoo

A/n: yall these two are adorable i cant omg 🥺 again, ily all soo much for everything🥹

anyways, enjoy!

P.S BERRY ILY THANK YOU FOR HELPING ME AND LETTING ME YAP (yes i will say this in every days post leave me alone)

p.p.s: this is again based on an indian song....

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

It was one of those days again. The high lord was mad again, and his eldest son had once again been dragged to the dungeon.

No one talked about why he was taken to the dungeon so often, nor did anyone question why he always ended up locked in his quarters with healers at hand for days after.

But everyone knew why.

He was beaten.

Like some training dummy, he was always dragged to the dungeon by his father to be beaten to a pulp, within an inch of death before being tossed back to his rooms.

No one was allowed to enter his chambers after these beating sessions, but being a maid, Y/n was let in to clean his room.

Being a maid, she was underestimated. After all, what would a lowly servant do? Heal the wounds faster? Give him the things he was deprived of? Love and comfort?

Yes, yes she would.

He had been summoned by the high lord a few hours before, so Y/n knew it was time for her to go check up on her lover.

She had heard through some of the older servants that Eris had been taken to his room moments prior, and that the healer seemed more calm than usual. It in turn calmed Y/n, knowing Eris’s condition was probably better than any of his previous beatings.

Broom in hand, she scurried through the winding corridors, her head hanging, her shoulders curved inwards as she knocked on his chamber doors. The door swung open, and the healer's assistant let Y/n in. Quietly, she began her work, trying to peek into the bedchambers.

She was rewarded.

He was naked from the waist up, bruises littering his torso, decorating his face. It made Y/n’s heart thud in pain, watching him hurt. But this was still better than him being covered in blood, unable to move without assistance.

"My lord, are you sure you don’t want me to heal-"

"Are you deaf, Wood?"

The healer’s mouth shut with an audible click, and moments later, he was shuffling out of the bedroom into the sitting area, his assistant hot on his heels as they left, closing the door behind them.

Y/n released a sigh, then leaned the broom against the closest wall before she entered Eris’s bedchamber.

His eyes met her, instantly lighting up, a barely noticeable tilt to his lips.

"How are you?"

He shrugged like she was asking him about the weather and not his health. "Been through worse."

She gave him a stern look. "Can you never answer like a normal person?"

"Am I a normal person?" She shook her head, tired of his antics as she stepped closer, now within touching distance. "Then I suppose I can’t."

Y/n sighed, eyeing the healing bruises on his face, under his eyes, on his jaw, his cheeks.

Her hands were shaking, but she tried to force them to still as she reached up, gingerly touching the black-blue spots.

He hissed, and she jerked back, tears in her eyes.

"Does it hurt?" She whispered, vision blurring.

"I told you, Y/n, I’ve been through worse. I’ll survive-"

"But I won’t!"

He leaned back like he’d been slapped, his eyes fixed on her. She huffed, angrily swiping at her cheeks, cursing the damned tears that rolled down the expanse of skin.

She cursed herself for already crying.

"How long, Eris? When is he going to stop?"

Eris swallowed. "My love, It’s not that easy to kill him-"

"I know that, Eris. But I can't see you getting hurt every other day. Can’t see you get beat over nothing. I- I just can’t."

Y/n sniffled, her hands roving over the multiple bruises on his torso, avoiding his gaze.

"Y/n." His fingers reached up to cup her jaw, lifting her head, the other one reaching out to grab one of her shaking hands. "I know, my heart. I know it pains you to see me hurt, but there is nothing I can do by myself. I have to wait for my allies to formulate their plan, so I can have aid-"

"And when are they going to be done formulating their plan?"

The vanserra sighed, shaking his head. "They say they are planning, and as much as I wish to ask them how long it is going to take, I cannot rush them."

Y/n glared at her secret lover. "I swear to the mother if they don’t get that bastard to his designated hell soon, I will."

Slowly, a grin spread across his inviting lips, and Y/n surged forward, burying her head in the crook of his neck. "I want you to be happy, Eris. I just want you to live freely, without worrying whether breathing a little too loud will get you in trouble."

"I know, sweetheart, I know."

He pulled her closer. As close as he could while sitting on the table, his legs swinging as she stood between them.

Eris pressed his lips to the crown of her head, sighing.

"Soon, my love, soon."

She nodded against his skin, closing her eyes.

"And when he’s gone, I can finally let the whole world know I belong to you." He teased, his breath tickling her ear.

Y/n giggled in response, pulling away as she slapped his chest. She met his gaze, the warmth, the happiness in them warming her insides.

Even the sight of him simply smiling brought her indescribable happiness. She did not know what she would do when he actually found the happiness he deserved, without restraints.

Watching him now, she was reminded of the lines in a poem she had once read in a book when she was younger, the book as worn and loved as the lines were to her.

I laugh when you sing,

I cry when you wither away,

I get drenched in the shower of your love, my love.

She had not understood how someone else’s emotions could affect the other’s happiness so much, but now as she stared at those eyes she could hardly breathe without, she understood.

She used to think being in love would be like finding yourself someone to come home to. Someone to kiss and hug and live with.

But oh how wrong she was.

Love was so much more than that.

It was having someone to tend to your wounds, someone who would do everything for you just to see that flash of happiness in your eyes.

It was waking up to a warm world on the coldest winter night, it was the first sun after long days of rain, it was the first spring flowers after a long desolate season of grey.

It was knowing that your heart, mind and soul no longer belonged just to you, and still being happy to share yourself with someone else for the sole reason that you trusted this other being.

It was knowing happiness after a lifetime of suffering, it was peace after a century of restlessness.

It was hugging Eris, giggling after long days of sobbing together.

Soon, he had said.

"I’ll go now, or someone is bound to come looking."

Eris’s mood instantly soured. He grumbled under his breath, but Y/n only laughed, standing on her tiptoes as she pressed her lips to his cheek.

"I’ll see you later, hmm?"

He nodded, his sad eyes following her back, his lingering gaze like a soft caress as she closed the door behind her.

Soon.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

Everything stopped in a moment,

When you held my hand with yours .

I shall follow wherever you are going.

You’re always by my side when I look,

I am the season and you’re the breeze, Sweetheart.

Eris smiled, leaning back as he surveyed his work. He had always been much of a literature freak, but he had never thought his love for reading poems would then turn him into a poet too. He could write poetry, sure, but he had never had the desperate urge to.

But maybe that’s what love does to a person.

Ever since he’d met the shy little baker on the outskirts of town, he had begun writing poetry in hopes it would help him decipher the unknown beating of his heart, the different rhythm he had never experienced before, the unnatural warmth that made his whole body tingle every time she even blinked his way.

Of course, he had been right in that it helped him understand what this feeling was.

He just didn’t think he would be in love when he started.

You gave me all the colours of love,

And pulled me towards yourself,

Let’s get lost somewhere,

Where the time shall stop forever,

And tomorrow never comes, Sweetheart.

The day he had confessed his love- however unexpected- had been the happiest day in his life.

He’d had a nightmare that morning, of Beron finding out about the bakery his son had been frequenting a little too much for it to be considered normal. He had jerked up in his bed, panting and trying to hold back his sobs.

He had decided then that he would have to either stop visiting without letting her know his feelings, or he would have to stop visiting after confessing his feelings.

He knew which he preferred.

So he had gone to a jeweller early in the morning, picked two rings, and then ran to the quaint little building.

Y/n had been surprised when he had shown up to her doorstep, huffing as he begged her to follow him to the nearby forest because he wanted to talk, but after a lot of pleading, she had agreed.

That day, he had asked her to marry him. He had slipped the ring onto her finger, and then told her he would have to stop meeting her because it would then put her life in danger.

The next week, as he was strolling through the palace lawn, he had spied a new maid.

He had been over the moon that day, catching himself smiling at times when no one was present.

That day, Eris had made a vow to himself.

If you want, I’ll give you a million dreams,

If you’re happy then so am I

And as he had watched her leave, just a few hours prior, he had decided that maybe, rushing his allies would not be too bad.

Fuck waiting, he was tired of watching her eyes flash with sadness everytime he had to tell her that she would have to continue watching him get tortured every time his father threw a temper tantrum.

So he had written a letter just after she left, telling Rhysand to, basically, get his shit together or their deal was off.

If they wouldn’t help him kill his bastard of a father, then he would do it himself, consequences be damned.

He had promised himself that he would do anything to make her happy, and so he would.

Even if it forced him to choke his father to death.

°•°•°•○🌑○•°•°•°

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[xephyras]

' A Second Reflection '

MDNI. 18+ ONLY.

a/n: i fear i possibly cooked with this? idk, i wrote it in like 2 hours. first cillian murphy centric smut kinda goes hard.

btw: that new M. Night Shyalaman movie ‘Trap’ sucks. It's basically slutty Josh Hartnett being a dad with mommy issues and everyone not doing their job.

Second, yes, this is fucking diabolical and will in fact be better because I am amazing at writing darker shit.

Third, yes, this is because I watched Red Eye again on my Roku at 1 a.m in my duplex. (Sorry to my upstairs neighbor if you heard my tv.)

warnings: DUB/NONCON. dead dove do NOT eat, 18+, evil!dom!stalker! jackson rippner and sub! reader. jackson rippner is an actual villain, not bastardized, rough sex, unprotected p in v, breeding kink from rippner, dumbification (once again my weakness), heavy degregation, spit kink, biting kink, just overall really mouthy rippner, major power play kink, size difference if you squint, bruising, hickeys, break in, choking, hair pulling, slapping, mirror kink, blood kink, also, jackson rippner is like lowk pathetic bcz, yk... men whining.

word count: 4.18k

NOT proofread, I apologize in advance for any errors or mistakes!

"Keep your eyes on me, slut. I want to see your face while I fuck you.” He barked out, straining on your hair again as he pulled you up.

Darkness filled the room you sat in comfortably, your dust-covered mirror shimmering softly in the cinnamon candles you had lit a few minutes before. Duvet covered pulled up to your chest, and legs shuffling under with a comfort that always seemed to await you, you felt entirely serene.

The day was as usual boring, mostly spent inside working from home, taking a few calls, and mellowing around in your pajamas. These days seem to muddle together into one big mix, but it was nothing you fret over. It was rather comforting compared to the busy streets which bustled from the early hours of dawn to the peak of the night.

Only thing you would say that pinched wildly at your relaxation like a child on St. Patrick's day seeing a person not wearing green, was the overwhelming feeling of a set of prying eyes on you. However, this had become realtively common since you played that damned mirror in front of your bed.

You commonly had liked to rearrange your room; especially on the late nights where your shitty sleep schedule caught up, giving bursts of energy late at night. Hence, you assumed it was your paranoia playing a hopscotch game with you.

Nevertheless, you found the serenity of your window open, blowing a soft wind in, rather comforting. Leaving the blinds open often to let the orange sunset light in, you simply would stare until it went dark at times. Being on the first floor of your home, too, passerby's were actually much more fun to look at than you realized. ‘People-watching’, as some would call it.

However, in this night specifically, the warm breeze flushing onto your shoulders felt rather omniscient of some warning it communicated. You didn't get it, but something irked you. To deprive yourself of your own time, you simply read a book, traveling your mind into the world of your favorite reads.

Conversely, your brain pried at you. Thinking it was simply a lack of sleep, especially because it was now around a quarter after midnight, you set the hard book down. It was a hot night, you might as well have left your window open. After all, it was a safer neighborhood.

After blowing out the residue of your melted candles, you covered the rest of your body with the duvet. Serenity at last, you thought. Gently shutting your eyes, you simply wandered off mentally.

Despite being a rather heavy sleeper, you woke within a few hours to a sense of hefty paranoia. Your eyes couldn't even adjust at first to the darkness and the heaviness of them. Wiping your tiredness away, you peered into your mirror questionably.

The window you leave open, which usually shines in the dim moonlight, was almost blocked? Almost like a shadow. Slowly turning your head to your window to assume it was just your brain, you suddenly saw.

With your heart and sleepiness practically leaping out of your throat in a stiffled yell, shoved the covers off you, preparing to defend your every move. It wasn't just a fucking dark shadow, an entire, short, but rather wide looking silhouette of a man stood quietly, almost mannequin like, against your window sill.

“What the— What the fuck. What the fuck?!” You suddenly screeched out as loud as your throat could allow, the burning of your vocal chords was anything but sensational.

A deep chuckled emerged from the silhouette, shoulders bouncing somehow in a threatening manner. He held something in a pocket of a sweater, of course.

“You need to calm down before I slit your goddamn throat right here.” He suddenly sneered.

You were absolutely frozen, eyes wide with tears you didn't feel even forming. Hands bundled into fists in front of you futily, shaking like you were about to have a seizure.

He stood entirely still once more, practically observing you like some doctor. You decided haphazardly to stand onto your mattress, trying to get a better advantage of higher ground, more area to attack if he did decide to run at you.

“You— need to get the fuck out! Now!” You screamed at the end, trying to not simply break down sobbing. With purpose, your eyes scanned across your room for some weapon.

“I said calm down!” He suddenly grunted out, stomping with one long stride towards you. His palm latched itself to your ankle, dragging you from your sudden position, your head hitting the wall as you fell onto your spine.

A burning familiar to that of a minor concussion filled your senses, a stiffled sob leaving your throat as your vision filled with a dark white, if even possible. Ringing filled your ears as you felt yourself get dragged practically to lay on your stomach, facing your mirror.

He suddenly muttered almost to no one but himself, “You know, you're fucking pathetic. Can't even hold a good fight. All you do is sit—”

A grunt left his throat as he forced his sweater off, tosing it to the side. “And do absolutely nothing. You're a lazy bitch, you should be grateful I’m doing this.” He whispered into your ear, his stubble tickling along your jaw.

Desperately despite your mingling pain in your brain which seemed to radiate to your neck, you flipped yourself to your side, hands raising to try and fling themselves at him. You simply found his hand, calloused and rough, gripping a lump full of your hair, tangling it into his hand. He shoved your head into the mattress, unable to move.

“Stop fighting me, it's useless, whore.” He cursed out to you, a hint of lingering amusement in his poisoned words.

He certainly was talkative. “God, finally able to touch you after so long. You know, I’ve been waiting for the perfect time to do this.” He chuckled out, his voice was unforgivingly soothing while his hands gripped your head like a vice, and forcing the other to grope, pinch, and slap at your back and ass.

Wanting to have his fun, of course. “You need to do more. You're too… lazy. Maybe I’ll fuck a good baby into you, make you mine.” Sneering his voice next to your jaw, licking suddenly. The mixed smell of his aftershave and mahogany-esque cologne was all you tried to focus on.

Your head was utterly pounding, a slight ring in your eardrums forcuing yourself to feel even more of a head ache. Along with his snagging hand forcing you to the bed, and other groping you grotesquely, all you felt was utter pain and despair.

With as much energy as you could have put, you screamed out. Surely someone in this blasted neighborhood would hear. Screaming your pleas of help, Jackson tugged on your hair tight, snapping your neck back and cutting those yells off with a simple yelp into the air like an injured dog.

He dragged his hand from your lower back to your neck, shaking and wet from your tears which stained where he previously pushed you down. With force, he grabbed your neck tight, cutting your blood, but not air off.

“For someone so fucking lazy, only thing you can do right now is put your vocals to use? I will stab you right here and make it look like a suicide. Do yourself a favor and stop gambling with your life.” He enunciated, using his lips to drag themselves along the surrounding area of your ear.

A choke left your throat as the blood rushed back to your brain, the dazy and numb feeling leaving your pained head. You simply felt yourself get flipped to your back, finally being able to see some of the man's face.

He was unfortunately one of the most handsome men you had seen. A sharp jaw, stubbled beard he kept recently, piercing blue eyes. God, why did he have to be doing this?

“Stop it! I'll give you money! Please just stop!” You rasped out with desperate sobs, feeling yourself tears reach to your collarbones. Your nose was running heavy, and lips soaked with your own drool . You didn't care. You were focused enough the fact this man was in your home, hurting you.

His demeanor seemed suddenly much more gentle, but falsely. Like a lion acting gentle as it slowly prides itself up to its prey. His knees trapped around one of yours, holding you tight. With one of his hands, he held your chin now.

Leaning into your wet and puffy face as he smirked, he finally tantalizingly reached his lips to your jaw. “The more you plead, the harder I’m gonna get, and the longer I’ll use you.”

Finally leaning back, he raised his hand to your cheek and slammed it down, hard. A sound only described as a clap released itself along your bedroom walls, swinging your head to the side. Pain radiated harshly though your cheek, hot and burning.

He chuckled at this and leaned down his lips to your heaving neck, using his hands to stabilize himself on either side of your head. Wanting to have a bit of fun with his food so to speak, he licked. Starting at your collarbone, leading itself up to your jugular with silent breaths.

When he did reach, he bit down harshly, hard enough to draw blood, but not hard enough to severely hurt you. A loud shriek left your throat like some horror movie character, your hands flinging up to pull his hair away and desperately claw.

A pained groan left his throat, but he smiled. Finally getting a better view at his face, teeth slightly pink from your neck and his silky hair feeling like knives in your hands suddenly, you realized couldn't even fight him.

Pausing his actions, he developed a nasty sneer of his face, suddenly spitting a glob at your cheek, grabbing your wrists tight enough you knew it'd bruise. Crashing them down into the bed beside you, he dipped his head down once more to your bleeding neck.

Teeth sank into your skin like marshmallows in an out, ranks of pain radiating from your tailbone all the way to the top of your head like you were in a house fire. All you could hear was the ringing of your blasted ears, his heavy breathing and whines, and the shuffle of the duvet.

“God, you taste so fucking good.” He hummed out, licking up the residues and admiring your skin like some sort of art project he made, one he'd surely put on the fridge.

“You know…” he finally leaned back, resting on his knees which trapped you into his touch.

“I've been watching you for a while—before tonight.” Jackson hummed contently, his raspy whisper leaking itself into your ears like honey.

“Especially because… you don't know when—” he spoke, getting up to close the open window. You knew you should've taken it as a chance, but you were frozen. He adjusted your whimsy curtains above it.

“—when to close your goddamn window. It's been such a joy to watch you, you know that? Every morning, you laying in your bed practically refusing to get up… all the way to laying yourself down, leaving it open to feel the breeze.” He chuckled finally at his last words, almost as if to nonverbally stupidly you.

Your head was pounding, the previously persistent ringing now dying down to a simple static noise, deep in your brain. Choked sobs left your throat, your chest heaving with every breath. Barely even being able to see due to the cloudiness of your wet tears, you blinked frantically.

“My boyfriend will be home so—” you attempted to sneer out, getting cut off with a vocal scoff.

“You need to learn how to stop lying, baby.”

Almost as if tantalizing your stupid word choice, he grazed his fingertips up and down your torso, riding your tank top up slightly with every stroke. His breath—you noticed—was heavier, his chest rising and falling every movement.

With a solid hiss, he forced your tank top off you, to which of course to his not-so-very-big-suprise, revealing your bare chest. After watching you for a while, he noticed you would most of the time wear either nothing, or a tank top, maybe paired with some underwear, usually black or navy. Rare occasions, maroon.

A deep chuckle poured out his throat as his rough hands went to your breasts, cupping and kneading them like dough. It hurt, clearly because he had no intent of making you even feel anything. He just craved you like a wolf craved a little sheep. Cries of pain left your throat, trying to claw your hands at his to no avail.

Your hips and legs wouldn't budge as he sat right on them, your head hurt too much to move, your arms like noodles from the sheer anxiety and shock you felt. To this, he laughed in a false-lit pity. Pinching at your nipples, he made sure to leave you as sensitive as possible, with intent to make you cry even more.

Exult filled his icy eyes as his hands dragged themselves down your belly, massaging your sides and hips like fresh bread. It tickled, somehow—the way he moved his hands now around the waistband of your underwear.

They were a deep navy blue, however looked black in this dark room. Shakily exhaling, Jackson dipped his fingers across the line of your clothing, before quickly pulling them clean off, the fabric resting on your shaking legs.

Another shrill howl left your raspy throat, trying to wriggle your hips out of his body weight. He bellowed back quietly in mock, anger mustering his tone. Another hard, cranial slap landed on the side of your head.

“Shut the fuck up.” He berated now; amusement present.

“I’ve always dreamed of this… even nights I didn't sleep.” he cooed out, coaxing one of your hands to his crotch.

You sneered out a messy cry as he pressed your hand to his tented pants, feeling his cock practically throbbing. His breath left his lips shakily as he forced your hand to feel him. Conversely, he kept his hand tight on your hips, not covered finally.

Finally smacking your hand back, he shimmied off the pants he had on after unbuttoning them. He didn't care to pull them all the way down, why not make it a quickie—you know?

“You look like such a whore right now…” he cooed out almost an octave higher, those threatening eyes gazing daggers at you.

An idea suddenly formed in his head as he looked up to himself in the mirror across from your bed. A toothy smile like a sharks spread across his jaw. Piercing his eyes back down, he grunted, flipping you into your stomach once more.

“I want you to see your stupid fucking face while I use you.” he blazed out, sharply snapping your head up by a chunk of your hair.

Your face was a mess. Puffy red eyes, red nose and cheeeks. Entirely wet with tears and snot. Not to mention, you looked absolutely devastated, which was expected, but not this bad.

A choked wail left your throat as you heard his pants shimmy down slightly, and felt his boxers, and clothed cock resting against your pussy. In response, he cooed under his breath. His hand pressed harshly into your lower back.

“It's a shame I haven't done this sooner, you cry like a fucking animal… it's so beautiful.” He mewled out to your face in the mirror rather than looking down at you.

Tearing down his boxers finally, you could hear his cock spring free and tap lightly on his stomach. He was of course hard, more than he had ever felt in a while. hence the fact he'd get off almost nightly thinking of you. Fucking into his fist with throaty groans, imagining it was your cunt instead.

A hearty sigh left his chest as he stroked himself a few times, the precum on his tip shining in the dim moonlight which simmered through the window. He made sure he was slow with his movements, not wanting to end this too fast.

“Keep your eyes on me, slut. I want to see your face while I fuck you.” He barked out once more, straining on your hair again as he pulled you up.

You let out a few whiny sobs, knowing you couldn't get out of this situation. Your scalp burnt. Gazing your eyes up to his face, you saw nothing but lust, and focus. The worst part was you knew he could get away with it.

“Please no— no, no, no, no!” You babbled out with purpose.l

"No, no, no, don't do this!” he mocked an octave higher, looking down to his leaking cock.

“Just sit still, you'll be fine, bitch.” He scoffed.

Lining himself up to you, he spat down on his cock, stroking himself a few more times to give less friction while he fucked you. Emitting a slight grunt, he finally leaned himself into your pussy, feeling your walls and savoring every inch he dove in.

A loud wail left your mouth, you felt like you were practically being split into 2 as he finally bottomed out. His cock was big enough to press hard against your cervix, the feeling was uncomfortable. Desperately, you tried to wriggle your hips off; nevertheless, he held your hips tight.

“I said be still, dumbass.” He hissed out, landing a loud spank on your ass, surely leaving it red.

“God, you feel so—” he enunciated his words, thrusting sharply into you. “So… fucking tight.” He finished his words, chuckling in the air at the end.

Placing his other hand on your hip and holding you steady, he started a rhythmic pace, slow and drawn out. Despite the slowness, he practically pounded into you as hard as he could, savoring your small cries with each stroke.

Craning his neck back to the ceiling, he gently shut his eyes and let his jaw fall open, babbling on in pleasure. A small curse left his lips, his eyes dipping back down to your ass which shook slightly with each thrust.

���Fuck… oh my God, you feel so good. You feel—” he enunciated his words more, sharply picking up the pace, the feeling of the tip of his cock hitting the bump of your cervix was intoxicating to him.

The pain was slightly settling down as he kept thrusting into you, your body naturally making yourself wet to lessen the friction. Almost shamefully, you couldn't lie and say it didn't feel good.

If anything, it felt phenomenal. After that pain settled, the feeling of his cock driving into you so deep—deeper than you'd ever felt—was shamefully pleasureful. Despite head still throbbing with his hand tight in it, and the fact you're still a sobbing mess, you couldn't help but whine out in this twisted pleasure.

You were ashamed, but it was better than feeling any sort of pain. To the sounds of your little cries turning into whimpers of pleasure, he laughed heartily, spanking your ass once more just to watch it shake.

“See? Now that you're being obedient, I don't have to hurt you anymore, bitch.” He leaned down, tantalizingly whispering.

As he kept his head next to yours, you couldn't help hear his heavy breath and the slight mewls leaving his throat, deep and pathetic, almost. From your hips, he ran his hands down to the small of your back, pressing your arch further down .

Darting out his tongue, he licked your jaw slightly, reminicsing his gaze over your bruised bite marks that finally stopped bleeding. Landing his tongue on your jugular once more, he planted rather soft kisses. Much better than biting, anyways.

He continued to kiss around the back of your neck and the sides, the stubble tickling you. The mix of this ticklish feeling and his hips pistoning into yours finally started to postpone your crying, leaving you in a whiny state.

“God, you really are a whore, huh? Getting fucking used and you're over here whining like a little puppy.” He slammed his hand down once more, making you yell loudly.

Grazing your eyes to the mirror, the sight you saw was definitely one you'll remember, both for the horrifying reason and one of the fact this man looked utterly pathetic for you. Higher sounding breaths, head dipped to the back of your neck with kisses, and hands kneading our ass.

His eyes pierced up to the mirror, making eye contact with your still wet and puffy eyes. Smirking softly at you, he turned his head from the mirror to the side of your face. Linking his lips with your earlobe, he started speaking.

“See how slutty you look right now? You love this…” he spoke in such a tantalizing way it made you shudder.

You could barely even keep your head up, resting it on the plush mattress as you kept letting you your small moans. Each thrust was pure and plain pleasure. Shockwaves sent up your spine and fogging up your brain.

It could've been the mix of anxiety and your head hitting the wall earlier, but you could barely do anything but moan out in bliss mixed with agony. He leaned back up, flicking his hair back with a jerk of his neck.

The idea popped in his head to reach his hand down finally under your hips, keeping one on your ass to hold you steady. Delicately, he rubbed slow, intricate circles with his index on your clit. Back arching further down with pleasure, you let out an almost pornographic moan.

“Oh, you like that…” he cooed rhetorically, cocking his head to the side as he observed your reaction almost clinically.

His hands moved almost masterfully on your clit, the nerves sending an overwhelming pleasure over your entire body. Your legs shook diabolically, toes curling. Trying your best to stifle how good it felt, you bit down harshly on your lip, feeling your lower stomach arise with a familiar feeling of pleasure.

A sudden, quiet moan left the bottom of his throat, an octave higher than any of the words he'd spoken to you. He even sounded hot, and it tormented you. You could tell he was close to cumming by the way his hips stuttered slightly, how vocal he was getting.

“Fuck… I didn't expect you to feel so— so good." he whined out, dipping down his head, holding your ass tight as he probably could've. It hurt, but not as bad as being bitten or slapped.

He quickly leaned his head back to the ceiling, mouth agape with small whines leaving his throat. With his hand still on your clit, you could actually feel yourself getting closer. The way he looked in the dark in that mirror was somewhat driving you crazy. Yet, you dared not look at yourself, feeling a shame that you think will never be cured.

“Oh— God… fuck, fuck, fuck,” he babbled out incoherently, suddenly burying his hips into you as deep as he could've gotten, dipping his torso down to bite harshly on your shoulder.

Somehow that was the tipping point for you, feeling that bite and his warm spurts of cum burst into you, foreign and good. Feeling your brain go numb and your mouth agape, your legs trembled heavily.

With that, a loud and drawn out whine left your puffy lips, your hands gripping the duvet sheets as tight as they could. He stood still besides the feeling of his cock still twitching inside of you.

His chest heaved heavily, pressing against your back tight as he popped his hips into you a few more times, just to fuck his cum into you. Leaning back up with a shaky groan, he examined the damage he did to you.

Bruised ass and hips, bites all over your shoulder and neck, slight blood, your crying face in the mirror, and despite all that: he made you cum. He was actually rather proud of himself for that, even though he swore he would just kill you after.

Biting his lip and pulling his cock out of you, stuffing himself inside his boxers once more, he began to speak.

“You're pathetic.” He hissed.

Buttoning his pants back up, he tore himself off that bed, leaving you alone in it. Picking up that sweater from off the floor and the knife he had stuffed in it, he examined you once more. He darted his eyes from the shiny knife to your body, shaky and limp, yet still crying.

“Can't even move now, huh? I dumbed you down real good…” he stepped over you, dragging the knife up and down your spine, watching the goosebumps it gave you.

“Too bad I can't kill you. Your cunt feels to good.” He whispered to your ear.

With that, he stuffed the knife back in his pocket and swung your bedroom door open. He would of course rather just leave through the front door. Turning back to your body, he chuckled.

“I’d prefer you leave your front door unlocked rather than your window.”

another a/n: i deeply apologize for how nasty this is! enjoy and take dark smut crumbs, my fellow jackson rippner lovers.

[fullhavelstonearmor]

Am I sleep deprived? Yes. But, imagine the following.

Batman is away with the Justice League. He’s saving the planet from Brainiac or some shit.

Bane is in Gotham. Plotting. Scheming. Thinking about crime, but most importantly, Batman.

You thought joker was fucking obsessed? Wait until you see bane’s bedroom. Dartboards with the batfam. Various articles of clothing he’s torn from their suits. Where they go to school. Everything. He even has the fucking x-ray scans from Batman’s broken back. He knows Batman’s identity, and everyone else’s too. He says nothing, because Batman is HIS to break, and nobody else’s.

Bane comes up with a plan. A great plan. He’s a little cuckoo off venom, but it’s perfect. He’ll do something heinous, Batman will come, and he’ll break his back again. He’ll get that feeling from breaking the bat again.

So he does something ridiculous. Robs a bank or something. He isn’t stopped by Batman though. It’s Nightwing. He remembers beating Batman when Dick was a boy. He remembers Dick beating him for the first time. He turns on the venom.

When he wakes up, he doesn’t see the broken body of a teen, and he’s got several bruises. (Yes, he forgot Nightwing is a grown ass man now. Venom, dude.) He’s also in an entirely different part of Gotham. He can infer that he lost. It doesn’t matter. Batman didn’t arrive for Bane, so that means Batman isn’t here. Now how could Bane get to Batman when he comes back?

Obviously he could beat up Alfred, or graffiti crime alley, or something minuscule that just warrants him an extra hard beating when Batman finds out. So what if… he hurt the entire Batfam for something they couldn’t beat him for? What if he attacked their pride, and not their spines?

Commissioner Gordon, sits, and stares at the bat signal. He flicks it on. He always does this, every night, to see if Batman came back and, if he didn’t, give whatever info needed to Dick or Jason. Whoever lost the coin flip. He didn’t. He flicks it off, and just past where the beam of light had started, Bane is there. Or, he tried to get there. Do the ominous thing. He is more or less still climbing over the ledge of the roof. Bodybuilding doesn’t exactly make you an acrobat, okay?

Gordon, logical individual he is, draws his gun. Points it at Bane. Bane eventually crawls up and stands tall. There is a dumb little beak on Bane’s mask. He says that he is “The Hawk.” Gordon laughs at him. Bane says he wants whatever file he was going to give to the bat family member. Gordon thinks it’s stupid of him to make such a demand. So Bane mentions Barbara. That he knows her secret. Gordon knows it too, of course. He’s been in her bedroom, and she just sort of has an entire stand for her batgirl suit in the closet. Bane knowing this intimidates Gordon. Gordon shouts threats, and Bane calmly reinstates that he can be trusted. He’s never broken Batgirl’s spine. Gordon doesn’t know what Bane’s doing. He does, however, begrudgingly hand over a Joker case file.

Joker is plotting. Don’t get me wrong, he’s obsessing over Batman, but he’s thinking about how to get to him like Bane would had Nightwing not clocked him on the head a little too hard. He thinks he’ll kidnap little Damian and see how far the others will get to rescue him. He of course, doesn’t understand that kidnapping Damian isn’t easy, but you know, definition of insanity.

Outside though, a group of goons see Batman, but realize that it’s not Batman. For one, no bat ears. For two, he’s fucking jacked. Like, Batman is big but not 6’8” tall. And finally, he’s standing at the entrance, in plain sight. And soon, they breath a sigh of relief. It’s bane. Boss probably invited him for the plan. Bane steps out of the darkness. They laugh at him as he calls himself “The Hawk” and denies being Bane.

So Bane counts. He does things Batman wouldn’t. He breaks an arm. Eighteen muggings stopped. A leg. Five bank robberies prevented. A big ass kick in the nuts. A million potential child abuse victims gone forever.

Joker continues plotting and laughing, when Bane jumps through his skylight. Bane says he’s “The Hawk.” Joker laughs at him again. So Bane counts.

As he throws Joker’s crippled, still laughing body from his van and through a GCPD window, he thinks about how many lives he’s saved. Probably more than Batman will the first week of arriving back home. He laughs to himself. He LIKES being better than Batman at his own game.

When Batman returns, chaos ensues. He’s confused as all hell when Alfred tells him everything. It’s been a month, and Gothamite criminals felt a fear like they haven’t since Batman admittedly got a bit softer. He goes to congratulate Bane. Not in some spectacle, but in his gloomy way. For the first time in a while, he makes a mistake. When congratulating Bane, he looks away, exposing his back. So Bane counts.

Guys can you tell I love Bane?

[straykids-97]

Yunho's natal chart indicates he'd be into CNC and it just fits so well.

Just being able to have full control over you and treat you like his property...

Listen.

Listen.

LISTEN.

LISTEN!

You can’t do this to me Ruby 😭. Your natal charts only confirm my suspicions of how they (could potentially) act.

NEVER TRUST A GOLDEN RETRIEVER TYPE‼️

They act alllll sweet in public, hugging you and smiling and shit. Then they get you home and 180° your ass and then you turn around and they giving you the glare.

If you haven’t read @whatudowhennooneseesyou natal chart yet for Yunho, then for context plz STOP READING THIS AND GO THERE FOR REFERENCE!!

Here, I’ll help you out: NSFW YUNHO NATAL CHART

I am a firm believer AND supporter of HARD Dom Yunho. 🧎🏻‍♀️

Control

Dancing on the edge of obedience and disobedience is something of a fine art. Especially when it comes to you and Yunho.

As much as you love the consequences, you hate the way he glared at you when you did the exact opposite of what he asked of you. It almost made your skin crawl.

However, you were far more needy today and you were willing to literally do anything for even and iota of Yunho’s attention. Even if it was something you had never done before.

Yunho is sat at his desk, headphones over his ears, playing a game with the boys. You stand next to him, a familiar leather piece of jewelry that you only wore on occasion. At first, you weren’t sure if he even noticed you. But after dying and having a few moments to spare, he turns to you. The look in his eyes said it all; he was annoyed. He had been dealing with your bratty ass all morning, and he honestly didn’t want to spend the afternoon doing it either.

“What?” He gives you a quick once over, before his eyes do a double take to what’s in your hands. You watch as Yunho’s eyes slowly rake back up to your face, “Oh?” You bite your lip, unsure of what to say. “Are you sure?” He leans back in his chair, muting his mic before going on. “You understand what it means when you have that on, right?” You feebly nod, jumping slightly when he snaps at you, “Words.” His were sharp and concise, like a knife.

“Yes.” You feel his large hand wrap around your wrist, yanking you forward into his body. You catch yourself before you fall, and then he wraps his free hand around your throat, “Yes, what?”

“Yes, Daddy.” A sly grin spreads over his face as he slowly takes the soft pink collar from your hands. “Hold your hair.” You stand there, pulling your hair into your hands and allow him to pull the collar around your throat. You gulp, feeling it tighten in place as he snaps it in the front of your neck.

You take a deep breath as his hands wrap around your throat, squeezing. “Now leave.” He snaps. An icy shiver for anticipation runs down your spine and you promptly leave his room.

Wearing the collar meant that he could do whatever he wanted to you, when he wanted to. He didn’t need permission, he already had it. As long as the collar was around your neck, he could come to you in the middle of the night and do whatever his deprived brain could think of.

You were washing dishes from dinner when he finally caught you, your shenanigans finally catching up to you. His hand wrapped around the back of your neck and yanked you backward, causing you to stumble. “Ah- Yunho!” You gasp, holding his wrist as he pinned you to the counter.

“Shut up!” He snapped, yanking your pants down to your thighs, proding your entrance with his hardened cock. “Good girls get to choose,” he hissed in your ear as he rolled his hips, his cock gliding across your folds, “bad girls take what they’re given and shut up.”

You whimper and nod, letting him do whatever he wanted. He drew back, thrusting his hips into yours as he began to roughly fuck you into the countertop. Your hips were going to be bruised from the force he was exerting behind you. “God- Fuck!” You cry as an orgasm rips through your body so violently that you almost think that you passed out.

Yunho yanks you into his body, arms wrapping around your midsection, a hand going to your throat and the other to your stomach to hold you as close as he could as he picked up the pace. No longer focused on if he was going hard anymore. He was chasing his own high. “Fuck.” He drew out the word like it was a delicacy to be savored, and after a few moments, his hips stuttered and he ceased moving.

You feel the collar fall off your neck and Yunho instantly goes into literal dad mode. “I wasn’t too rough was I? Are you ok?” He preens, turning you around in his arms to see the fucked out look on your face. You giggle sleepily, nodding feebly. He chuckles back, “Come on sleepy head.” He presses a soft kiss on your forehead and pulls you to your bedroom.

[rowanthestrange]

The Master And Margarita Jacket

(Matthew Sweet’s Doctor Who version…but with a frisson of Bulgakov’s)

It’s done! With every bit of unphotographical glittery metallic paint that I can’t capture on camera even if my iphone skills weren’t rubbish.

@spoonietimelordy, @rearranging-deck-chairs, @bearinabandana and everyone else who Did The Reading of that one ‘I Am The Master’ novel but I’ve forgotten to tag because i’m so sleep deprived i can’t think any more but hopefully other people will, assemble!

Detailed closeups and explanations (with some spoilers) below:

Starting front top right side (face on). -Margarita herself, biting a mushroom. A more Cockatoo beak than Macaw, with red face instead of white, to make what exactly she is more mysterious. -The Master Who logo here is just gold, any shading didn’t look right when it was so thin.

Front top right pocket. Purple, of course.

-Next section down are these three. The ‘Never Stop Growing’ patch is my second favourite patch of the bunch. So many Master Themes, and plot relevant. -Then the little ‘Best Buds’ with the heart in the middle. I was inordinately proud of that idea. (Buds, budding, bigenerated vibe). -And then ‘Obscene Lotus’. That’s mentioned early in the book, and while it’s just described as a big purplish lotus, there’s so much sexual charging in that scene that, well, you gotta.

Me, reusing the ‘budding’ pun in a different capacity? It’s more likely than you think.

-The cover of the Penguin Clothbound Classic version of the original The Master And Margarita, that took multiple days to complete and so much agony. -The patch is a blank one that I bought, then painted the design to look like one of those stamps people sometimes put in books. Painted the border the same colour, then tea-stained it to look like old paper. Certainly in real life the colour comes out nicely. I couldn’t find his autograph (and sadly there’s an unrelated artist with the same name lol) but he got his doctorate in Wilkie Collins so I just looked up examples of that guy’s writing and tried to give it a bit of that vibe. Hopefully it’s the thought that counts. But hey, if anyone ever meets him and gets me a signature sample I can just redo it.

General mushroom patch - I like the fire kind of vibe and the looming.

To the other side!

So. You’re asking what’s with the daisy theme. Fair. So Margarita is also another name for a daisy in some languages. I choose to lean into that because it’s also the widely known symbol of Three - with that scene where he talks to Jo and recounts how a hermit living on a mountain helped dispel his depression by getting him to focus on the beauty of the flower (“and it was the most daisiest daisy”). Given that Three is essentially a character in the book, this felt like the vibe we’re going for. It’s perennial. It also is a healer of bruises and wounds, how can that not be relevant meta wise too to the Master’s new companion, hm? And okay yes, Mikhail does say he’s not a botanist, but if you can think of another way to get that message across other than botanical illustration page…

I like the patch because lightbulb, idea, full of mushrooms etc.

-‘I Am The Master’ being the name of the book the story is contained in, plus Fun With Identity. -Next the one bit of Real Art that I attempted to copy in glittery acrylics - Magritte’s ‘The Treachery Of Images’ or more commonly known ‘Ceci n’est pas une pipe’. The story not only of the Master’s experiences recently, but the story’s themes of hallucinations and deceptions; as well as being the symbol of Russian!Brigadier. -This patch is great isn’t it? A play on the Master’s apparent alcoholism or Russian blending in as you prefer, and of course, The Lighthouse of Martin!Doctor fame.

-Mikhail’s guitar for playing Brown Sugar and other ominous inference songs. -The formula triangle of Love, Food, and Music (I couldn’t think of a self-evident way to show his approach to food - Russian dumplings are, well, not exactly distinct). On its side so the glittery pink triangle points in a certain direction because he’s escaped places and I can do ominous inferences too Sweet. -Maybe controversial? There is a failed love story component in here though, that I just couldn’t leave unmarked. The Doctor, K’vo, and Jo all have their parts to play in that.

Now for the arms:

Here’s the right-side looking-on arm. -I repainted this mushroom patch to be the orange and green of K’vo’s. -You’ve already seen the long image of it above, so here’s just a snippet closeup of the motif that goes along both arms. Daisies linked in a chain with the words ‘daisiest daisy’ (if you wonder why everything’s outlined by the way, a) i like the style, and b) it makes glitter infinitely more legible and clearer to see if there’s a dark matt border around it breaking it up, especially with something as variable coloured as denim). There’s the sunflower in the middle because Margarita loves her sunflower seeds.

This is the other arm. Margarita holding a margarita in a margarita. What’s more to add? I used my shittest white (mixed with my fabric medium as everything else has been at every step) rather than @yesokayiknow’s excellent suggestion of Liquitex, which has saved me everywhere else, including those light patches. But here shitty kids basics acrylic is translucent enough to do some excellent work pretending to be glass and ice. The parrot patch has been altered to make the beak entirely black and her face red instead of macaw white, to keep her species ambiguous as literary theme demands.

To the back!

This Master Who logo is bigger, so it has the Master’s purple highlights like bruising.

Here is a small UNIT patch I modified to be a Russian one, globe focused on their continent (roughly). Sweet just translated the word ‘unit’ for Russian!Brigadier’s group, and the text is the re-cyrilliced version of that.

Skipping to the bottom…

Here referencing O’s collection of Doctor Information, Sweet adding to that with having distinct scrapbooks. ‘Manuscripts Don’t Burn’ is a line from Bulgakov’s The Master And Margarita (spoken by Satan in fact, mhmm) and became something of a rallying cry for oppressed Russian artists. I have ‘Author Unknown’ for the obvious meta with his and the Doctor’s memories, and likewise, the fact that flames are clearly present and burning lets the viewer come to whatever conclusion they like. #133 was chosen for the simple fact that in my copy of Bulgakov’s novel, and the one depicted on the front of the jacket, it is page 133 which starts the chapter The Hero Enters, where we meet The Master who has renounced all other names (who is very much, as Interference notes, the Doctor). They are glitter paint titles done on Hemline repair patches, black, brown, white, and navy blue. I know anything too painty on that area of the back will risk a lot of wear, and these are easily replaced when necessary (if still hours of lettering).

To the left most side…

This was the most expensive patch I bought, £12. But worth it. The mushroom stalk is silk.

Here I depicted in silhouette the scene of the Master climbing up to the Doctor on the giant mushroom. I chose silhouette so as not to draw the eye too much. I also added some 2ply black-black glitter cotton as part of his climbing equipment, attached on by some silver stitches for the…things I can’t remember the name of. It gives it a bit more 3D effect, but also keeps the thread close enough it shouldn’t pull on anything.

And at its base we have a reference to Mikhail’s chosen middle name. I chose to believe it’s relevant, Sweet’s too deep into this for it not to be. This is a cover I edited to highlight the namesake who actually travelled Russia and collected the tales of this book, and indeed, it does include the story of Koschei The Deathless. I edited the robe to be red instead of its original yellow, and added the quintessential Time Lord collar. But I think it’s perfectly passable. This is iron on transfer paper (dark) onto a very light grey polycotton to turn it into a patch. It…*cough* hasn’t had its edges finished or strictly been attached yet, but that’s a bit of handwork I can do as and when.

So finally back up to the middle

I’ve expanded out @spoonlesss-artbook fantastic angel-winged Margarita’s Master art. The Redbubble bag was only that big as it was (hemmed with bostik fabric glue like a true pro and attached as a panel) so it cut off a little, and it didn’t go the whole way anyway, so now we get some endings of the feathers, some all the way up to the arm of the jacket. I tried to blend it into the fire, one creature of both. And trying to get a multidimensional feel, boundary breaking. And again, very glittery irl so plays very well with the fire theme. It was fun when it came to colour-matching particularly the blue wing at the top, because the glitter gives it a bit of a sheen. I blunted it with a few careful washes of black so it still sparkles but is the right colour in most angles.

The Redbubble edit cuts @spoonietimelordy’s signature, so I copied it from the original and moved it over to the left side in some sparkly silver. Also internet doxxing my real life self on the bottom of the back as my own signature.

Doesn’t look like the sort of thing that would take weeks when you see it all together, but I’m really happy with it. I’m so grateful for everyone who’s shown their brilliant art to me and shared posts about painting all these years, cus it allowed me to absorb stuff and let me come out of the gate swinging! It feels thoroughly addictive. Even if I only know ‘use tiny brush’ for almost everything and glitter metallic is great for hiding sins. (And a ‘Ha!’ in the face of my mother keeping me away from it my whole life because of mess - I never got even a single speck on any clothes that wasn’t this jacket. I could’ve been doing this for years rather than just picking up a brush at the age of thirty-damn-one. But at least I’ve got it now).

And thanks to Matthew Sweet for feeding the worms in my brain too.

[fantasyqueen502]

Mrs. Miller: Chapter 2

Summary- (Before the infection/apocalypse) A look into the life of Mrs. Miller. A rough couple nights of the Millers handling a screaming Sarah.

Relationship- Joel Miller X female Reader

Rating: PG New parent struggles Word Count: 728

"Y/N," Joel grumbles with exhaustion, rocking a screaming Sarah in his arms. The snoring woman doesn't move. "Y/N." He says a little louder, adjusting the screaming child, who begins to squirm in his hold. Y/N stirs rolling onto her back. Leaning over her "Y/N!"

She jolts up, headbutting his face. They both groan, Joel holding his forehead and Y/N holding her nose. "What is wrong with you?" He groans.

"You just headbutted me!" she spat.

"Why are you yelling?"

"I am now deaf in one ear, and you brought in a screaming baby, you dunce!" She holds her nose while checking her hand. "Am I bleeding?" throwing off the blanket making her way to their bathroom. Wincing at the bright light and wiping the few drops of red from her lip. "What's wrong with Sarah?" she asks.

"She's hungry." He informs.

"There's milk in---"

"--the fridge, the second shelf to the right, yes, there wasn't any."

"I just pumped. There's like twenty bottles." She pushes past him. Downstairs, swinging open the fridge door. Groaning at the sight of an entire shelf of bottles. "You didn't even look," she said, taking Sarah into her arms.

"You said the second shelf."

"Yes."

"That's the third shelf."

"It's the second shelf. Why does it matter?" She shushes bouncing Sarah, who continues to scream in her ear.

"One...two...three…" he counts."

"You don't count the first shelf."

"What?"

"You now know where the bottles are now, get one!" She snaps. "It's okay, baby. Shhh!" a mantra, repeating them over and over. Watching Joel walk past the sink.

"What are you doing?" She grabs his arm.

"Warming the bottle."

"Not with the microwave. You'll scold her. Run it under warm water." She gestures to the sink.

Running the bottle under warm water for a few moments "Think it's warm enough." Shaking a few drops on his wrist.

POP!!!

The top rolls about the tile with milk splashing everywhere. All over his arm onto the floor, soaking their socks.

~•~

Y/N awakes to the room basked in gold. Lifting her head from her pillow. Sitting up to Joel nudging the door open with his foot.

"Morning," she greets. Eyeing a tray in his hands.

"Good morning, Mama." He smiles. Placing the tray on her lap. French toast and eggs. She eyes the clock on her nightstand.

"It's two in the afternoon." She gasps.

"You deserved some extra shut-eye." Taking a seat beside her, rubbing her thigh.

"Nutmeg?" She smiles, pointing at the breakfast with her fork.

"And cinnamon." He adds. "Just how you like it." He smiles.

"Thank you " at a loss for words. Taking a few bites of egg. "Sorry for last night."

"We were both sleep-deprived and not thinking straight." He runs his thumb over a small bruise beginning on the bridge of her nose. Y/N scrunches her face at the tenderness, looking at the matching mark near his hairline. "Eat up before your food gets cold." He instructs. She cut herself a big piece of toast and egg, mopping up as much syrup as she could. Shoveling it into her mouth. She hums with delight. "Good?" He asks rhetorically. She nods, pursing her lips for a syrupy kiss which he gladly accepts.

~•~

"I’ve just been so tired." She yawns, taking the tray of dirty dishes to the kitchen to wash.

"You just had a baby; it's our badge of honor as parents." leaning in, noses brushing against each other, but Sarah's cries interrupt them. They're groaning, chuckling at their daughters' perfect timing.

"I got it." He volunteers, placing a quick peck on her lips.

"I've got the dishes." She adds sneaking a second peck to his surprise. "Thanks for breakfast." She coos.

~•~

"I was thinking—" Joel calls out, making his way down the stairs of the home now gifted with silence. "---about calling up Tommy to watch Sarah to give us some much-needed mommy-daddy time." He smiles. "How's that sound?" He asks, noticing the sink overflowing with water. "Y/N?" He calls as she doesn't respond and begins to sway suddenly collapsing onto the floor. "Y/N!" He shouts, rushing over to her. Cradling her face and patting her cheek. Heart racing when her eyes didn't open. "Y/N? Baby? Can you hear me?" He calls lifting her into his lap.

Series chapter order:

Mrs. Miller

Mrs. Miller: Chapter 2

Mrs. Miller: Chapter 3

Mrs. Miller: Chapter 4

Mrs. Miller: Chapter 5

[impishtubist]

HELLO I would LOVE to give u a temeraire prompt. Perchance some hurt!Tharkay, any era you desire, with the fun bonus of extremely protective Temeraire?

My first Temeraire prompt! 🥺🥺🥺🥺 And it's Tharkay whump! I am so blessed.

I'm setting this on the Allegiance during the journey to Australia.

----

“Do you suppose,” Tharkay asks dryly, “he means to let me out anytime soon? Only the supper hour has come and gone, and I do not see why I should be deprived of a meal simply because Lieutenant Marchand could not keep his fists to himself.”

“Laurence,” Temeraire says, “Tharkay is correct. You will fetch him some food, yes?”

Laurence surveys the scene in bemusement--Temeraire, coiled tightly around himself on the dragon deck, and Tharkay, caged in by his forelegs. 

“Best do as he says, Will, or he may toss you overboard as well,” Granby says--lightly, because the unfortunate lieutenant had eventually been fished out of the ocean by a grumbling Iskierka before being confined to his cabin by Riley.

Laurence secures food and wine for both himself and Tharkay, and Temeraire consents to unwind himself long enough for Laurence to slip through, before curling protectively around them both. 

“You are well?” Laurence asks as he lays their meal out on the deck between them. 

“Quite well,” Tharkay says from where he is lounging against one of Temeraire’s forelegs. The bruise has spread, covering his cheek and curling around an eye, but he seems to be in good spirits. “Though I confess, the bed in my cabin is a much more appealing prospect than sleeping on the deck tonight.”

“Of course you will not sleep on the deck!” Temeraire says. “You will sleep in my foreleg, as Laurence does.”

“Ah, of course, how could I be so foolish as to think otherwise?” Tharkay says, and Laurence is glad that he merely seems amused by Temeraire’s antics. 

Nonetheless, he says, “Tenzing, I do apologize--”

Tharkay waves it away and accepts a glass of wine from him. “I have always wondered what it would be like to have a twenty-ton nursemaid. Although he will need to consent to let me go to the privy at some point.”

“Laurence will accompany you,” Temeraire says, and Laurence chokes on his wine. Tharkay thumps him on the back. 

“I will not!” 

“That,” Temeraire says stiffly, “is no way to treat your nest-mate, Laurence.” 

Now it is Tharkay’s turn to cough and sputter. Even so, Laurence can hear Granby’s laughter over the commotion, and feels his face flame. 

“Temeraire,” he hisses, “do keep your voice down, my dear, and you mustn’t say such things, they are--well, they are indecent to speak about, and perfectly untrue--” 

“I do not see what is so indecent about it. It is not as though Tharkay is able to give you an egg, thus avoiding the awkwardness that Captain Riley put poor Harcourt through--”

“Temeraire!” 

“Am I not, Temeraire?” Tharkay catches Laurence’s eye and winks, damn him. Laurence can only gape at him. “Perhaps we should try, Will, just to be certain.” 

“I acted in haste earlier,” Laurence says darkly, referring to the moment when he punched Lieutenant Marchand in retaliation before Temeraire swept him overboard. “Apparently, he did not hit you hard enough.” 

Laurence finds himself expelled from the protective circle of Temeraire’s forelegs after that, and is forced to bed down with Granby and Iskierka for the night.

[omgahgase]

all for you, all for me

this fic, lovingly titled "writing to get the gears back in place pls lord help me" was a Small Thing that turned into a Big Thing, and now it's ready to be unleased into the vast void of tumblr's charthur truthers. i'll post on ao3 with a proper summery and tags next, but for now, take this and give me head pats bc i think i deserve it.

nsfw charthur fic under the cut:

Charles brains himself on the coach's roof real good, and Arthur has the gall to tell him to shut up.  

“You’re a heartless bastard, do you know that?” He asks, growling into Arthur’s hair as he rolls his hips forward, humps into the sticky warmth of Arthur’s abdomen and smears wet across the lower part of his belly. 

Arthur chuckles underneath him, nipping at the meat of Charles’ chest to make a point. He has Charles crying out into the humidity of the night air, mouth occupied with suckling a dark nipple into his mouth but still seeming to say, ‘And what? You’re the fool for stayin’ with me.’ 

And as Charles spreads his knees wider over Arthur’s thick thighs, sinking into the pair of fingers stretching him open like a two-dollar whore, he thinks, ‘I really am a fool.’ He’s a fool for pawing at Arthur’s face and dragging him upwards, kissing him like a man deprived and moaning a hungry, desperate cry of a sound. He’s a fool for carding shaky fingers through Arthur’s greasy hair that he hasn’t washed in days all the while Arthur licks into the hot branding of Charles’ mouth, whispers sweet words between violent swipes of his tongue that Charles can’t hear over the loud roar of blood pumping hot in his ears. And he’s a fool for loving such a heartless, mean, bastard of a man. 

Arthur’s free hand wraps hot and slick around Charles’ cock, pumps him through the vehement shake of his body when the two clever fingers inside his twitching hole turn into three. “I missed you, darlin’. Thought about you every day I was gone.” 

“Yeah,” Charles bites back, maybe with a little more heat than he intended. “Gone for almost a whole month, Arthur. No goodbye. No letter. You just got up and left me.”  

“I didn’t leave you,” Arthur defends. Charles feels the hard lines of Arthur’s frown deepen across his lips, the way they pull down and wrinkle. “Dutch sent me out on a job. I didn’t know it’d take a month.”

Charles huffs, and kisses along Arthur’s scruff until the burn of his facial hair itches along the curve of Charles’ mouth, a secondary sting to the truth Charles was too stubborn to acknowledge. It’s embarrassing, even though Charles doesn’t and will likely never admit it out loud, that Arthur’s words—a mantra in his own mind, the ‘I didn’t leave you,’ it says, in reply to every, ‘He left,’ like a correction—soothes over the piping hot lava pit of doubt that engulfed Charles the very first morning he realized Arthur was gone. The day after they had their first real argument that left both of them rattled, the harsh words still floating around in the shallow banks of Charles’ mind that were easily fished up by even the smallest of reminders. 

Arthur said he hates how Charles bottles up his emotions and refuses to talk, pushing everyone and everything and Arthur away until Charles is alone and angry because that’s how he gets when he can’t man up. When he can’t think of anyone but himself. Charles, taking Arthur’s insults to heart because it’s difficult to break out of self-isolation when you’ve been by yourself for longer than you’ve been alive, said he can’t stand how Arthur comes back to camp beaten and bloody, bruised all over from a small ‘errand’ Dutch told him to do—that Arthur’s loyalty would get him killed one day if he’s not careful, and that Charles will not be there to bury another loved one if he can help it. Arthur, with eyes darker than the deepest oceans, asked if it would be better if he never came back at all and Charles was quick to answer yes. 

Their little shouting match ended with Charles stomping down to the river below Horseshoe Overlook and Arthur taking Rouge out for a long ride. Neither saw the other before nightfall and by the time Charles awoke the next day and brewed some shitty coffee as a peace offering, Arthur was gone. No one in camp knew where he went, Dutch’s lips sealed tighter than a national bank’s safe, and Charles spent the worse half of their month-long separation wondering when Arthur would come back. And when he did, would he come back to Charles? After all he said? 

His thoughts were proven to be false, it turns out, because while Charles was out on night watch, Arthur, eager and a little wild-eyed, rode up on an equally unruly horse and dragged Charles to their newest stagecoach, freshly robbed from a rich prick by Sean, Javier, and John. That’s how they ended up here, with Charles’ button-up ripped open and hanging by the crease of his elbows, his pants haphazardly discarded somewhere in the cab, his braid loose and falling out from the way Arthur manhandled him into his lap. Arthur’s cock is free from the confinements of his fly and leaking a steady stream of pre over his dirty jeans, his fingers knuckle deep in his lover, both of them kissing apologies into each other’s flushed skins because neither have the coherence to say it out loud. 

A cool, pearly bead of sweat rolls down Charles’ spine, melting somewhere down the line of his shirt.

“Arthur,” he calls out in that tone of voice, the one he uses when he wants Arthur to know that he’s ready, when Arthur’s fingers aren’t enough and Charles needs him inside now. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. I gotcha.” Arthur kisses his jaw as he pulls out his fingers and blindly searches for his jar of salve, his other hand keeping Charles steady with a bruising grip on his side. 

Charles is impatient as Arthur readies himself, rolling his hips across the tight muscles of Arthur’s thighs, lifts up and down on his knees because he’s waiting and Arthur is nothing but an infuriating man because he’s taking his sweet time. 

“Arthur, c’mon.” 

“Easy. I’m here, Charles. I’m right here.” Arthur pats Charles’ hip, guides the wet crown of his cock to Charles’ puckered hole, and the feeling of Arthur’s head breaching that first ring of resistance has both of them gasping, hands clawing at sweat-slippery skin.

Charles sinks down down down, legs shaking with the strain of holding himself back from saying fuck it and slamming himself on Arthur’s cock. Taking it easy be damned. He went a full month with nothing but his hands to satisfy him, his own fingers holding no torch to the way Arthur’s cock stretches him wide, how Charles takes him in so deeply he can feel his cock in his throat. 

When he’s fully seated, the heat of Arthur warming Charles from the inside out, Charles throws his head back, rocks into the feel of him, and grins into the stifling, shuttered air of their cab. He slides up and grinds back down in that way he knows will rub the fat head of Arthur’s cock perfectly against his bundle of nerves, his own cock dribbling a thick pearl of come over Arthur’s stomach. He doesn’t bother to muffle his moan when Arthur bucks into him, his hands pulling Charles down hard on the downstroke. 

They’re alone, anyway. Far off from the camp in their little bubble. Just the way they like it. 

“You’re gorgeous, darlin’,” Arthur groans. “So pretty, ridin’ me like this. I missed it—missed you.” 

Charles chokes on a moan, the end clipping off into a dry sob when Arthur hits him spot on. “Missed you too, Arthur. Fuck—I missed you so much, you bastard.” 

Charles arches his back and hisses when Arthur’s blunt nails dig into the meat of his hips, leaving crescent-shaped marks on his skin. Arthur bites at his shoulder, digs his teeth into flesh hard enough for Charles to cry out, and buries his fingers at the downy soft hair of his neck, holds him there as he humps and rides, as he grinds down hard enough to knock the air from his lungs. Arthur gives and bites and scratches until Charles feels tender like a bruise, thrusting up into him with enough force to shake the cab off its wheels and make Charles clutch at the bulging strain of his shoulders, holding on like a lifeline. 

He’s being rough tonight, has been since he twisted a fist into Charles’ button-up and hauled him into the coach, threw him down on the velvet seats and stripped his bottom half bare, grabbed his cock in a vice-like grip and stroked him to his first orgasm. It’s like Arthur can’t stop himself from feeling the intensity of it all, savoring the closeness, the intimacy of Charles’ body, and the way they fit together perfectly, somehow, despite every difference. Like how they always do. 

Arthur is a bastard of a man for leaving without telling Charles, and Charles should still be angry with him, still wants to strike his knuckles against Arthur’s jaw the same way his words cracked something deep in Charles’ chest, but he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he’s a fool in love and he’s missed this bastard—his bastard. 

So Charles will let Arthur do what he wants and Charles will return Arthur’s affection in plenty. It’s how they work, it seems. Arthur loves loud, biting at flesh and clawing at taunt muscles, poking at wounds until he can patch them up with the same hands that made them. Charles’ affinity is more that of rolling rain clouds, plump and full with a storm ready to unleash across a lone prairie, washing up dried rivers and wetlands until a flood erupts and sweeps everything away. 

Neither of them knows how to love like those happy couples they see in towns, with gentle hands clasped together and soft-spoken words shared between sweet kisses. And Charles thinks that’s okay for neither of them holds that gentleness that makes up a ‘happy couple.’ They’re two hardened men crafted by the sins of a youth stolen too early, melded by the life of a gang, and fused together from the shared highs and lows of trying to survive a blood-soaked world that doesn’t have any room for men like them. They’re not good, nor bad, but merely suspended somewhere above the middle ground, dangling over the idea of normalcy, of the arguments that lead to silence. The longing that leads to loving. 

They’re not normal or always happy, but they’re together. And, when Charles thinks about it, when he’s reminded that Arthur will always come back because he’s stubborn like that, always aiming to beat away the apprehensive thoughts of Charles’ frustration with rough kisses and bruising grips, he likes it better this way. Their way. 

Charles skates hot hands over the dipping valleys of Arthur’s chest, and tweaks a rosy nipple before tracing the lines of his abdomen, softened by the layer of pudge over hard muscle. His nails drag through the forest of hair leading down to his navel, to the bush of his base where Charles swallows him whole with ease, the slick of their lovemaking matting down his wiry curls. Arthur moans a loud, untamed sound when Charles clenches around him, when he slides up a slow, long drag just to slam back down. 

“Do you know how hard it was to be away?” Arthur asks suddenly, his face full of flush and hands heavy with the fat of Charles’ bottom. He squeezes a cheek in each palm just to spread them apart, fucking harder into the wet heat of him. “How I spent almost every night fuckin’ my fist, pretendin’ it was you? I was in agony, Charles. It took everythin’ I had in me not to turn around and come home to you.”

Charles whines, and leans forward into Arthur’s space so he can bounce backward. The draw of Arthur’s cock is a glorious slide of friction, Charles can feel every vein throb against his walls, can count every twitch and jump with every grind. His thighs burn with the type of ache he’ll embrace in the morning when Arthur fucks the exhaustion out of him before the bustle of camp awakes with the sun. 

“I think this way is better,” he manages around a moan. “You know what they say, absence makes the heart grow fonder.” 

Arthur chuckles into Charles’ neck and places a kiss on the underside of his jaw, right where his pulse sings against his lips. “My heart hurts when I’m not with you, darlin’. Feels worse than a bullet. But at least a bullet hole closes up over time. My heart bled until I rode up this road and saw you standin’ under that tree.”

Charles’ breath hitches, his eyes prickle. He wraps his arms around Arthur’s neck, hides his face into the side of his scruff as he wriggles and rides, tries to take as much of Arthur as he can because he’s longed for this for weeks, to finally feel his man in a way only lovers do with greedy hands and welcoming lips. 

“Mine too,” Charles sobs. He kisses Arthur fiercely and loses himself in the red-hot acceptance of his mouth. “You bastard, you left and took my heart with you. What kind of man does that?” 

“Not one deservin’ of someone like you,” is Arthur’s breathless reply. Then, “You could’ve done the same thing. You could’ve told me to kick me to rocks and I would’ve. If you ever want me to leave you for good—”

“I don’t,” Charles growls, annoyed that Arthur would even suggest something as ludicrous as that. “You’re with me, Arthur Morgan. Wherever you go, I expect you to come back to me.” 

Arthur’s arms come up and tighten around Charles’ waist, pulling him firmly to his chest like how he did when he jumped off his horse and drew Charles against him with the desperation of a man starved. 

“I will,” he whispers against Charles’ lips. “Always back to you.” 

And Charles believes him, knows his words are true because Arthur is a lot of things but a liar isn’t one of them. It’s maddening to be wanted like this, to love fiercely and be loved in return. It makes Charles dizzy to have his adoration reflected back at him with such beloved intensity. It makes him weak, all the way up his spine and down his calves, makes him cry into Arthur’s neck with the ferocity of it all. 

“Charles. Sweetheart,” Arthur murmurs, using the hold he has on Charles to keep him still, cradling him into the embrace of a hug long awaited. Rough hands slide down the smooth of Charles’ back, over the dips and curves of his shoulders and arms, lips brushing along the submission of his mouth. “I’ve got you. I’m right here.” 

It doesn’t take long for Arthur to fuck up into him, slouching into the seats and dragging Charles down with him, feeling Charles’ eyes overspill and his heart tremble with a love only found in storybooks before taking control with all the self-assurance in the world. 

There are no other words for the overwhelming feeling that shoots up Charles’ spine and settles behind his teeth when Arthur fucks into him with intent, as Arthur offers himself on a silver platter because he may be loyal to Dutch and the gang, but he’ll always, always leave his faithfulness in Charles’ open palms, providing him with nothing less than everything he has. His cock sinks into the sucking heat of him with effortless fervor, the loud slap of skin echoing in the cab and accompanying the rickety protests of squeaky wheels as Arthur ruts up and grinds, makes Charles drool with the indescribable way it’s all so good.  

Arthur guides Charles’ hips downward at the same time he thrusts up, whimpering into Charles’ neck and fucking into his warmth with an exigency only achievable by the mush-mouth praise falling from Charles’ mouth. Charles doesn’t even know if his words are coherent let alone in English, the way Arthur hammers at his insides has him losing all sense of awareness, makes him cock-dumb and malleable. 

“That’s it, baby—fuck me like this—oh, Arthur—” Charles babbles, lost in the intense ferocity of Arthur’s touch. His cock bobs helplessly between them, drooling and hot, before Arthur draws Charles into his palm like there are magnets embedded under his skin, squeezes him on the upstroke and makes Charles moan a sound so whorish he feels shameful heat gather in his cheeks. “Fuck! So good, cowboy—don’t stop, just like that. All for me—give it to me, Arthur—please.” 

“Yeah, sweetheart,” Arthur purs, stroking him with a wildness Charles has only ever seen him wear during a shootout, when he’s cornered and there’s no way out but forward. “You gonna come for me, big man? C’mon, I know you can do it, baby. You’re so good for me, my Charles. My big, beautiful, Charles.” 

“Arthur,” Charles whines, lips skimming over the flushed skin of Arthur’s cheek. Large tears stream down his face at the sweet words, the ache in his lower back and ass, the pleasure that washes over him like a wave and pulls him under its blinding depths. 

He comes like a bolt from the blue, spurting over Arthur’s fist in long, white strands, over Arthur’s belly and his black button-up. Stars shoot across his vision as his orgasm rocks through him like a supernova, making Charles cry out into the dark only to be muffled by Arthur’s lips finding his, kissing him like it’s the only thing he ever wants to do. 

“That’s it, darlin’,” Arthur says against Charles’ spit-slick mouth, grinning into the mewl he draws out with his tongue. “Oh, you’re gorgeous like this. My Charles. All for me.” 

“You too,” Charles gasps, barely registering how Arthur tears his shirt from his arms and arms to claw down sweat-damp skin, digging nails into muscle as he chases his own release, fucks him harder because that’s what Charles wants. “Inside, Arthur. Need you to fill me up—need to feel you.” 

“Oh, Charles,” he chokes, eyes going wide and feverish. He kisses at the tears streaming down Charles’ face in fat, far-apart drops, licks at the salt on his jaw. “Anythin’, baby. Fuck, Charles, take it all. It’s all for you.” 

And Arthur, with the benevolence of a man whose loyalty led him to this type of thing, loving Charles hard and making love to him soft, gives it his all. All for Charles to take and take and take. He comes with Charles’ name falling from his lips, his hips bucking like a pissed-off bull in a pasture. And Charles holds him through it, murmurs his thanks as he feels Arthur paint his insides, spilling hot and full where Charles will be able to feel him for ages. 

When they’re done, when Charles milks the last spurt of come into his greedy hole and Arthur slumps into the coach's ruined seats, exhaustion finally seeping into their weary bones, they indulge. Arthur hooks his hands under the fleshy crooks of Charles’ knees and draws him up to fit tight against his chest before gliding his hands over the bare curve of his waist, pulling him closer as if he wants to mend them together. Charles drags his fingers through Arthur’s sweat-soaked hair, kisses at his scruff as he leans into the sticky mess of their coupling. His cock is rubbed raw against Arthur’s stomach, thighs shaking with the hurt spider crawling up his lower back, settling somewhere above his ass where he’ll complain about it later.

For now, noses are buried into necks, lips skim over bitten skin, and no words are exchanged save for the whispered ‘You okay?’ that Charles acknowledges with a heavy grunt, a flimsy fist thumped heavily across Arthur’s back. Arthur takes that as an ‘I’m alive’ and settles into the warmth of Charles’ body. 

Neither of them knows how long they sit there, nor do either of them want to move, but Rouge rustles outside the stagecoach and pulls them out of their little bubble, makes them share a gentle brush of lips before parting. Charles relishes in the slow, careful drag of Arthur’s spent cock flopping out of his hole as he rolls to the side, the slick, squelchy feeling of come dripping between his cheeks and down his thighs and onto the stagecoaches seats. 

It’s like a slow motion picture in Charles’ eyes, how Arthur watches stark white streak over his brown skin, his gaze blazing hotter than a bonfire, then, in that moment, Charles is unprepared for the unrelenting grip on his hips. Arthur maneuvers Charles with placate hands and gracious fingers until he’s spread over the velvet seat, thighs open wide for Arthur to kneel in between them like a man bending to pray. Charles can barely protest his oversensitivity before Arthur’s mouth is on him, licking at the tender inside of his thighs before he sucks at the wet give of his hole. Weak hands push at Arthur’s head, shoving him down until the entirety of his mouth encloses over Charles and he drinks him like a man sipping water from the finest gardens of Eden, tongue lapping at Charles’ puffy insides. 

A second orgasm draws up tight through Charles’ belly in seconds and releases in meek, milk ropes. Arthur is quick to lick a rough swipe of his tongue over Charles’ balls and up his length, gathers it thick on his tongue, suckles Charles’ crown until his mouth is full and he’s climbing upwards, grabbing Charles’ jaw and tilting his head back. Something fierce strikes through Charles’ chest as he obeys the silent command to part his lips, rolling his tongue forward, and Arthur, moonstruck, spits their shared spunk into his mouth. 

It’s wet and lewd, dirty like a fling in the grim of a back alley, but Charles welcomes it all the same and rakes his hand through Arhtur’s hair to drag him down into a filthy kiss. 

“Didn’t have a rag in that bag of yours?” Charles asks when they break away, licking at the come shining in the corner of Arthur’s mouth. He doesn’t know who it belongs to, but it goes uncaring nonetheless. 

Arthur grunts, straightens up with a playful pat to Charles’ spread thighs. “Where’s the fun in that, Charles? I don’t hear you complain.”

Because Charles won’t, not when it has Arthur on his knees and worshiping Charles like a deity. 

Charles pokes dried streaks on Arthur’s front, the obvious stains that he’ll have to hide from Mrs. Grimshaw when she does the laundry. “Just an idea for next time.” 

Arthur hums his acknowledgment as he hands Charles his pants and shirt, watching the strain in Charles’ legs and shoulders as he dresses himself. He doesn’t make it easy, though, always sneaking kisses over any strip of exposed skin, biting anywhere he can mark before the evidence of their reunion is concealed from the curious eyes of camp. 

They clean up the best they can, Arthur using water from his canteen to wash away the crusty come on the seats and his abdomen, and Charles vowing to never tell a soul about what conspired within these four walls. If, for some crazed reason, someone enters the coach and notices the scratch marks on the roof, the rips in the backrest, and the uneven lay of the curtains, then Charles will feign innocence. Blame the damage on a family of raccoons searching for shelter in the night. 

“I’ll walk you back,” Arthur says when they climb down the two-step stairs, clothes rumpled and stained with their hair in all kinds of arrays. Purple bruises petals on his neck when the moonlight catches him just right, and Charles feels something akin to pride bloom hot behind his ribs, has his teeth aching to sink into tender flesh all over again. 

“I don’t need an escort,” Charles says, straightening his shirt that’s now missing three buttons. Hopefully, Karen won’t ask questions as to why Charles needs a repair done in the morning. “I can walk back by myself.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Arthur agrees simply. Because he does. “Can’t I just walk ya? Y’know, be a gentleman. The kind that's all chivalrous and shit for his lover. Like those big hot-shots in them fancy films.”

Charles laughs, endeared. He picks up Arthur’s hat that fell in their frantic tumble from the main road to the stagecoach and dusts off the sides before planting it haphazardly over Arthur’s eyes, grinning like a fool in love. Which he is. 

He also steals a kiss, just because he can. “You, Arthur Morgan, are the farthest thing from a gentleman.”

Arthur loops an arm around Charles’ waist, pulls in him until they’re chest to chest and Charles has to look up just a scant to catch his eyes because Arthur is a bastard of a man with two inches on him, and that pisses Charles off because what do you mean he’s taller? It doesn’t help that Arthur’s also older than him by seven years, but to have height as well as age over Charles? No, unacceptable. Charles screws up his face real tight, whips his head away from Arthur’s twinkling laugh. 

“Aw, don’t give me that look, Charles,” Arthur says, pressing his lips to the prickle of Charles’ jaw, over the lightning strikes of his scar. “If I ain’t no gentleman, then you’re a fool for keepin’ me around.” 

Charles sighs and drapes his arms over Arthur’s shoulders. “Yeah, I really am.”  

He kisses him, then, slotting their lips together in that way that sends Charles’ heart into a tizzy, whips up something ferocious in his blood that pops and sizzles with every pass of Arthur’s tongue against his teeth. 

“C’mon, cowboy,” Charles says, shaping himself so completely into Arthur’s space that he doesn’t know where he begins and Arthur ends. “Take me home.” 

Arthur nods, presses his lips to Charles’ forehead before he takes his hand and fits their fingers between each other, holds him steady, holds him fast. They trek back to camp with Charles’ shotgun slung over his shoulder and Rouge trotting beside them, all the while Arthur explains what he saw on his travels with boisterous hand movements and hearty laughter, tugging Charles this way and that, kissing him when he finds a chance. 

To anyone else, maybe they do look like a normal couple, like the ones Charles sees in Valentine, all kiss-drunk and happy. With matching rings around their fingers to show for it. Maybe, if they’re brave enough, they can walk into a bustling town with the same comfort they have when they enter Horseshoe Overlook with each other’s hearts held tightly between their palms, with the moon acting as their only witness to Arthur setting Rouge’s reins free before leading Charles to his bunk. 

They’re both too big to fit comfortably on the cot, but they make it work, somehow, draping a large blanket over both their shoulders and scooting back far enough to rest their backs against the wagon’s side, their boots kicked off and everything, from their elbows to their knees, touching. Arthur, as observant as ever, takes notice of his things on his bedside table, untouched and without a speck of dust. He asks if Charles took care of his tent while he was gone, and Charles pretends to not hear him, leaning his head on Arthur’s shoulder and tucking his legs real snug beside him. 

Arthur kisses his hairline and draws him in with a hand on his waist and affection in his voice. “Thank you.” 

“Don’t thank me, Arthur,” Charles mumbles, “just don’t leave for so long next time.” 

Arthur hums, tucks himself real close against Charles like he can’t think of a next time. 

Before they succumb to the gentle hands of sleep, and before Charles registers Lenny cursing him out for switching half an hour early, still groggy and stumbling his way up the road, Charles thinks he doesn’t want to be normal. 

Yes, he wants a house on the lakeside and a husband to welcome him home, he wants the thundering sound of small feet running up and down the halls, screaming at a dog chasing them out the house and into the yard where they laugh and tumble in the grass. The life of the star-spangled American dream. He wants to hold Arthur’s hand during dinner at a restaurant and kiss him under the blinking lights of Saint Denis, love him in public without a care in the world because it’s normal. 

They’re not normal, however, and that’s fine with Charles. To be normal is to be accepted, and they’re not, the gang and them. They’re sunbaked and white-knuckled, hardened around their jagged edges and the sharp glints of their guns, the bullet-shaped holes and star-marked wounds of their skins. They argue and they fight, Arthur and him, they say harsh words to aggravate because that’s the only way they know how to live: to harm before you hurt. 

They’re not normal, and they’re definitely not always happy, but they’re together, and that’s how they’ll stay. All the time, and all for each other. 

[echantedtoon]

Until Death Do You Vow Ch5 Sealed In Blood

(Warnings: Mentioning of blood.)

The distant cry of a carnival mystery.

A pained wail. A pained moan. Looping through the walls and dancing on flowers.

The petals shake. Stems and pistals trembled. And  perfume avalanche upon thee. A billion scents  as strong as a forgotten sun.

Strong enough to sting your eyes 

It was still dark when you came to. And the first thing you felt was the coldness and softness of something which you laid upon with a ringing in your ears, and for a moment you thought it was a dream. All of it. Just a terrible, horrible nightmare. And you'd open your eyes and be staring at the walls of your small home, laying on your sorry excuse for a bed in your apartment with Taylor bunking on the couch like so many times before when your investigations turned up nothing. The second thing you felt was pain and soreness the more your body began to wake. It started with a small throbbing headache just under your skull, as if someone was beating it from inside out. You didn't bother to move much other than lift a hand trembling to your head, wincing at the many cuts and bruises that lined not only this arm, but your other arm, where your legs weren't covered by your gown, and some on your face and neck from where you had fallen or been pushed over. The many small cuts, bruises, and scrapes stung like tiny annoying jabs at your skin. And to top it all off, you felt pins and needles in the left arm and leg you'd been laying on for a while when you forced yourself up just enough for you to lay on your less sore back and stare up at the blue ceiling above your body. F/c eyes blinked as something bright shown down at you from above. The sun???....No. It wasn't the sun. That would've been a very warm welcome to what it had ended up being. Your vision gradually, slowly came back enough to focus on what was swung above your head, and your brain registered it as ...the moon?

Yes. The moon.

The harmless thing hung above you shining through the window silently as if acting as a bright beacon for your darkened experiences. Despite its blood red menacing appearance. Which begs the question...Where WERE you!? You continued to lay there until the pins and needles fully left the right side of your body and you pushed yourself up into a sitting position, hissing at the soreness and somewhat numbness of your poor limbs. And with a hiss, you looked around. This uh...This wasn't your apartment. Or your bedroom. It looked like you had fallen through one of those old black and white photos from the Victorian times and landed in one of their bedrooms. The furniture around the room looked old but at the same time, in great condition like it was all brand new. Even the curtained bed you laid upon looked well made . The sheets silky and clean as if freshly washed, dried, and placed on the mattress and the pillows still fluffy from where you had laid on them. No damage at all could be seen around the room.

No mold. No mildew. No cobwebs or dust. No graffiti. No trash or broken furniture.

Nothing.

"....What the heck? Where am I?," you asked yourself the ringing still present.

Funny. You thought the ringing would leave by now. It didn't occur to you that the rings was not in your ears until you looked down at the bed and found your phone lit up and ringing loudly. It made you flinch as it moved before stopping and then someone called loudly through the earpiece once more.

"Oh God, Y/n!!," you winced as Taylor's voice yelled through the earpiece. "I've tried calling like fifty times since the connection dropped! What the hell happened?!"

"Ow! Keep it down, Taylor. I'm fine! I just passed out ..and somehow ended up in bed?" You gave another confused look around.

"Are you still in the mansion?!"

You paused. And paled as the events from before hit you. That...That WASN'T some dream or sleep deprived hallucination from Taylor's ramblings! YOU HAD BEEN TOUCHED BY A GHOST!! And not any ghost! THE Elias Gallagher. You shuddered and goosebumps appeared where you remembered his cold touch. A bigger shiver ran through you.

"Describe your location?"

You blinked before looking around again. "Well.. Everything is dark and a shade of blue, and I'm still in the mansion I think. So not too bad but I dunno if I'd consider it 'good'. I'm in some kind of bedroom."

"Wait. A bedroom?"

"Yeah. It's really weird. Compared to everywhere else this room is surprisingly really clean. None of the paint's chipping off the walls and all of the furniture looks almost brand new. But it still matches that Victorian mansion look. Here. Take a look."

Holding up your phone, you turned it on and snapped a few pictures the flash lighting up the room- Just as a strike of lightning  lit up the room in all its glory. You jumped looking out the window again only just now noticing the clouds that had nearly blocked out the entire sky. It would rain any moment. Shaking your head, you went ahead and sent the photos to Taylor before noticing something else.

.....Where the heck did these gloves come from?!

Your hands were covered in some kind of fancy silk gloves and a shiny ring slipped on over one . Your get up didn't come with these! Obviously you didn't put them on. Which meant someone had to have removed this ring, placed these on you, and then slipped the ring back on your finger. ..A gift from Elias maybe?

"Huh." After a moment Taylor spoke back up which means he must've seen the pictures you texted him. "Maybe the door was locked and nobody got in?" He suggested. "This place is a known party hub. Maybe whoever else wrecked this place but they couldn't get into there?"

"I don't think so. Even if that was true, don't you think there still would've been a whole bunch of dust in here? And rotting furniture and stuff?" 

"That's really strange."

"No kidding. Maybe Elias likes a clean living..uh dead space. But this whole situation is crazy. Way different than the last time I had a ghost encounter." There was a loooong moment of silence before Taylor gave a nervous laugh making you raise a brow. "Taylor, what's so funny?"

"I- ..Uh . That's because the last mission I sent you on wasn't the real thing. That was a uh-..fake ghost encounter."

There was a pause..."WHAT?!"

"Hey. It wasn't a bad thing." He quickly defended himself as your anger suddenly grew. "We did get a few members after we posted your reaction."

"For a few weeks before they left! Are you freaking kidding me, Taylor?! I can't believe you'd do something like that! When I get out of here, we're going to have a VERY long talk!" You shouted annoyed at him before grabbing your phone and swinging your legs off the bed. "As soon as I find a way out of here, you're so dead! Then we can film you as a stupid ghost and get members that way!"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa. Hang on a sec. Aren't you lightheaded or dizzy or something? I think I heard you fall and I've been trying to reach you for TWO HOURS! You might have a concussion or something!"

You deadpanned. "I feel fine besides finding out my best friend faked a ghost and didn't tell me." He audible winced. "Besides I only fainted...Either I was really scared, or that ghost was really powerful. What did you hear while I was out cold?'

"I just kept hearing that guy's voice and a rush of air. So...was it really Elias?"

"Are you sure this isn't another one of your fake ghosts?" Maybe you shouldn't have said that but you were angry and hoping that maybe he'd say yes so you could believe that this really didn't happen.

"What?! N-No! I swear!" Ok. There goes that hope. "So you really talked to THE Elias Gallagher?"

"He held my hand too."

"Ok. I'm coming in! We have to get you outta there!"

"WHOA ! Hang on there! You can't just barge in here! We don't know what might happen if another person disturbs a ghosts resting place! Plus I don't even know where I am! There's no sense in both of us getting lost!" You slowly stepped towards the door you were sure wasn't a closet. "Plus, maybe I can take a picture of Elias if I come across him. Isn't that what you wanted? Proof of ghosts?"

"Yeah. I was sorta prepared to find a ghost not for you to go M.I.A for two whole hours!!" Taylor hyperventilated.

"Taylor, calm down. Deep breaths. I'm fine. I'm still here and talking to you aren't I?"

 You passed by a full length mirror and gave it a look. And paused. You were surprised to find your entire reflection perfectly clean and dirt free. Your dress was perfectly clean and as beautiful as the Moment you put it on. Shouldn't it be torn with dirt stains from all the falls you took? No. Your hair was still perfectly done up. Your make not smeared as if you had just put it on. Your dress without a wrinkle. Your body without a dirt stain. You looked just...

Perfect.

Just like this room. The only thing out of place on your body was the ring that still smeared a bit red with your blood droplets. ...That was really weird.

Eventually Taylor evened his worried breathing. "Ok. Ok. You're right. But if he was able to put you to sleep then he's a lot stronger than we thought!"

"Well if you're heading out then I'm coming in! I trust that guy as far as I can throw him which is t much considering he's a ghost."

You rolled yours eyes. "In a mansion where you can get lost? Nah. I'll meet you out."

"No, no, no! On second thought, stay where you are! We have no idea what the dude's up to!"

"All the more reason to leave! Ugh. Look, Taylor. If he really wanted to hurt me he would've already done it by now instead of putting me in a nice bedroom. Just let me handle this. The last thing we need is for you barging in here and making him mad or worse you hurting yourself. Trust me on this. Ok?"

There was silence for a moment before Taylor sighed. "Fine. But you are STAYING on the line with me and giving me status updates!"

"Deal. But I am serious. When I get outta here we're gonna talk about what you did."

Taylor grumbled but you paid it no mind as your hand grabbed the doorknob and turned. Luckily it wasn't locked and you opened it enough to just stick your head out. A long hallway greeted you. Lightning flashed lighting up both ends as you looked left and right. 

"Ok. I'm definitely still in the mansion but I don't see any ghosts...And I think I'm on the second or third floor. I'm gonna try to find the stairs."

"Alright. Be careful. What happened before you fainted anyways?"

You slowly closed the door behind you, careful to not snag the floor length veil into the door. Also  careful to be very quiet closing it. Hopefully the thunder and lightning would muffle the creaking door.

"It was pretty normal until it wasn't. Remember when we were joking about Ian?"

"Yeah?"

"Well something invisible grabbed my hand, and then the ground just started moving like those zombies in movies before they bust outta their graves!"

"So Elias is a z-z-z-zombie!?," Taylor's voice sounded terrified all of a sudden.

"No. He's not a zombie. He's definitely dead but he's not a even close to a zombie." Taylor sighed in relief. "He's a pure ectoplasmic ghost. But he sure gave me a scare." You looked behind you as more lightning lit up the building. Still nothing. "I dropped the rings Ian gave me and he took them.." you gave another glance at your hand. "Well one of them. Next thing I know he's talking to me, I faint, and then I wake up in a strange room."

"You must've accidentally disturbed where he used to be buried or somehow summoned him."

"Well I felt like I was being watched the entire time I was out there so I must've said something that made him come out."

Taylor hummed. "Huh. I wonder what it was. If no one else was successful in getting him to show himself then you must've said something that caught his eye. Can you tell me what he said?"

"Didn't you hear everything?"

"Not everything. The connection kept swinging in and out. I only heard glimpses of you screaming and the some muffled static and a few words."

"Well he asked me why I was here? I told him the truth that this was a ghost hunt. And he asked why I was wearing a wedding dress. I told him basically that I only wore it cuz of our common interest in tragic weddings." You curiously tried a nearby door reaching out to turn the doorknob and opening it to peer in. Nothing but an empty closet. You closed it. "Oh. He also thought I was proposing to him."

"Hang on... WHAT?!"

"Yeah. He thought I was proposing to him." You paused. "... Maybe that's why he took the rings and came out."

"Hang on. I think you're skimming over the important details here! You proposed to a dead guy!"

"No I didn't. He just thinks so."

"Uh. THAT'S THE IMPORTANT PART!! Why aren't you more worried about this?!"

"I don't even know if he's still in the mansion with me. For all I know he might've gone back to rest again. It won't matter if I get out of here anyways." You walked further down the hall.

"And if you DO run into him?!"

"Then I'll explain everything to him. Now stop yelling off my ear will you?"

Taylor grumbled but he didn't yell anymore. You took the chance to walk further up the hallway before pausing again as a sound other than the thunder and wind outside entered your ears. It sounded like.. humming? Your brows rose and you slowly began to follow the source of it. Each slow step left your heels clicking softly and the floor slightly creaking. You followed it until reaching the end of the hallway and poked your head around. Still nothing but the humming was louder and it seemed to be coming from a particular room. Slowly your head retreated.

"I think I found out where Elias went. It's really weird. This is all really weird. Is it possible I went back in time?"

"No. Otherwise we wouldn't be able to communicate. Why?"

"Because none of the house looks old anymore. It's not even cold. Seriously, does he have like a ghost maid or something that cleans up around here? For a party house it's not really wrecked."

Again another pause. "If the house looks better is it because of Elias? The fact that it's not cold has to mean something. I think you've really awakened him."

"Say what?"

"Your presence has given him something he hasn't had in forever. I think this house confirms to his spectral energy. You've made him happy. You've satisfied part of his unfinished business for romance but..I would be careful with how the rest of those desires are filled."

You stood there for a long moment. "So a ghost is happy because he thinks we're engaged. Yeah. Why not have this happen on Friday the Thirteenth?"

Your sarcasm was not lost on Taylor who sighed. Curiously you peeked back around.. before slowly moving towards the door that the humming came from. Each click of your heels got you closer until you stood in front of the door left ajar. Slowly you moved the front of the veil from your face to lean forward and peek through the crack in the door. The room looked like an old study. A few sofas, a desk with an office chair, and a bookshelf on the far wall stuffed with books. And there in the middle of it all was Elias. The spook hummed in a absolute happy way, one arm holding a small stack of books while the other skimmed the shelves looking for something. Eventually he pulled out a book adding it to his stack before floating over to the coffee table and setting them down next to a teapot, teacup, and a plate of presumed snacks....Wait. Could a ghost even eat or drink?

CRASH!!

"AH!!"

You squealed as the loudest crash of thunder yet sounded out causing you to jump forward pushing the door open and startling the ghost inside. You both froze staring at each other for a moment before a look of concern fell over Elias.

"Oh, Y/n my dearest. Wait there." Oh no- Elias was quick to phase through the furniture and soon he was standing right in front of you looking working. "My dear, you mustn't wonder around. Things are still out of sorts."

...You blinked. "Really? The place looks clean to me." Taylor groaned in your ear but you ignored it. "And I woke up anyways. I couldn't just sit around and do nothing."

"And here I thought I had been quiet as to not disturb your slumber. My sincerest apologies", Elias apologized profusely making you hold up your hands.

"No it's fine. I woke up by myself."

You watched as he cocked his floating head making it bob a bit more. You tried not to stare at the obvious place where his head was disconnected from his neck or the red staining his otherwise blue body. "And yet it doesn't excuse the unreadiness of this manor. After all I have to do all the cleaning myself. Look at the study. So far from its glory days." His eyes gave a look of distaste at the room.

"Didn't you say the place looked clean?," Taylor asked confused in your ear.

It's true the place looked better than most dorms you've seen. Either Elias was a perfectionist or you both were seeing two different versions of the manor. "I think it looks good."

He offered a small huff and smile. "Just wait and be amazed. I will have to find new staff quite soon." He pondered holding up a hand to his chin. "Sadly they didn't stay behind as I left my body." He groaned closing his eyes. "Oh. If only they had."

"Is he serious? Who'd work for a ghost in a moldy old manor?"

You again ignored Taylor. "Well I'm sure you'll find some more eventually. You'll be able to really look around and..stuff."

At this he shook his head and held up a finger. "On the contrary, arrangements must be made with all haste."

"Arrangements? Arrangements for what? Staff interviews?"

He smiled widely and happily. "Our wedding of course."

Taylor choked on air through the earpiece as you just stood there staring at the smiling spook. .... What?! You guessed you couldn't blame Elias for wanting to have that fairytale wedding he never got to have after so long but- HOLY COW!! Taylor mumbled something in your ear and you totally agreed.

"Whoa! Hang on there a moment!" Elias blinked as you held up your hands. "I think we're jumping the gun a bit here!"

He slowly blinked. "Jumping the gun?...Is that a wedding tradition I haven't heard about? If you want that I can surely arrange it. I'm sure my father's musket is around here somewhere."

"It's a figure of speech. It means you're moving too fast." You explained.

His face regarded you before frowning. "But you're heart. I can hear it's tears fall upon your shattered soul. I promise you, my dearest, that a heart does not heal easily. No matter how many takes of tragedy and hardship one reads, reality is always more painful." Well you couldn't argue with that. A hand pressed over his chest where one's heart would be. "Why my heart has been broken more than a dozen times over the course of my life and alas it has never once healed. Only turned to an aching scar. And I have tried my damnedest to ignore those wounds. To let them bleed out and form into some semblance of strength, but it left me sickly instead. If a heart must be mended, then surgery must be immediate."

You stared at him for a long moment because...Well that's EXACTLY how you felt after Ian stood you up at the alter. But ..still as much as it pulled at your heart strings,you couldn't just pretend that this whole thing was ok! You needed to sit him down and talk to him.

"Do NOT trust him! AT ALL!!" Taylor's voice warned. "But don't do anything to upset him either. Play it cool."

Ok..Got it. But you couldn't NOT tell him! It'd be cruel AND ridiculous! You couldn't get hitched to a ghost! You held up your hand to get his attention but paused as he smiled warmly and grabbed it in his own cold hands.

"And here before you is someone who can mend your broken heart. Someone who can cherish you, stay with you, bring happiness to you. I never had that chance in my mortal life and after so long,  I want you to choose happiness not sorrow, My Dearest. And I want to be the one to give you that happiness."

You fell silent for a moment just staring at his smiling face and despite yourself your face heated up a pink, although you sighed. "Elias, can I talk to you for about something?"

He blinked. "Oh. Yes. Of course. Anything." 

You gently removed your hand from his before slowly walking over and sitting down on one of the old sodas. These heels were killing you. You took a moment sighing in relief before looking at the slightly worried ghost. "Elias...Are you aware that I wasn't actually proposing to anyone?"

Blunt but there really wasn't any point in beating around the bush. Immediately Elias looked shocked at your words. "But..your vows.."

"Those vows were what my ex was supposed to say to me on our wedding," you explained the best way you could for him to understand. "I was upset about what he did and I was just..." You couldn't say joking around with your friend because Elias might interpret that as you mocking his situation. "*sigh* I was just acting out what I didn't get to have said to me." That was true, and it was the easiest way to explain it to him. "I dropped the rings when I tripped over my dress on accident." You gestured to the dress. "I wasn't actually expecting literally ANYONE to show up. Not you or anyone else."

Elias fell silent as he stared at you with a neutral face. "But..I thought you were looking for me."

"I was but not to propose, I wanted to see if there was any truth to the stories of this place," you explained further to him. "I just happened to be reminded of my own bad wedding while I was here and acted out because I was upset. I wouldn't have done it if I knew you would be disturbed and I am really sorry for that. That's why I wore the dress like I explained to you a few hours ago."

Again Elias fell silent for a long moment seemingly in thought until he sighed and nodded. "I think I understand now."

You sighed in relief. "Thank goodness. I thought you'd be angry at me."

"Oh course not. After all, you were only acting out due to a broken heart and thus sought solace in someone of a similar situation. Nevertheless I shall not let this put a damper on the ceremony."

"SAY WHAT?!" A glass shattering sound went off in your mind as Taylor yelled.

"Wha- N-Now wait a second." You held up your hands. "Did you not understand anything about what I said?

"Oh no. I understood you perfectly," he clarified holding up his own hand, "Nevertheless I accept what fate that has brought us poor souls together. Rest assured that I will not be like that snake who so carelessly spured your affections so carelessly and drove you to me."

"Um..Elias, how long ago do you think I was stood up?"

"Judging by your gown, I would think that you would've been spured less than a day ago."

"Wrong. It happened over two years ago, so there's no need to worry about me."

"Two years?!" He gasped a hand clutching his chest. "Well it's not a wonder you came here. Surely it has not been as long as my heart has endured but two years of festering sorrow is too much to wait."

Taylor groaned and you fought the urge to facepalm yourself. "Elias, that's also more than enough time for someone to move on. You never forget but you can find happiness some other way." You tried to be gentle to his worried puppy eyes. "Like focusing on yourself and trying new things. Putting yourself first and spending time with the people who matter the most!" You smiled widely at him. "Have you ever thought about doing that? You must meet lots of people coming through here."

Sheepishly he looked away. "I..Have thought such things, but when you are in my situation.." he looked down at himself with a frown. "Your options are very limited, and no one has shown me the kindness you have. Even if your proposal was accidental, I still accept it with honor."

"Well.." He really wasn't getting it was he? "Even if you did, surely we can't be married. There's not a ceremony."

He smiled again. "Fear not! I shall arrange everything we need."

"Well surely it's not a binding one. There's no one to do the rites!"

"And remember the famous lines! 'Til death do you part!'," Taylor added quickly, "He's a ghost! Death has already parted you both!"

"And death has already parted this!", you added quickly with Taylor's point. "I'm afraid this wouldn't be any good even if we do have a ceremony."

Instead of getting upset he only smiled at you wider. "On the contrary, our pact holds truer than most engagements." As if to make a point, he presented his hand where the ring still sat on his own hand where one would expect a man to wear a wedding ring. It shined golden with minor red smears. "Our vows are sealed in blood. All we're lacking is the proper ceremony. But first I must make the proper preparations. Like the cake. My grandmother's recipes are still somewhere in the manor. I remember eating them when alive and adoring them. Then there's the flowers. Unfortunately you seemed to have lost yours, so I'll supply that as well" he held up his hands to you in a gesture of comfort. "Your energy is still exhausted, so you must rest a little bit longer. Please wait here for a moment and I'll get you something."

Before you could say anything, Elias literally sank through the floor and a second later he was gone leaving you alone. After the stunned silence Taylor spoke again.

"Y/n...Why did he say that your vows were sealed in blood?"

"I have no idea! I didn't give him any blood if that's what you're thinking!"

"Wait. Didn't you say that you got a papercut or something?"

"Yeah. One of the roses you got me pricked my finger. Why?"

There was silence for a moment before Taylor sounded VERY nervous. "Y/n, PLEASE tell me you didn't touch him with a bloodied hand!"

"What? No! Why?"

"Because I think you accidentally made a big magical mistake."

You paused. "What are you talking about?"

Taylor groaned before sighing. "Ok, ok! Do you remember how in ancient history people would make blood sacrifices to appease deities? Or how people refer to close friends as 'blood brothers' or something?"

"What are you getting at?"

"UGH! I'm saying that blood is used in a lot of supernatural or magical properties. Look at vampires for a prime example!"

"Elias isn't a vampire, Taylor."

"The point is!! That I think you inadvertently made a soft of pact with him by accident. Not in the demon like sense, but a marriage is still a pact, just in a different and more intimate way."

You froze. "...No."

"Yes! You made those vows and drew blood, and offered it even if it wasn't directed at Elias. He accepted it and now...I think we're in a lot more trouble than I thought."

You didn't say anything about it but yelled out and slammed a fist on the soft sofa cushion harmlessly. "Well now what are we gonna do?!"

There was a moment of silence before Taylor spoke again. "Maybe we can convince him to move on."

"What?"

"Elias is still around because he never got to experience what he's always wanted, which was to be married. Right? Even if the ceremony isn't legal or has any standing, maybe holding a fake ceremony will bring closure to him and allow him to move on finally. If he moves on then, the contract breaks and you're scot free."

"And if it doesn't?"

"....I dunno. We'll think of something. Right now it's the only thing I can think of."

[themetaphorgirl]

Ok! Woohoo! Lockwood and Co Sicktember and Whumptober!

Here are some thoughts/promp requests:

No. 8: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Isolation Chamber | Forced to Stay Awake | “Leave the lights on.” 

We usually see sleep-deprived Lockwood ... but what if it were Lucy?

No. 9: OBSESSION

Broken Window | Bruises | “Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble.” (Fall Out Boy, Irresistible)

I'm mostly just drawn to the broken window one here for some reason.

No. 11: SEEING DOUBLE

Convenience Store | Loneliness | “Leave no trace behind, like you don’t even exist.” (Taylor Swift, Illicit Affairs)

He's fine, HE'S FINE, he's running errands, and then ...

No. 17: NOWHERE ELSE TO GO

Ruined Map | Shipwrecked | “We had a good run.”

Just, so many haunted house possibilities here.

And these struck my fancy, too:

“The closest doctor is probably hours away from here!”

“This is non-negotiable"

“You didn’t use my cup, did you?”

YES YES YES OH MY GODDD THESE ARE SO GOOD

I am going to make Lockwood and Lucy ✨suffer✨

[745voiceofthepeople]

Azula: Don’t say a word

Katara: …

Azula: A parasite grips my mind, the shadows curse me. But I am gnawed by an even greater torment.

Azula: You

Azula: My thought are hallowed ground. Once burdened by things unseen, but is now clear. Until you crawled your way in. Uninvited.

Azula: I am obsessed by the ground you stand on, the wind over your head, and the water you bend so entrancingly. I see your face just before I sleep and after I awake.

Azula: I ask myself, are you worthy?

Azula: There is only one way for you to prove it.

Katara (with a wry grin): Slaying our enemies in the coldest blood?

Azula: Hmmn; A fine sentiment. But I require more.

Azula: We fight. I test you in battle. When there is no stalling, no hallucination, no sleep deprivation, and no Comet or Full Moon to tip the balance one way or the other. We fight when both the Sun and the Moon are in the skies above us.

Azula: Dance with me. Bleed with me. Bruise me so you might posses me.

Katara: Ha! Prepare yourself, and prove your worth to me.

Azula: Do it then. Make me yours

Azula and Katara get into battle positions. Each ready to prove their worth and their love to the other in a dance of Fire, Water and Steam.

The battle was intense. A whirlwind of Fire and Water. Azula and Katara were evenly matched, but there could be only one victor. Both young women desperately wanted it to be them. The fighting lasted long into day. Until finally a blast of blue Fire sent Katara crashing to the floor. Too exhausted to give reprisal or continue the fight. The duel was over.

Katara knelt on the floor, and Azula stood over her. Both lovers are short of breath. Azula helped Katara up to her feet. Azula’s touch is unusually gentle. Her fingers graze Katara’s bruises and wipes away her sweat.

Azula (gasping for breath): By the Sun spirit.

Azula: No more. I can’t bear it.

Azula: I’ve charred the flesh from monsters and men. I’ve laughed as they suffered. But you-

Azula: I don’t want to hurt you- I want to protect you. For you to protect me

Azula: I am yours

Azula: Say the words…

Instead a grinning Katara pulls Azula close and kisses her senseless.

Azula (smirking): Domina Maris, source of my bruises.

She goes back to kissing her love.

———————————————————————

Or alternatively,

The battle was intense. A whirlwind of Fire and Water. Azula and Katara were evenly matched, but there could be only one victor. Both young women desperately wanted it to be them. The fighting lasted long into day. Until Katara was able to trap Azula in tentacles of writhing water and send her crashing to the floor, unable to offer reprisal. The duel was over.

Azula knelt on the floor, and Katara stood over her. Both lovers are short of breath. Katara helped Azula up to her feet.

Azula: Incredible

Azula: I should be humiliated. I should know the shame of defeat. I am Azula.

Azula: But you… you are the oceans made flesh

Azula: you were stronger. I was tinder, and you were fire.

Azula: You are mine

Azula: Say the words…

Instead Katara tackled Azula to the ground and started kissing her senseless.

Azula (smiling): Domina Maris, source of my bruises

Azula pulls Katara’s head down for another kiss.

—————— Several hours later both Azula and Katara have reentered the temporary camp. The rest of the Gaang middling about nearby.

Katara: My bruises still sting from our battle

Azula: Exquisite, isn’t it? The pain is a mutual promise branded on our flesh and bone. Inside your every wound lives my obsession. Inside my every wound lives your passion.

Katara: I’d like to kiss you

Azula: Here? Now?

Azula: If it weren’t apparent, it should be. I’m not keen on such outward displays of our bond.

Katara (smirking): You hunger for me, yes? Don’t deny yourself my princess… after all I am yours and you are mine.

Rolling her eyes with a hint of a wry smile, Azula did just that.

[surplus-of-sarcasm]

#22

Edit: I completely forgot to tag @thepenultimateword and @mirohtron for helping me with this fic. Sorryyyy, I was sleep-deprived ughh.

Yes yes, Lamy has not posted in so long. Homework and tests my belovedddddds/s. Also, I am tired, so this is what it is. Sue me, I dare you.

TW: Restraints, blood, murder, gun, knife, bullets, references to difficult past experiences, drugging mention, violence, bruises (I swear it's not that awful) and very flirty. not in any way smutty, but it's probably the flirtiest thing I've ever written.

"Well, isn't this just dreadfully romantic," Villain breathes out through gritted teeth, baring them in a sardonic sneer.

Hero twists in her restraints, a useless attempt to escape the too-tight ropes. "I'm not following," she snaps half-heartedly.

"I mean, you and I, so awfully close to each other. There's literally no space between us." He lets his voice drop down to a whisper, tone half-annoyed, half-playful. Teasing.

"That's because we're tied up together, genius," she huffs out.

"You're being boring again," the villain croons in an irritating sing-song voice.

"I'm only 'boring' because you are," the crime-fighter counters, unintentionally letting a laugh make its way into her tone.

This was her husband's miserable attempt at striking up a conversation after three weeks of actively ignoring each other. Or maybe he could've been attempting to ease the tension of being locked up, practically paralysed in Supervillain's lair, or trying to kill some time.

Still, not an apology.

He presses his back somehow even closer to hers, and she wishes she could suppress the heat radiating from her face, spreading through the rest of her body like wildfire, but at least he couldn't see the flushed, red complexion. She knows he'd enjoy that, even more than usual. He'd be so satisfied with himself, the jerk, that he'd still managed to illicit such a reaction from her, even when she was beyond pissed at him.

"Relax, will you? The fidgeting makes the ropes even tighter, and I'm already sore enough," he half-whines.

Letting out an annoyed huff, she rolls her eyes. "You moved first."

He laughs, and she hates how it makes her heart hammer erratically in her chest. "The normal amount. You, on the other hand, were squirming."

She doesn't like that tone, something akin to a melange of honey and silk, even if it was meant to annoy her. It could enchant you into a dazed silence, making you forget whatever it is you were trying to focus on. Her mind does not hesitate for even a moment to remind her of the first time she heard him talk like that, her face pressed into his chest.

"I'm addicted to your voice," she'd breathed out foolishly, and he'd pressed a passionate kiss to her cheekbone, laughing at her flustered blush.

"Couldn't the confinement have been solitary?" she interjects irritably, trying to throw in as much bite in her tone as she can muster.

He laughs again, soft and musical and breathtaking.

"Practically speaking, this isn't in your favour. It's cold, this helps conserve body heat." She can literally hear the smug grin in his words.

She lets out a strangled cry, making him snort. "However annoying you may think I am, don't forget that you agreed to marry me, Hero." He leans back, as far as the ropes let him, giving her leg a playful kick. A pathetic one though, as the fashion in which they were tied up left barely any room for breathing.

She lets out a dejected sigh. "I've been told I need to learn to have more patience, so I signed up for a life-long course. Anyway, how about you help come up with any suggestions to find a way out of this mess, or is being an insufferable prick all you're capable of?"

Harsh and not true, but he absolutely deserved it.

Before he can come up with any snarky replies, the door to their cell opens abruptly, letting in a sterile, white light, an uncomfortably blinding contrast to the dim, flickering light bulb that illuminated the tiny room. Any semblance of a joyful atmosphere is destroyed as the distinct clack of Supervillain's shoes rings in the couple's ears.

"Well, Other Villain wasn't wrong, this week's catch is rather appealing. A traitor and his little pet," they sneer coldly.

The muscles in Villain's face tighten ever so slightly as he clenches his jaw, gaze stone-hard. "The hell do you want?" he drawls coldly.

Supervillain lets out a mocking snort. "Information about the hero agency. What, you think there's more value to you than that?"

"He doesn't know anything, and I am not divulging," Hero answers, in a tone that leaves no room for further discussion.

That is, if her words were for anyone but Supervillain. The master criminal in question steps forward, the icy grin playing on their lips becoming a fraction more sinister. "Oh, but are you so blissfully ignorant of what I do to little rats like you that insist on being killjoys? I break them. That's what you do when a toy is no longer being fun. Didn't care to enlighten her, Villain?"

A shiver runs up Hero's spine at the disgusting analogy, but Villain just grits his teeth and gives his old superior a death glare. "She knows. But let's get this over with. She won't talk, so whatever sick, twisted torture you've got planned, take me, and leave her out of it."

"Have you lost your mind? There's no way in he-"

"Shut up and let me handle this," the villain snarls, cutting her off. "So you called me a traitor? Don't you think you should've noticed earlier? Or are you really as much of a fool as you look?" he croons, letting a taunting smirk find its way onto his lips.

Hero understands exactly what her husband was planning, but she wouldn't let him willingly throw himself to the wolves like a bloody piece of meat. Stubborn fool.

Before she can react though, Supervillain's hand quickly reaches for the glinting knife on their belt. They may have been intelligent, cold, calculating, scheming. But all of that was simply outweighed by a fragile ego, always in need of inflation. Their fatal flaw, if you will. They slice through the restraints, letting out a downright animalistic growl as they pull Villain forward by the hair.

Wriggling out of their grasp, the criminal's fingers claw at the supervillain's throat, only for them to slam their boot into his already bruised abdomen, warranting a soft whine to escape his throat and a filthy curse at Supervillain to fall from his lips.

Meanwhile, Hero finally manages to escape her bonds, having them loosened just a little when the man next to her had been cut free.

Two against one were better odds. Only if you ignored that the duo's muscles were completely cramped from being restrained in the same position for days, making movement painful, and they were covered in bruises. Not to mention half-starved, and their throats were parched with thirst. Weaponless against goddamn Supervillain of all people. What comforting thoughts.

Hero wastes no time in slamming them against the wall and bringing her fist to collide with the evil-doer's face, lining their cheekbone with purple bruises. Supervillain more than returns the favour, knuckles digging into a barely healing cut in her side, the sheer force of it knocking her down with a sharp hiss.

Villain's former boss had superhuman strength at their disposal, making them more than a match for their weary and battered enemies, a power-suppressing drug having been injected into their veins every single day of their stay here. That leads to the battle with Supervillain being a torturous stalemate of futile attempts at attacks on them.

"Enough pathetic, little games," Supervillain hisses, voice eerily serpentine They pull out a gun off their belt, training it on Villain's head. . .

Hero didn't know when the motion happened, when her body had suddenly moved, half-leaping into the air as the bullet tore viciously into her side. It was nothing, if not instinctual.

Villain doesn't hesitate. Fueled by an adrenaline rush and the all-consuming fury of wanting to avenge his lover, he throws himself on top of Supervillain, pinning them against the ground, prying the gun from their fingers, only moving away to empty the weapon's contents onto the master criminal, letting out a savage growl in the process.

Stepping away from the now completely bloodied corpse of Supervillain, he rushes over to his spouse, blood seeping out from the gash in her side, staining the floor a deep crimson. "Hero?" he whispers softly, voice breaking, eyes threatening to prick with tears.

"I'm fine, the bullet went straight through," she attests, as he scoops her up against his chest.

"I know how you feel about killing, bu-"

"Stop right there. I was going to tell you that I forgive you and that I've never been more in love with you. That git needed to die."

He sighs with relief, laughing in spite of himself as he races outside the door, conveniently left ajar, somehow managing to make his way to their shared residence.

*

He shrugs his shirt off, not even bothering to hide the terribly self-satisfied grin playing on his lips at just how rapidly it turns her face a bright red.

How embarrassingly pathetic.

"Don't think it's just the blood loss that's making you breathless, huh?" he purrs.

He was damningly stunning, and he knew it. It took little effort to leave her tongue-tied and dazed. His mere voice alone was enough to seduce her.

When she doesn't answer, his expression softens. "Let's get you stitched up." Tenderly, he lifts the now blood-soaked piece of cloth off of the wound in her side, wincing at the sight of the dull, bloodied laceration. He presses alcohol wipes to the gash, Hero letting out a sharp hiss.

Villain brings the needle close to her skin, watching as she bit down on her lips and closed her eyes. "Hey hey, relax. Eyes on me, sweetheart. It'll be fast, I promise." His free hand flits over to her shoulder, rubbing circles into it with his thumb, stopping only when he feels her breathing slow. It's strange how the same hands that beat enemies to a bloody pulp and pulled triggers on guns with no remorse could be so gentle, as though Hero was something so delicate.

"And besides, I graduated med school with flying colours," he quips, earning a soft, but strained laugh from the heroine. Carefully, he works on the stitches, whispering soft nothings to soothe her. Hero had seen worse. So much worse. But he was going to try his hardest to make sure she went through the least pain possible.

Hero deserved the world.

When he's done, she leans in closer, kissing his jawline and keeping an arm wrapped around his neck. She revels in the way he freezes up, unable to move a muscle, staring into her eyes in a look that practically screamed lost kitten.

"What is this?" He raises one eyebrow, confused.

It was her turn to smirk at his state. "Revenge, handsome," she murmurs. Her hand now reaches for his hair, running her fingers through the soft locks, and she takes in the sight of Villain short circuiting, words catching in her lover's throat, and those gorgeous, midnight blue eyes of his going wide as he lets out a nervous laugh.

The criminal was a good flirt, but much more fun when flustered, face getting warm, dark tan skin mercifully concealing what would've been a deep crimson in his cheeks.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out suddenly, voice small and hesitant. So unlike that cocky persona of his that he'd adopted mere moments ago.

Hero flashes him a dirt-eating grin. "What did you say? I couldn't quite catch that, love." Liar.

"I'm sorry!" he interjects, almost irritably, but he finds himself smiling in between the words. "For not apologising when I should've, for being so stubborn for so damn long. That stuff."

His wife's expression softens, and she pulls him into a warm embrace. "I missed you," she whispers, voice light and gentle against the shell of his ear.

"Me too," he feels his touch-starved form melt into the touch, a terrible craving finally sated.

A hot bath and some more bandages later, Hero and Villain find themselves cuddling together on the couch, giggling at a well-loved action comedy movie.

As long as they were together, as long as they were both alive, then nothing on this earth could stop them, almost as though they were two forces of nature, created to always exist as one.

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[gabessquishytum]

I've been non-stop thinking about squishy/chubby Hob for the past several days and now I see that someone brought it up here and I'm LOSING IT, okay? I don't even know how it happened but in my mind's eye, Hob is always slightly chubbier than average. Full dad bod. A tiny muffin top and love handles and thighs that could kill a man (Dream, in particular).

And Dream loves it. Loves the give of Hob's body, loves squeezing and pulling and pressing bruises into soft skin. There is a lot of strength hidden under that extra fat, strong muscles that can hold Dream up against the wall while Hob fucks him, and that is very good too, but having Hob in his lap and feeding him something sweet, perhaps strawberries and cream, and then holding his belly as Dream fucks him, praising him for taking good care of himself, that is VERY GOOD.

I'll go feral for Hob's soft belly. One day, I'll see feeding kink and actually bite off a bit of my screen.

Ohohoho you have come to the RIGHT place me friend.

Listen, I adore Ferdie, I am MADLY attracted to him. The only thing I’m sad about in seeing him portray Hob is that we don’t get to see his body change like it does in the comics. Comics!Hob is a big guy, obviously holds fat very easily. He also obviously uses his weight to help change his appearance - he goes from muscular-chunky in 1389 to relatively twinky in 1489, then back to the (literal) dad bod in 1589. Obviously that can’t be reflected in a TV show, but it does mean that I’m inevitably projecting my chubby Hob feelings onto show!Hob anyways.

I live for dad bod, comfortable, proud of his body Hob. He’s WORKED for that body. He worked for the muscles by changing the casks at the new inn and keeping up with the latest street fighting styles, but he worked just as hard to get himself a comfortable life where he can settle in, eat what he likes and gain some weight.

Dream understands and appreciates all of that. And in terms of texture? There’s nothing better than Hob’s squishy parts. To a touch starved Dream who spent a century in a glorified sensory deprivation chamber, Hob’s body is heaven. He could spend a good hour with his face smushed into Hob’s belly. No breathing necessary. Just softness and warmth.

And yes I’m feral for Dream’s fucking Hob doggy-style, gripping him by the love handles or belly and moaning every time he fucks forward and sinks into the soft body that he adores so much.

I have written some feeding kink stuff for these two, not very kinky but VERY soft. I fully intent to write more, but feel free to check out what I’ve done so far on ao3!