#accumulated ash

[un-pearable]

spent thirty minutes sucked into a wildly specific misinterpretation of ash ketchum. fascinating world out there

[tony-andonuts]

Hiiii i so badly wanna lightly vent about something embarrassing and dark but------

[flowersforbucky]

delirium

bucky barnes x reader (sex pollen trope)

word count: 4.1k

summary: stranded in the middle of the alaskan wilderness with no means of communication after being exposed to a foreign drug, you're reluctant to accept help from the one person who has a shot at saving you.

warnings/tags: sex pollen, dub con, unprotected sex, oral, masturbation, angst, descriptions of physical pain, language, friends to lovers, avenger!reader, no use of y/n, reader is afab, 18+ only

flashbacks are in italics

Sometime in the near future, there would be a case study conducted on how long a human being could burn from the inside without dying.

They would refer to you as exhibit a.

Doctors and scientists would lay your cold corpse on a colder table and use a scalpel to cut you from your thorax to your belly button. They would scribble notes about how your lungs had turned to ash and your esophagus to molten lava.

They wouldn't say it, but they would think it's a shame, because your driver's license states that you were an organ donor.

A harsh gust of wind snaps you out of the twisted fantasy and back to your reality - standing barefoot on the rickety front porch steps of a small cabin in Sitka, Alaska. You've only been outside for a few minutes but the snow is pouring down at a brutal pace, already covering the tops of your exposed feet.

The razor sharp chill of the ground below you and the air that surrounds you are the only things tethering you to what little remains of your sanity.

You never thought that you would be so thankful for your feet to be going numb, but after feeling like every fiber of your being is getting melted with a hot branding iron for - what? Ten? Twelve hours now? You had to resist the temptation to submerge your entire body in the multiple feet of snow that had accumulated since nightfall.

You hear the front door of the cabin creak open from behind you. You don't have to turn around to know that he's standing in the doorway with the same look of pleading desperation that he's been giving you since the two of you had realized what was happening.

“You need to come back inside,” he says delicately. His voice is muffled by the roar of the snowstorm, but right now with heightened senses, you hear him just fine. “You're going to get hypothermia.”

You don't respond. The mere sound of his voice makes you grit your teeth together so hard that you're surprised the tiny bones don't shatter.

He keeps to the doorway, scared that if he takes one step closer, you'll flee into the miles of thick woods that surrounds you in only a pair of old sweatpants and an oversized t-shirt. He murmurs your name in a tone that begs you to come in from the below freezing temperatures.

“What time is it now?” You barely recognize your own voice - low and strained, it sounds like you haven't had anything to drink in days.

You clear your throat, though you doubt it'll make any difference.

“Just after four o'clock.”

Eleven hours into this hell, then. Best case scenario, another half a day of this. Worst case scenario, close to two.

Either way, you knew that these symptoms had yet to hit their peak. This would undoubtedly get worse before it gets better.

You stare out into the endless thicket of snow covered hemlocks and spruces. The illumination from the full moon makes the white powder on the branches glisten in the darkness.

Daylight was still hours away, and with it, hope for some means of communication with the rest of your team back in New York. The snowstorm had brought a widespread power outage across the city. Cell phone signal was nonexistent right now.

“Go on back to your room,” you tell him. “I'll come back inside in just a moment.” You continue to watch the blizzard before you, knowing that he's still just a few feet away from you. “I promise,” you add, hoping that he’ll believe you and return to the bedroom you'd been forcing him to keep to.

The drug coursing through your veins had amplified every one of your five senses. Even with him behind the closed door of the bedroom, you could still smell faint traces of the earthy musk of his deodorant and something warm that is uniquely him.

You wouldn't chance coming back into the house until his scent has dissipated from the entrance - not unless you want to feel as though all air is being stripped from your lungs.

Even simply standing here, with him behind you and the wind blowing his scent in the opposite direction, is nearly intolerable.

You hear footsteps retreat into the house, growing quieter and quieter as he makes his way back down the hallway, until you finally hear the click of his bedroom door. You exhale a breath that you weren't aware you had been holding in.

You have no doubt that he'll try to drag you back inside by the ankles if he has to, so you make good on your promise and return to the sweltering interior of the six hundred square foot log cabin.

A sharp, stabbing pain radiates from the center of your body at that thought - the exact kind of thoughts you were actively trying to avoid having. Thoughts of his hands digging into your thighs, his wet mouth on your throat, his bare chest pressed against yours as he fucks you into the likely thirty-something year old couch - those thoughts. Dangerous territory thoughts - the kind you didn't trust yourself not to act on if dwelled upon for too long.

Apparently, the thought of him putting his hands around your ankles and dragging you kicking and screaming falls into that category.

You settle onto the couch, pulling your knees up to your chest in an effort to alleviate the ache in your lower belly. You notice that Bucky has crammed more wood into the fireplace, which currently serves as the main source of light for the cabin, save for a few candles that have been placed sporadically throughout the small space.

Sweat begins to bead across your skin within seconds of sitting down in front of the fire. You know that Bucky is just trying to keep the temperature of the house from dropping below zero while also providing enough light to see during the middle of the night while you are in too much discomfort to sleep, but you feel like you are locked in a sauna after running five miles.

You think back to all of the times that you've given Sam shit for taking ice baths after his workouts. Now nothing sounds better than an ice bath.

Almost nothing, anyway. The only thing that could possibly feel even better is laying down behind a closed door less than twenty feet away.

And he'd offered - begged, actually, to take this pain away from you.

“Please,” he whispers, kneeling on the ground next to the couch, where you sit hunched over in pain. He's so close to you and it's fucking suffocating. He places his hand on your knee and you have to dig your nails into the suede upholstery to keep from whimpering. He notices the reaction and retracts his touch.

“Sweetheart, look at me,” he says louder, the pet name finally getting you to meet his gaze for the first time since you dropped the glass jar of the firetruck red powder in the former HYDRA warehouse two hours ago.

Big mistake. Looking at him is a big fucking mistake. From the way his blue eyes bore into yours with sincere concern to the way that his plump, pink lips are slightly chapped from the cold weather -

“No,” you say firmly, shaking your head into your hands. “I can't ask that of you. I can't make you do that. I would never forgive my–”

“You wouldn't be asking or making me do anything,” he tries to reason with you. There's sincerity in his voice but you're too delirius to hear the truth of his words. “I'm offering. Because I care about you. Because I don't want to see you in any kind of pain if there's anything I can do about it. Because I think you'd do the same for me if the situation were–”

“Bucky,” you cut him off in a strained gasp. “Your voice is making this so much worse right now.”

“Then let me help you. Let me make you feel good.”

His words alone are enough to have you clenching your thighs around nothing but the thick material of your sweatpants. You can feel your cotton panties becoming more drenched with each word he speaks.

“Not like this.” You're on the verge of tears - from pain, from anger at the entire situation, from how goddamn badly you need to feel him inside you. “It can't happen like this. I never wanted it to happen like this.”

His features soften, a look of understanding spreading across his face.

“When we fuck, I want it to be because we want to fuck,” you say as you jump up from your position on the couch, desperately needing to distance yourself from him before you do something you can't take back. “I don't want it to be because we feel like neither of us have a choice in the matter.”

“But we do have a choice,” he murmurs from where he's still kneeling on the floor next to the couch. “And I'd choose to go back to that HYDRA facility and infect myself with this shit, too, if it means you'd feel a little less guilty about saying yes.”

Your answer to that was, of course, a big, giant absolutely fucking not. The snow started pouring down shortly after, making his irrational proclamation an impossibility, anyway.

Almost half a day later, here you are. Surrounded by miles and miles of snow and ice in a town with no power or semi-functioning cell phone towers, just trying to endure the fire coursing through your veins until the effects of the HYDRA made drug have worked through your system.

You're coming up on the twelve hour mark now, and there's no denying that you're desperate for relief in one way or another.

Worth a fucking shot, you think.

You prop your feet up on the glass coffee table in front where you sit on the couch, spreading your thighs apart by a few inches.

You hesitate for a moment, listening for any kind of indication that Bucky's no longer in the confines of the cabin’s singular bedroom.

Dead silent, except for the crackling of the wood burning in the fireplace.

You snake your hand down the front of your pants, past the waistband of your underwear and to your center that's been aching for hours now.

You stroke your fingers up and down your folds, stopping at the apex of your core to massage your clit in circular motions.

Your head rolls back on the couch at the sensation, immediately feeling the slightest sense of relief. You dig your teeth into your lower lip to keep from moaning - hard enough to draw blood, the taste of iron flooding your mouth.

You slip two fingers past your entrance, not requiring any foreplay to plunge them to the hilt. It feels good - the way you're working yourself with rapid scissoring motions. Really fucking good, actually. Better than fingering yourself has ever felt.

But only a mere minute into the ministrations, you fear that it won't be enough to satiate you in the way that the drug requires.

Still, you try. You yank your t-shirt above your tits, bringing your free hand to paw at your breast as you continue working your pussy with your fingers, the heel of your palm putting pressure against your clit.

“That's not going to work, you know.”

You yank your hand out of your pants, snapping your head to the side to see him leaning against the frame of the small hallway. You had been so immersed in attempting to find some amount of relief that you hadn't heard him exit the bedroom. He's looking at you with sympathy and concern, not judgment - you don't think you'd be able to find it within yourself to feel embarrassed even if he were. Not in your current state of discomfort.

“How do you know that?” Frustration is evident in your voice. You look away from him, back to the fire in front of you as you pull your shirt back down. The floor creaks as he steps out of the hallway and makes his way over to the opposite end of the small couch. He sits a foot away from you, close enough so that his scent and warmth invades your senses, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core.

“Because I've been through what you're going through right now.”

Your eyes break away from the ember that you've been staring at, your gaze snapping to him. You don't know why this comes as a surprise to you. It shouldn't, not with every other form of torment that HYDRA had inflicted upon him for over half a century.

“Why didn't you tell me?” you ask, your voice barely above a whisper.

“I was embarrassed,” he answers with a small half-shrug, breaking your stare. “I didn't.. handle it as well as you are,” he continues, shame in his voice and cheeks rosy. “You’re doing everything you can to fight something that you didn't ask for. That's more than I can say for myself.”

“You were brainwashed, Bucky,” you remind him delicately. It's a risky move that makes your skin burn and belly clench, but you scoot closer to him on the couch - your outermost thigh brushing against his knee. If the two of you weren't both wearing sweatpants, the minimal touch might even aid in bringing you some relief. Instead, you’re left feeling desperate for more of him.

But you push the feeling down, wanting to do what little you can to comfort him - wanting him to know that you don't think poorly of him for what was forced onto him, and what is now being forced onto you, too.

“I would never judge you for anything they made you do,” you assure him.

“I know you wouldn't,” he murmurs, turning to face you again. His blue eyes glow in the low lighting of the fire. The closeness between the two of you is dizzying, and electrifying, and -

“And I want you to know that I would never judge you for giving into this torture,” he adds.

You snort a laugh. “I'm starting to think you want me to give into this.” You mean for the statement to sound light-hearted, but a sharp pang in your gut makes you wince in pain and your voice goes shrill. You clutch your lower belly, hunching over at the pain.

He leans in closer, putting one hand on your lower back and one on your thigh. You whimper at the pressure of his fingers against your spine and inner thigh. Even through your clothes, the contact feels like heaven compared to hell you've been enduring for the last twelve hours.

You lean into his touch - you don't even think about it, you just do it. You rest your head in the crook of his neck, your forehead nuzzling the warm skin of his throat.

You take a deep inhale, attempting to steady your breathing, and you realize quickly that is a mistake - his scent is so euphoric, it feels like inhaling flames.

“Would it make it easier for you if I said that I do want you to give in?” His voice is low, his breath fanning across your face from his position above you.

“Fuck, Bucky, you can't say that to me right now,” you whine. You fist your hands into the fabric of his t-shirt, your eyes squint shut.

“Look at me,” he commands. You force your eyes open, pulling your head back enough to look up at him through your eyelashes.

“I want it to be your choice.” He brings a hand up to cup your jawline. His thumb skims the outline of your bottom lip. “But I would be lying if I said that I'm not relieved that I'm the one here with you, or that I wouldn't enjoy every second of helping you feel better.”

He brings his hands to yours, pulling them away from where they still clutch his shirt. You release your grip, allowing him to hold you by your wrists. He pulls your right hand up to his face, stopping just under his nose. Your brows furrow in confusion, until it dawns on you what it is he's doing.

He inhales deeply, then lowers your hand to his parted mouth. He slips the tips of your index and middle fingers past his lips, and then swirls his tongue around the two digits.

The exact two that had been inside your pussy not even five minutes ago.

Right now, you think you could come from him sucking on your fingers and nothing else.

You don't even try to stop the groan that slips past your lips as you shove your fingers deeper into his mouth. He moans around them as he finishes cleaning them off, the sound sending vibrations up your arm and throughout your body.

You pull your fingers from between his lips and immediately crush your own lips to his in their place. You feel the drug surging through your veins, but this time it's less excruciating - it now feels like pure adrenaline bubbling under your skin, spurring you on.

He opens his mouth to you, your lips and tongue moving with his in synchronicity. It's hurried and messy, and maybe not as romantic as you had imagined it in your head before this night - but it's exactly what you need right now.

He maneuvers you so that you're laying down on the couch, and nestles himself between your thighs. You can feel the hard outline of his erection through the thin material of his sweatpants. He ruts against you, dragging the bulge across your clothed center as he yanks your t-shirt up and over your head. He tosses it somewhere behind the couch before attaching his mouth to one of your nipples and palming the other with the cool metal of his left hand.

You wrap your arms around him, pulling the full weight of his body down against you. You stick your hands up the back of his t-shirt, scratching your nails down the skin of his back.

“I need more,” you gasp out as he pinches your nipple between his teeth, rolling it in his lips. The clothing that separates the two of you feels like a prison. “I need to feel you.”

He pulls away, leaning back to perch on his knees between your legs. Your eyes roam down the chiseled planes of his chest until they land on the defined “V” shape that disappears into the waistband of his low-hanging pants.

He hooks his fingers into your sweatpants and underwear and tugging them both down past your ankles, then throwing them somewhere across the room with both of your long-forgotten shirts.

His eyes trail your body from your breasts to your thighs, his pupils dilating in the firelight. He splays his hands across the meat of your inner thighs, pinning your legs open wide for him. He lowers himself back down on the couch, belly down so his face hovers just above your pussy.

“Bucky, I swear if you don't put your mouth–”

He laughs, a deep, throaty chuckle before his tongue slips between his lips. It darts to your hole, licking a soft strip up to your clit. You exhale a sharp hiss of pleasure, your hands shooting to lace your fingers through tendrils of his hair. You arch into his touch, meeting the thrusts of his tongue with thrusts of your hips. He eats like you're the best thing he's ever tasted - like he's wanted this for way longer than this drug has been in your system.

You're coming on his face in an embarrassing amount of time, really. Thanks to the influence of the pollen, you currently have the stamina and endurance of a teenager losing their virginity. Your thighs are clenched around either side of his head, writhing above him as you ride out your orgasm on his face.

The relief that you feel as you come down from your high feels like years of pent up frustration leaving your body all at once.

You don't quite feel entirely like yourself - there's still a dull ache in your core, and your skin’s still feverish - though that could be due to the fire that the two of you are just feet away from. But you're now able to see the light at the end of the tunnel.

“Come here,” you whisper, your voice low and honeyed. He crawls over you, his chest brushing against yours as he centers himself above you. His skin shines with a thin layer of sweat that mingles with your own. You reach a hand between your two bodies, palming his erection through the sweatpants that he has yet to shed. You keep your eyes locked on his face, watching as his eyes roll back into his head and his teeth clamp down on his bottom lip as you massage him through the fabric. Your other hand juts down to the waistband of his pants and you tug them downwards, far enough to help him shimmy them down to his knees.

His cock springs forward and he takes himself in his flesh hand, pumping his length several times before teasing your folds with his tip. He collects your slick along his length, lubricating himself before nudging his head just past your entrance.

You're more than ready for him - hours of desperation in addition to already having come on his face leaves you needing no further preparation before he's filling you up with his impressive length and girth. There's a slight burn at the sheer fullness of it, but there's also a wave of relief that your body has been craving for hours.

He pulls out halfway, then rocks back into you. He starts slow - trying to hold back for his own sake or for yours, you're unsure. Gradually, he increases his speed, hitting your cervix at that sweet angle that not everyone knows how to work. You lean forward, raising your head enough to capture his lips in yours once more.

You taste yourself on him - a dichotomy of sweet and salty mixed with something entirely unique. He brings his flesh hand in between your bodies, lowering his fingers to your clit where he begins rubbing pressured circles. You moan his name into his mouth and he responds by biting your lip between his teeth, his movements becoming messier.

“You gonna come on my cock?” he asks in a low growl when he feels your pussy clenching around him. “Gonna fill you up and make you feel all better.”

His words send you tumbling over the edge for the second time - that telltale warm coil in your belly bursting at the same time that he begins spilling his warmth into you.

He collapses, pinning you between his body and the couch beneath you. Starting at your shoulder, he peppers kisses along your collarbones and up your neck until he’s finally eye-level with you.

“We can do that again,” he says in a breathy voice, still inside you. “If you need to, that is. Or if you just want you.” There's a mischievous grin spread across his face and a twinkle in his eyes. It's the most carefree you've seen him since the two of you left New York to come here for this mission. You put your hands on his chest, jokingly attempting to shove him away from you.

“Oh, I don't think I need to,” you jab at him. “I'm feeling pretty great now, but thank you for your services.” He laughs, pulling out of you and sitting back against the couch. He pulls you up with him, wrapping his flesh arm around your waist and tucking you into his side. “But I think I might want to again. You know, now that I'm no longer in excruciating pain.” He hums in agreement, stroking his flesh fingers across the side of your stomach.

“I'm glad you were the one here with me too, Bucky."

thank you for reading! i know sooo many people have done this trope, especially for bucky, but it's truly one of my all time favorites and i just needed to get this out of my system so i hope you all enjoyed

comments and reblogs are always appreciated!!

other works by me: oil & water • down bad • acquainted •

[bisexualiteaa]

Omg! You should totally do one where he’s sexually frustrated. And the reader (female), teases him until he breaks! And when he does they get down to business BIG time if you know what i mean lol. But even when they do start to fuck the reader doesn’t listen to all his demands, making it more spicy once silco finally gets the reader exactly how he wants her.

On edge

AN: Thank you so much for this request!! I loved the idea so much and literally had so much fun writing this! Apologies that it took a few days, I again just wanted to make sure it was good and to what you asked! ♥️ I hope you enjoy and that I’ve done your ask justice! 🥺🫶

CW: no use of y/n, reader has hair, reader is AFAB, female anatomy, MDNI, cursing, teasing, heavy brät/brät tämer themes, Silco is t0uch deprived, r0ugh seggs, unprotected seggs, bïting, cream 🥧, slight dëgradation, p0rn w/o plot, äftercare, possible spelling/grammar errors

Also I’m not sure why, but as I was writing I was listening to this song and I just feel like it fits SO well! So listen along while you read if you’d like!

His forehead head sat in his hand as you entered his office, elbow leaned against the desk as his other hand held a glass, amber liquid and two ice cubes swirling around inside the ornate rocks glass. Whiskey, he only drank on the rougher days anymore, and judging by the cigar that sat in the ash tray on his desk, smoke emanating from it, told you he was having a day. You on the other hand, were in a different sort of mood, a bubbly, perhaps more mischievous mood. You weren’t quite sure what brought it about, whether it was your confidence just hitting a new high today, or what but you could tell from the sassy sway to your hips as you shut the door carefully behind you. Something you didn’t realize had in fact been noticed by him, he was just doing a very good job at hiding it.

“Rough day?” You asked innocently, sauntering over to his side as you stood beside him. The scent of your perfume filled his nose the moment you moved closer, leaving him to inhale its intoxicating scent. Sometimes he wondered if you mixed a sort of drug into it with the way he craved its familiarity, wishing to smell it on his sheets, his jacket. When he did, it drove him wild, the transfer of it from just a simple hug was enough to leave him clutching the large jacket and taking a whiff on occasion when no one was looking or when he was alone in his office. Each time he did, he could feel his cock twitch with excitement as his mind would then drift to you. Sinful thoughts filling his mind of how good you would look splayed against his sheets beneath him, or how you would look bent over his desk as he ravaged you. Shimmer had nowhere near the effects that you had on him, it was almost impressive as much as it was sad. How long had it been that the simple scent of your perfume could cause him to go mad? Or for your fleeting touches to leave him with such carnal need? He couldn’t remember, but you made him feel young again in that sense.

“Quite” he replied plainly, placing the glass down on the desk, trading it for his cigar that had already been halfway smoked. You watched as he took a long drag of it before leaning back and releasing the smoke in an exhale upwards, ensuring he wouldn’t breathe it into your face. You loved the scent of his cigars, something about the tobacco mixed with smoke and his own personal scent left you enjoying being around him as he smoked more than you probably should have. There was something just so alluring about it. “Every time I turn around it feels as if something has fallen apart and is in need of my attention” he finally explained, leaving you to look upon him sympathetically. The lines of stress etched into his forehead and brow spoke truth of this, the bags beginning to accumulate beneath his eyes only further evidence to his unrest. Your hand came to rest against his thigh, rubbing soothing circles along his skin. Something you’d done in the hopes it would help him calm down a little, but you’d be a liar if you said you didn’t have ulterior motives behind it.

You felt his body tense for a moment from the soft touch, looking down at your hand that rested against his mid thigh. It was so close, so close yet so far. He wondered how it would look in your small, dainty hands, how good it would feel. He turned his head and shifted a little to try and erase the thought from his mind, but even as you removed your hand, its heat lingered on the spot like a painful reminder. “Zaun looks to their leader for guidance and aid, but even a leader deserves rest” you said, smoothing your hands along his jacket, flattening any wrinkles that formed from his previously hunched over position. You were bent over as you did, the shirt you were wearing giving him direct sight to your cleavage as your perfume continued to intoxicate him. Did you have any idea the things you were doing to him? Surely you had to, you couldn’t be so oblivious to your effect on him, could you? He was ashamed of the hold you had on him, how weak you made him from just a simple touch. He tried his best to hide it, and hide it well, but as you stood here before him he knew today may very well be the day he reaches his breaking point. “I’m granted no rest when someone walks through my door just about every hour” he replied, making you hum as you stood back up, watching his eyes trail you as you walked back over to the door. He felt himself release a breath he had no idea he’d been holding in as you put a slight distance between you. “Then lock it” you said with a cute little grin, the bolt turning in the door with an audible click before you turned back around, watching him clutch the cigar between his fingers with a fierce grip. His eyes bored into you with an intensity that sent shivers down your spine, no one has ever looked at you like that, with such fire in their eyes, with such desire. It made your stomach twist in knots. “No one can bother you if they can’t get in” you finished before returning to his side, this time watching as you boldly sat on an empty corner of his desk.

You couldn’t quite read the look on his face as you did, but you had noticed the way his eyes would flit up and down your body when he thought you weren’t looking. He took in the way your pencil skirt seemed to raise past your mid thigh as you sat down, giving him a flash of your panties from beneath it when you would go to cross your legs, leaving him incredibly hard beneath his pants. You were toying with him, you had to be. There was no way you were doing this all unknowing of the effects you had on him. Pathetically, he was falling for it, and he hated that he was. He caught the glimpse of a grin resting on your sweet, plump lips as your downcast gaze trailed him up and down, waiting for a response. You were teasing him on purpose. “You play with fire” he stated, making you giggle. “I know, I can’t help myself. I like the possibilities of being burnt” you answered confidently, your foot dragging up and down his calf affectionately. Janna almighty you’ll be the death of him, but if that were to be the case, what a hell of a way to go.

You watched him as he stood before you, hands planting on either side of your thighs as his face hovered close to yours. “You think you’re so clever? Waltzing in here with that short little skirt, teasing me and think I wouldn’t notice?” He asked, making you hum as your grin only stretched wider. “Seemed to be working just fine, was it not?” You asked in reply, feeling as his hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart to allow him a place to stand between before pulling you to the edge of his desk where your hips met his. “You tell me, what do you think?” he replied, leaving you to gasp softly as you felt him pulse and twitch against your heat. “I think I have you wrapped around my little finger” you boldly claimed, your fingers walking up along his jacket before your arms looped around his neck, pulling yourself even closer to him but never fully closing the distance. “You think so?” He asked in response, making you giggle. That same smug grin rested on your lips as electricity thrummed between you, your faces mere centimeters apart, waiting to see if he would cave in. Your gaze flit to his lips with heavy lids, enjoying the mental turmoil you were putting him through as he fought caving in immediately. “You want me so bad? Come get me” you whispered, your breath ghosting across his lips as they hovered so very close to his own. He needed you in ways he couldn’t even begin to try and explain.

So he caved.

You felt his hand come to rest on the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair as he pulled you even closer, finally closing the distance between you as his lips captured yours. The kiss was fiery, passionate and messy, a gravely groan leaving him into it. You could feel the rumble in his chest from it, paired with the way his lips danced against your own told you how long he’d been wanting this, how much he’d been needing this. Needing you. You couldn’t help the smile that stretched to your lips into it, thinking of all the ways that you could push his limits. Your hand smoothed down his chest, toying with his tie as his tongue swiped across your bottom lip, an effort to push the kiss further into something more intimate. You giggled as you denied him, earning an impatient groan in response as his free hand groped your ass roughly, making you moan. The moment you did, he took his chance, his tongue exploring you as it tangled with your own in a messy clash of teeth, tongue and lips. It had you dizzy.

When he pulled back he looked you over, not caring this time if you laid witness to it or not. He took the moment to take in how your chest heaved with each labored breath, how your cheeks were flushed, lips shining with swapped saliva. “Gonna keep staring at me? Or you gonna do something about that problem of yours?” You asked with a cocky grin, making him chuckle darkly. “Oh it will be fixed, but it won’t be me fixing it” he said, yanking on your hair to pull your head back, earning a pathetic whine from you as it made you look up at him, finding yourself unable to bite back in this position. “You caused it, you fix it” he ordered, making you moan as he rolled his hips against your own, brushing his painfully hard cock against your panty clad cunt, allotting you some much needed friction and stimulation. All you could do was look up at him, excitement and anticipation filling your gaze leaving him to chuckle. “No witty come back to that? I give you the smallest taste of how good I can make you feel and you give up just like that, hmm?” He asked smuggly, making your face grow hot with defeat before he let up on his grip in your hair. “Strip” he commanded, making you stand up and work at untucking your shirt before unbuttoning it slowly. He watched as every button came undone, more of your gorgeous body was revealed to him, his eyes raking over your curves. The fabric soon dropped to the floor haphazardly next to his desk, to be forgotten about until later when it would be needed again. Next was your bra. His eyes were trained on you as he watched you unhook the backing, allowing it to slide down your arms and join your shirt in a growing pile. Your nipples had hardened from the temperature change, the exposure to the air and from the excitement coursing through you in anticipation of what was to come next. Then came your skirt, its simple button and zipper being undone allowing it to drop to the floor and pool around your feet with ease, earning a groan from him at the sight of you nearly naked before him. You hooked your thumbs into the sides of your panties, working them down from your hips before they fell to your ankles, leaving you to kick them off to the side with rest of the pile. You watched with much intrigue and entertainment as he seemed to twitch with anticipation and need for you, making you giggle.

“How long has it been?” You asked curiously, a cocky grin on your lips and confidence in your tone as you looked at him, looping your arms around his neck. There it was again, your perfume, overwhelming his senses. “I beg your pardon?” He asked, brows furrowed and sending a rather defensive look your way. “How long has it been?” You asked again, watching as he looked you up and down. “Since?” He asked in reply, not seeming to understand what you were hinting at, or maybe he preferred you just spit it out. “Since you had sex. Can tell by the tension in your shoulders and the way you practically moan with every touch that it’s been a while” you pointed out playfully, making him a little angry that you managed to get beneath his surface and figure him out so well. “You best be careful of that mouth of yours. My kindness, even with you, has its limits” he responded, making you hum. “Then go ahead, be mean. I’m a big girl, I can take it” you challenged making him walk closer to you, inching you towards the edge of his desk. “You want me to be mean, do you?” He asked, the rasp of his voice lowering to a much deeper tone, a crooked smile resting on his lips. He couldn’t lie, the slight tinge of fear resting in your eyes when you felt your back hit his desk, telling you there was nowhere left to go, awakened something dark within him. Something carnal, animalistic. You looked like nothing more than helpless, vulnerable prey, and he was about to eat you alive. You couldn’t deny the predatory look in his eyes certainly worked wonders on you in return. “Don’t look so concerned…” he started, bringing his hand up to cup your cheek gently before leaning in close, leaving his lips just millimeters from yours.

“I’m about to make your day” he finished, his words mixed with the feel of his breath ghosting your lips so closely send a shiver through you in excitement.

It wasn’t long before his pants were around his ankles, thrusting his cock balls deep into your soaked cunt. Your shared panting and moans, paired with the creaking and screeching of the poor desk beneath you that had been slowly inching its way across the floor with each thrust, filled the room. Should anyone walk past his office, there would be no mistaking what was happening just behind the door. Though you supposed your moans could have likely alerted all of Zaun at this rate, with your first orgasm of the night already past you, it’d be a miracle if no one could hear you. Your head was tilted back as he drilled into you, gripping your hips with a bruising pressure as your arms looped around his neck for leverage. You watched as he looked down to the space where your bodies were connected, watching his length disappeared inside of you with ease. He couldn’t help but to notice the little white ring that rested at the base of his length from your previous orgasm as the sound of his hips smacking roughly against your ass filled the room. “Fuck! Oh gods, yes!” You moaned, making him grin. “How long has it been?” He asked, looking to you, waiting for a response from you but your pleasure-idled mind was so foggy you could hardly understand what he was asking you. “Since? Oh fuck! Right there!!” You replied the best you could, tilting your head back again, leaving your tits just inches from his face as your back arched upwards towards him. “Since someone fucked you right. Since someone made you feel this good” he finished, making you whine as his hand grabbed your jaw, squishing your cheeks as he forced you to look back up at him. The cute pout that rested on your face, occasionally morphing into ones of pleasure each time his tip bullied your cervix, had him rutting into you harder. “Never! Not ‘til you- oh!” You managed, making him chuckle as he relinquished you from his grip. “Pathetic. You put up all that fuss, do all that teasing and yet I still manage to get you right where I want you” he said through grunts of pleasure, his neatly slicked back hair slightly falling against his forehead that had a thin sheen of sweat. “Feels so good! Oh gods, Silco!” You moan pathetically, knowing he was exactly right but you didn’t care. You’d spend every night here like this with him if he made you feel this good every time.

You felt as that familiar sensation in your lower belly began to take root again as his lips captured your own in a messy but passionate kiss, your moans raising in pitch and growing closer together a clear sign that you were close. As if on que, his fingers traveled between your bodies, coming to rub your clit to give you that added bit of friction you so desperately needed. You gasped before moving your hips against his and his fingers, meeting his merciless thrusts and fucking yourself on his fingers. “You’re right where you belong. Beneath me like this, cumming on my cock as I please you like no one else ever will” he said, rubbing your clit faster to make up for the way his thrusts were beginning to lose rhythm. You were so close to finally falling over the precipice, your body feeling as if it were catching on fire as your every nerve ending lit up. His words were what sent you there. “You’re mine” he growled, biting into your shoulder as you came together, his bite sending you toppling over the edge into pure bliss, while your walls squeezed him tight, milking him of everything he’d been holding in for far too long. Your body twitched and spasmed with the intensity of your second orgasm of the night, a pleased hum leaving you as you felt him cum inside of you, throbbing repeatedly as he emptied everything into you.

You both sat there for a moment, basking in the afterglow of your orgasms together, fighting to catch your breath. You watched him smooth his hair back with his hand, doing his best to get it out of his face and back to how it was originally styled, or at least the closest he could get it. You smiled as he kissed you softly, leaving you to cup his dance gently in your hands. “Are you alright?” He asked into it, checking to make sure he hadn’t overdone it and hurt you. You gave a hum then a giggle. “I feel wonderful” you said with a bubbly grin, making him chuckle as he continued to kiss you, not wishing to leave your arms or the taste of your sweet lips just yet. “Good, as do I” he replied, making you grin even wider. “Fuck yes you do” you said, playfully yet truthfully, making you both laugh. “Oh is that so? Have I ruined anyone else for you?” He asked, the hint of possessiveness in his tone as his lips traced down your neck. “You might have. Not that I care to find out, you said it yourself; this is exactly where I belong, and it’s exactly where I intend to stay” you said, your head tilted a little to grant him better access to your sensitive skin. You heard him groan next to your ear as his lips lingered upon all your most sensitive spots.

What caught you by absolute surprise was the sensation of him throbbing within you, twitching to life again from inside of you. You gave a gasp with both intrigue and excitement as he looked to you with a grin. Apparently your words had let the monster out, because stay there you would for nearly the rest of the night, getting lost in one another without a care for how sore you’d be tomorrow. It was well worth it when you were with him.

[commanderhearteyes-r]

hear me out no.28 reader asks lottie to come with her into the woods to “hunt” and reader is wearing a skirt ... you fill in the blanks!💗

Ooohhhhh fun one! 🤭

PS: I misread your initial ask and wrote it as if Lottie asked reader to go, I fixed the whole thing and had the reader ask Lottie to go to the woods… my phone did not save it… My apologies anon I can’t be assed to retype that all again. So it’s kinda close to original ask! I hope this is satisfactory! 🫣

————

Eyes On Me

Lottie x fem!r

Prompt #28: “no underwear? did you plan this?”

Warnings for: coercion, loss of virginity, pain-play, 18+ only

Lottie approaches you rather quickly, she looks around with wide eyes scanning the surrounding huts and looks at the other girls. She hasn’t asked anything yet so you stop the chore you pulled for today and give her your undivided attention, “how can I help you Lottie?”

“I need your help y/n, I pulled the fucking hunt card somehow today and you know the snares better than I do. Maybe you could be of some use to me and come help.” Her lip twitches with a smirk that you barely intercept. You could help her, it would give you some alone time with the tall and tanned girl that’s been on your mind recently. Last night you had your hands shoved down your shorts trying to relieve some tension that had been caused by her. It hadn’t been as good as it could have been had it been her fingers… or her mouth.

You smile softly and shake your hands clean of the dust and ash that had accumulated on them from the fire, you had been emptying the old ashes from the pit. “Sure Lot, let me go tell Taissa I won’t be finishing my chore. I’ll be right back.”

“N-no, we can go now. Let’s go, you’ll be fine y/n. I want you to come now.” She hurries you. Lottie places her hand on the small of your back and guides you into the entrance of the woods. Lottie pushes you down to the ravine where the water laps at the edges but doesn’t rush quickly. You turn to look at her confused.

“Lot, this isn’t where the traps are silly.” You say as you gaze up at the beautiful tall girl. Her mouth opens and closes a few times, it looks like she’s thinking of what to say - maybe an excuse. “What is it Lottie?”

“You can’t go around looking like this and expect me not to take what I need from you, what were those noises from your hut last night?” Lottie asks as she takes hold of your wrist tightly.

Your eyes widen, “Lottie how do you know I was making noises in my hut last night? Your hut is all the way across the clearing.”

“I was outside listening to you. You sounded so wet.” Lottie admits freely with no shame.

This emboldens you more, “just ask for what you want, be a big girl. Use your big girl words.” She grips your wrist tighter and pulls you against her.

“Don’t fucking piss me off, answer me. What were you doing last night? Why were you making noise?” Lottie presses you as she looks you up and down, she eyes your skirt and smirks.

“I had my fingers buried inside myself, is that a good enough answer for you?” You snark back.

“Are you a virgin?”

“Why does that matter?” Your brows furrow at Lottie’s question.

“Because I need to know if someone else has had you before, I’m possessive with my things.” Lottie quips. You nod your head, you’ve just been forced to give a few meaningless handjobs and blowjobs here and there. But you’d kept your legs closed, because you knew you were a lesbian and that much you wanted to keep for yourself. There have been a few boys that attempted to sleep with you and failed. Lottie nods, pleased with this information. “Good girl.”

You feel your body being pushed down suddenly, it feels like you’re falling in slow motion. Your back is flat on the leaves and sticks, she pays it no mind as she crawls over you. Then Lottie’s body is completely over yours, her hips are slotted in between yours. She makes eye contact for a moment, and you can tell she wants to kiss you. You give the faintest nod, consent if she cared. You liked this. And she’s back to the game she started, she’s moving down to press her lips to yours. Both of your lips are slightly chapped after living in the wilderness, but it’s just such a human quality. It’s just such a personal thing to get to feel her chapped lips that you feel yourself getting wet. You feel silly that this is what starts it. Not even her words earlier, but your rough lips as you make out on the forest floor has you feeling like a hole ready to be filled.

She towers over your body, the height difference is still very apparent horizontal and she likes it. She likes completely overcoming your small body with hers. She takes this opportunity to run a hand over your throat teasing the fact that her hand could choke you out with minimal effort, but she refrains. She must be impatient, because after a few minutes of kissing her lips are ripped away from yours.

“Eyes on me little one, open your legs. I wanna see your pussy.” Lottie wastes no time, she assists in pushing your thighs open. Her eyes shoot back up to yours, “no underwear? Did you plan this? How did you know I would bring you here?”

You lay there, cunt exposed and weeping for her, you shake your head trying to feign innocence. “No I-I honestly didn’t, I just thought I could go without… today?”

“That’s a bullshit answer and you know it.” Lottie sticks two fingers inside, you gasp and grab her wrist. Her fingers are much thicker than your own.

“Lottie, what the fuck?” You gasp.

“You’re already soaked, it’s okay. I’m just checking that you are telling me the truth.” She lets her fingers probe your insides and hums happily.

“Lottie I’ve masterbated with… stuff before, I don’t know if everything is how you think it will be. And that whole “cherry popping” thing for virginity is just a myth.” You say breathily as she keeps exploring and rotating her fingers through your soaked hole.

She shakes her head, not satisfied with your words, “no y/n, I want to take your virginity. I will have it.”

You nod, “okay, okay. I’m yours, take me.”

“You’re being such a good little girl for me, I want more fingers in you. I love stretching you out already. I think you can take more, let’s see.” Lottie takes her two fingers out and wets an additional two, again with no warning she enters you with four fingers. This time you do feel something stretch or tear you’re not sure which.

“Ow ow ow, Lottie. I’m so full it hurts. Please.” You beg and try to pull back slightly. She grabs your shoulder and pulls you back down.

She looks at you with her big round doe eyes, “please, please let me. I swear it’ll feel good in a second. I’ll stretch you okay? Let me make it better.” She keeps her four fingers buried, but she compensates. She lowers her mouth to your clit and wraps her lips around it. You take the win, you’ve never been eaten out before and now you have Lottie’s lips on your pussy.

“Ohhhhh fuck me, okay okay okay. Yeah that’s a little better.” You tell the girl who is buried inside of you.

She starts fucking her fingers in and out while suckling on your clit steadily. It’s painful but it’s mixed with pleasure, it’s wonderful. Her free hand grips your thigh to keep you spread and she grasps it so hard you can tell it’s gonna bruise in the morning.

“Lottie fuuuckkkkk, I’m so full.” You moan out.

She nods and those eyes are so full of joy you can’t imagine doing anything but this for her, “you’re doing so good my girl, thank you for letting me take this moment from you. I needed this so bad.”

She starts curling her fingers in an upward motion and that cuts the pain down even more, the stretch begins to feel desirable. And she lowers her mouth again. With these motions being continued at a steady pace you’re sure to cum for her soon and she knows it. She wants it. All of the sudden you feel a warm hand press down on your lower stomach, underneath your shirt.

“Lottie I feel like I’m gonna pee, don’t do that!” You yelp.

She ignores this and keeps going, pressing her hand harder. You try to push her hand away and she swats you on the thigh. She hums around your clit, pushes in deeper while drawing her fingers upwards and the hand on the stomach pushes down. Suddenly something is happening that you’ve never done before. You’re squirting liquid all over Lottie’s face. And she look so happy about this! But fuck did that feel good, maybe you’re just happy about this too.

You let your body relax and Lottie begins to pull her fingers out, admiring the work she’s done. She beams at the gaping hole and leans down to kiss it before standing, leaving you there laying in your mess. She goes to the running water to rinse her face and hand. You hear her say, “thank you for accompanying me, we’ll be back here soon, okay?”

[virginreprise]

J U N K Y ' P R I D E

joel miller x reader

" I KNOW I CAUGHT YOU AT A NOT SO HAPPY TIME OF YOUR LIFE " ✧ ⁺ ⁺ 　°

WARNINGS: age difference (big one), pervy joel, trailer park joel, joel miller has a vintage porn collection, joel's a sad old man, video game joel was in mind when writing, joel is six foot because i say so, multi-part, smut in the next chapter because i can't write anything if it isn't slowburn

WORD COUNT: 7.7k

CHAPTER TWO

AO3LINK

CHAPTER ONE—BAD DISEASE

Static from the television set tucked in a corner, a beaten leather armchair parked in front of it and a stack of vintage, VHS porn tapes on the unit. One half of “Agent 69” stuck in the VCR, balancing on its side due to the lack of care from its owner who’d jacked off in the very chair that towered over it—cum stained fist and a name on his lips, slipped out between plush flesh. Hand frantic, jerking in tandem with the buck of his hips as he flit his eyes between the TV and the wood-panelled ceiling, profanities spilling from his filthy mouth. Muttering to himself as pornstar moans graced his ears, words whispered into the night, stolen by the archangels and flown up to God: conspiring, scheming, uttering under their breath that he should not be allowed through the holy gates on judgement day. That the defiled Bible on his bookshelf and the cross that had been left for him by the previous owners, pinned to the trailer wall, was not enough for them to ignore the strained sentences that he spewed in a desperate bid for the Trailer Park Princess on her knees—red nails and red lips wrapped around his cock. A ring of colour staining the base. 

Utter filth. And Joel knew it. 

The perversions he didn’t keep to himself, laughed about bending over the pretty thing next door whilst nursing a beer on Pete’s porch—puffing away on the cheap cigars he’d stolen from the liquor store. They tasted like shit, smelt like shit and Joel would’ve been better without it, but it added to the image: kept Susan from asking him stupid questions like why he didn’t have a woman. It was her way of flirting, bikini top displaying her sagging tits, bending over the kitchen counter whilst his buddies watched baseball. 

“You got your eye on anyone, Joel?” 

“Not really, Susan.” 

Then Pete interjecting. 

“Come off it, Susan. Just cause he ain’t committed don’t mean that he ain’t got women.”

That kept her quiet, made her slink away into the hallway, slipping into their bedroom and pulling a cover-up on—suddenly insecure. 

Joel wasn’t a pervert. He didn’t have some strange penchant for young women. They were just…nice to look at. Pretty and sun-kissed in the Texan heat, ass hanging out their shorts, bikini top doing much more to entice than Susan’s did. There was no harm in looking—they never knew. He prided himself on being discreet, nursing a beer in the late afternoon whilst Kenny Rogers lulled from the radio, flicking ash from his cigarette onto the porch floor—eyes trained on your open window, cracked just a tad to let the air through. Drapes open. 

At times, he thinks you do it on purpose, a gentle taunt, a silent jeer: “You can only look, perv.” 

If the invitation was there, he’d take you up on it. Because out of all the women he’d fucked, headboard bashing against the wall, a chip in the wood of the trailer evidence of his trysts, you were the only one who’d worked him up to the point of no return. The only one who’d grabbed him completely by the collar and forced him to lick your boots. 

Like Joel said, he wasn’t a pervert. You were just a fucking whore who needed to be put in her place. 

So he’d sit there, in the white garden chair he’d snatched up from the pile of scrap that accumulated just east of his trailer, and watch. Most days, you’d be doing nothing in particular, unfortunately already dressed, dirty clothes in hand and wet hair dripping down your back. Other days, the days where Joel thought he was really lucky, where he’d stumble inside with a hard-on, sit on his recliner and hastily shove whatever he got his hands on, into the VCR, skipping over the poorly acted introductions, and pretend that the moans reverberating the trailer, were yours. Images of you slipping your shorts over your hips, swaying slightly to whatever tune you were listening to, peeling your shirt off your body. No bra. Slyly stepping towards your window, catching his eye once, a look so slight that he wouldn’t be surprised if he imagined it, and pulled your drapes shut. 

He’d spilt all over his hand, white on his knuckles and a smile on his lips. 

Joel would never feel guilty for wanting you, not when he had already made peace with the fact he was a deadbeat, bound to the white trash lifestyle, unemployed and living off the pills he paid for and sold for a ridiculously high price, still grieving his losses and wondering what the fuck he could’ve done differently. If he would’ve done anything differently given the chance. 

No, Joel was not a bad person. He just looked for her in every person, desperately seeking a will. And so far, you had succeeded in helping him remove the gun from his mouth—evenings spent in different, dangerous ways. 

Texan summers were unlike anything you’d experienced before, the heat so incredibly stifling that your love for the sun disappeared completely. Mornings spent on the porch, soaking in the last bits of breeze before cycling your ass to work, sweating and heaving by the time you got there, in the same condition when you rode back home and locked yourself away with every window flung open before nightfall fell and you felt you could breathe again. 

The cicadas were loud, the snakes huddled up in the shade, waiting for you to trample on them, and the beast next door, Joel Miller: terrifying, gorgeous and a fucking pervert. 

The day you’d moved into the trailer, despairing the loss of stability, ruminating upon your desperate escape from a home now dead and lost to the prairies of your mind, he’d been there. Wifebeater stretched across his wide torso, a cigarette placed on his lips, unused as it hung there, smoking away, the grey wisps begging with each dissipation into the atmosphere: breathe me in. He’d stared. Unable to be subtle no matter how slick he thinks he is, eyes flitting between your tits and your ass. Tits. Ass. Tits. Ass. A calculated dance that left a funny feeling brewing in the pit of your stomach, a lurch in your bowels that made nausea claw its way up your throat. 

Tits. Ass. Then, he suddenly looked at your face, standing there on his porch, the sunrise building its way up the horizon, too early for anybody to see him looking you over like you were a dead deer he’d just shot, smirking at the notion of sawing your head off and displaying it on the wall above his mantle. Heaving boxes into the empty trailer, lot number seventeen, whilst the owner of lot eighteen wouldn’t take his fucking eyes off you, was a terrible feat. 

Once you’d shoved the last box into your bedroom, you’d shut the door, locked it tight and peeked through the window to see that he had gone back inside, retreating to the haven of steel and veneer. 

Over time, Joel became easier to manage. After the initial, awkward introductions where he’d called you princess, babydoll, sugar (almost adding a “tits” to the end of the nickname before realising where he was) your stomach reeling at the monikers, time settled your unmistakable disgust for him, the universe replaced the sickness you felt when you spoke to him with another stomach-turning anxiety that you pushed down far into every crevasse and high onto every mountain. 

You grew to enjoy the nicknames, skipping a few paces up his porch steps and ask him ever so kindly if he could come and fix the cupboard door that was swinging off its hinges, change the lightbulb because you couldn’t reach the ceiling yourself, stop the leaky tap that seemed to start drip drip dripping every month—just to bully you. 

Although you knew that Joel was a dirtbag, hearing him talking about the filthiest things, laughing as Pete clapped him on the back in praise and acknowledgement, knowing that he wanted nothing more than to treat you like a whore, he gave you nothing except a sly smile, a sleazy nickname and the occasional help around the house. Fixing things. 

So, naturally, you began asking around about Joel. Susan liked to gossip. So did Lillian, a woman who had spent her entire life in the park and, at sixty-two, had no interest in leaving. 

“I remember when he moved here,” she’d told you one fine summer evening, when the heat wasn’t as menacing and you felt content being away from the air conditioning, sipping sweet tea in Lillian’s wooden garden chairs, feet placed on the seat—chin resting on your knees. “All stoic, wouldn’t speak ‘ta anyone. I could tell he’d gone through something bad, you know me and my sixth sense.” 

She’d paused for a moment, taking a drag, a sip, a sigh before looking at you solemnly. 

“He was a catch with the ladies,” she’d muttered. “They were all after him, even this one over here,” she’d pointed to Susan who’d smacked her arm, complaining about her disrespect. She was a married, loyal woman after all. “Well, it’s true. If I were twenty years younger, I would’ve gone for him too, but it wouldn’t have done much anyway cause he didn’t touch anyone. There ain’t many pretty young ladies round here, you know you’re the only one,” she’d said plainly, addressing you with a hint of affection. 

Waving her cigarette around as she relayed every single detail she knew about Joel’s love life, telling you how after a few years of moping, he’d bring back girls in the middle of the night, fuck them, and then throw them out the next day. 

“He’s not a romantic,” Lillian had prefaced, Susan interjecting with:

“Ya think so? I think he is…if he just found the right woman-”

“Oh don’t listen to her Darlin’, he’s a man who likes to play. He ain’t lookin’ to settle, I tell you that much.” 

Listening to them both, their anecdotes, their stories, and their opinions, you concluded one thing about Joel Miller. He was an asshole. A man who had done nothing to better his life since he stepped foot in the trailer park ten years ago, a sag in his shoulders and an anger in his eyes. 

You weren’t sure if he’d mellowed since then, or if he’d just managed to conceal it better. Joel hadn’t been angry around you, not when you knocked on his door at three in the morning, asking him if he could come get the spider out of your bedroom, not when you’d accidentally run into his truck with your bike or told him that he was an asshole when you’d caught him talking about you one day in springtime. 

“She’s as dumb as fucking rocks,” he’d chuckled. “Bet she gets cockdrunk so easy.” 

He’d grumbled out the last sentence, an afterthought that was more for him than the men he was talking to, but you, stumbling around, half-asleep after your shift, were not willing to take the degradation. You’d berated him in front of his peers, slammed the door behind you, and regretted it immediately. Because, even though it shouldn’t matter, even though you thought he was pervy and angry and wouldn’t treat you how you’d been told you deserved, the last thing you wanted was for him to hate you. 

Every time he praised you, told you that you looked good as you stepped out of your home, on your way to Lillian’s for a catch-up and the cigarettes she bought you every three weeks, just for being good and keeping her company, you felt that tingle, the synaptic transmissions running down your spine every time he stepped through your door, asking what the issue with your tap was. You should’ve been disgusted when he’d left and you’d gone to the bathroom only to find the panties you’d left on the floor were gone, but you’d felt that same spark instead. A deep, sliding ache that consumed every part of you. 

Luckily for you, your sink decided to start leaking again on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon. Perfect time to lure him into your trailer, grab him by the neck and ask him as nicely as you could if he could cease the pain. 

Sip of beer, drag of cigarette, click of the remote to change the channel, repeat. 

A usual Sunday afternoon pastime. 

Joel would’ve rifled through his VHS’s, find something he could jack off to whilst he deliberated whether today would be the day he’d say “fuck it” and saunter on over to next door, hoping to god he’d get his dick wet by someone other than a whore, but he couldn’t be bothered to move from his seat. It was effort enough trying to change the channel, arm aching as he pressed the button, rolling his eyes as the same boring drab illuminated his TV screen. 

It was another one of those days. Glancing at the watch on his wrist, the broken glass, the notion that he would never fix it no matter how easy it would’ve been to go over to Shane’s and ask him to get it working again, all for the low price of a few pills. 

She’d left him with it and he would die with it. 

A reminder of her every time he glanced at his watch, swallowing hard as he remembered the way he’d pressed cool metal to the side of his head, a tear slipping down his cheek before realising that he never could. Because Joel was an asshole, he knew that. He was selfish and cruel and spoke about people as if they could get any lower than he already was. But more so than anything, Joel was a sad old man.

Tommy, the damn bastard, who’d left Joel to fend for himself while he went off with his new-found “true love” to have kids and a decent life, had sent a few thousand dollars and a pitiful “I’m sorry, Joel,” over the phone after his big brother had fucked up and lost his job. When Joel had been left penniless and broken. Nothing to fight for. No one to hold him or tell him that he was loved. He’d spent all his money raiding gas stations for cases of beer, bottles of whisky, anything that could numb the pain—choosing the alcohol over food, over his mortgage. When he’d lost the house, he hadn’t taken anything of hers. Even after she’d died, he’d insisted that everything needed getting rid of. Her clothes, her posters, even her damn phone. He’d slammed Tommy against the wall after realising that he was taking everything with him, that he was not doing as he was told. After that, Joel had closed the door on her bedroom and never stepped foot in it again. 

All he had of her was a damn watch, a photo that his little brother had shoved into his hands, a harsh, “Take it, you damn bastard. You’ll regret it when you stop feeling so sorry for yourself,” on his lips, and the memory of her in his arms when he’d felt that huge heart of hers stop beating. 

There had been many low points in Joel’s life, wandering through his existence on a tightrope that was ready to snap with every step, but none had been lower than that. 

Not even when he’d called Tommy in the middle of the night, sobbing, struggling to breathe with a clean bottle of Jim Beam in his hands, begging him to help. He’d lost his house, he’d lost his job, he’d lost his daughter. Where to next? 

Tommy, all the way in Wyoming had scraped together some money, told Joel to get himself down to the mobile park and a steady job. Start from the bottom again. 

Sometimes, Joel resented his brother for not giving him that money for a flight to the West, smiling down the phone as he informed that they had a spare room for him, his nephew cooing in his bassinet and waiting for his old uncle. 

He understood though. When he wasn’t drunk it made more sense why he hadn’t invited him to his home. 

They hadn’t spoken in sixteen years. To his nephew whom he did not know the name of, he was just the deadbeat uncle who hadn’t made it out of Texas—still alive but lost. 

Tommy would’ve probably hated him more if he was sitting on Joel’s couch, staring at the porn and the beer, the cigarettes that his little brother knew he had only smoked when he was a rebellious teenager—the occasional pull never becoming a habit, especially when his daughter came along. 

Almost certainly would’ve despised him if he knew how he felt about the girl next door, the perverse catharsis he experienced when he took himself in hand and imagined taking care of her, shushing her whimpers, making her whine with the way he stretched her open. 

Oh, and he was a bad man. A bad fucking man and he was the last thing you needed. Some poor, young girl who was doing her best to make it. Pay the rent on time, make sure she was kept fed, all whilst juggling the inescapable feeling that once you were in the trailer park there was no getting out. 

Joel didn’t see an end. He’d been here for over a decade; his drug money was not for a new house or a new life, it was for whores and booze, a carton of Marlboro reds that he got for cheap from Bill, and porn. He’d collected all the goddamn vices—became a person so unlike who he was, so far from the quietly loveable single dad he’d been hailed as years ago. 

As far as Joel now was concerned, that guy was a fucking pussy. 

That guy would think he needed professional help for the way he thought about you, would expel every single image of you naked and writhing, tits bouncing in time with his thrusts as you lay boneless and crying in his grasp. 

You were legal. What was the big fucking deal? 

Joel needed this. You were not just some throwaway material good that would leave him in debt for the next ten years—you were full and gorgeous, smart, quick-witted and made him harder than the oak tree that stood centuries-old just a little down the road from the old Palmer farmhouse. 

That day you’d heard him talking about you to his friends, the way he’d lied and said that you were dumb, when you’d come storming up his porch steps—all rage and heat—and cussed him out, he’d laughed. It didn’t matter about the taunts and the sniggers he got from his buddies who he would have no issue never speaking to again. They could go fuck themselves for all he cared because you hadn’t willingly thrown yourself at his feet and licked his boots. 

Whores were easy. No challenge with a whore, no longing, no desire, just a mutual understanding that this was transactional and she was going to moan as loud as you wanted her to whether it felt good or not. 

But you had given Joel something worth chasing. And fuck he was going to catch you, even if it meant he’d die in the chair he sat in, with nothing to show for his life except a case of Bud, an empty fridge, and a stain on his bedsheets where you’d reached for him—begging for everything he could not give.

Something about him had you checking your appearance before you walked out the door, making your hair presentable, touching up your lipgloss, blotting the oil from your face. All for a man who saw you as nothing but jailbait

You wanted to be wanted. To be looked at with a fire, an urge to grasp you and take you fully, pull you close when you cried and kiss you when you shook with the need to run far away. You wanted to be kept, to be reminded every day that you were needed, loved and desired.

You wanted Joel. 

Joel: the sad old man next door, the dangerously handsome figure in your life that stood six feet tall, jaw sharp and strong, muscles straining with his arms crossed—built big and firm. A chest you’d very much like to lay your head on. A bulge in his pants you’d very much like to see stripped bare. 

So when the opportunity came, you seized it, with an iron first, intent on capturing what had been yours since the day you’d moved to the free prison—since the day he’d stared at you, an unadulterated and irremovable, perverse desire that shook the very beings of your existence. That determined exactly who you are and how you would fall for the watchful eyes and glinting gaze that befell you every time you stepped down the rotten wood steps at the foot of the trailer entrance. 

You stepped onto them then, Chuck Taylors strapped to your feet, laces loose and lazily tied, skin smoothed from the razor you’d pressed against it in the shower that morning—all for him. The appearance every bit of expectation you had for his fantasies and ideals, hoping that the attire would thrust him further into abandoning a morality he did not have. 

The sun set rapidly behind you, the grass long and dry around your ankles, unmowed—as you nor Joel had ever discussed who would get mowing duty—and a clear head. A set destination, unstifled by a long day at work, the sweat curling along your back too harsh to be ignored and the sometimes discourteous demeanour of Joel’s so powerful that you often wondered why you liked him. Why you gave so much attention to a man years ahead of you, unable to look at you without laughing at the prospect you thought you were more to him than a pretty thing to look at whilst he wallowed in his castle of self-pity he’d built for himself all these years spent trapped and lonely. 

It all seemed insignificant that day you’d crossed the boundary between lot seventeen and lot eighteen. When you’d shakily advanced up his steps, onto the porch you grew so fond of, and knocked once, twice, thrice on the white door—stepping back to await his welcome. Hoping to god that he’d see you and take you there. 

The shuffling on the other side of the door raised your heart rate, a sweat forming on the back of your neck which you brushed away with a hasty hand, intimidated by what awaited you when the white disappeared and transformed into bulking arms and a firm chest—a tall body that you gazed up at with ardour. 

When the sight appeared, you gulped away the desire to run away, to pretend that you’d just come here for the leaky tap and that there was no other reason you had bothered him on his peaceful Sunday afternoon. No ulterior motive. Not that you just wanted to see him because he had hardly been around the past couple of days and in truth you were worried about him; you wanted to make him feel better. 

“Hi.” He struggled to conceal the surprise in his voice, seemingly struggling further to keep the thickness in his throat at bay, the redness of his eyes that displayed days of restlessness and insomnia. “You alright?” 

“Yeah,” you murmured impassively, licking your lips, swallowing away the dryness in your throat at the state of him: burning cigarette in hand, flannel shirt unbuttoned and displaying the white wifebeater that lay underneath. The shape of his belly was visible underneath it, his belt purposefully unbuckled and hanging from the loops of his jeans. “I’m alright.” 

There was a twitch of his lips as he stared down at you, eyes flitting from head to toe—shameless in the way he always was. In the way you liked. 

“You sure?” 

It seemed stupid suddenly: the entire situation. The call you felt towards him, the want you had to curl up against his chest, let him hold you and tell you he was proud of you for opening up to him—telling him how fucking much you wanted him, despite knowing exactly how it would end if you were to venture further into a relationship that surpassed just neighbours. 

So instead of inviting yourself in, seducing him until he fell to his knees, tugged you by the waist and begged you for just the smallest piece of yourself, you succumbed to your insecurity, and retreated from the palace walls. 

“Yeah…yeah, it’s just that my taps leaking again.” For a split second, he almost looked irritated, eyes honing in on you, narrowing with a look of aggravation—confirmed by the clench of his jaw. You appeased him, saying, “You don’t have to come over now. I just thought I’d tell you,” and the expression slowly slipped away into something much more sinister: mirth. 

“Sure thing, pretty girl,” he said as he slinked away from the doorframe, inviting you into his home, coaxing you past the threshold as he fumbled about in the fridge and pulled out two beers. 

Contemplating, you stared at him, the flex of his muscles as he uncapped each bottle, the stature and size of him as he hunched over the counters, turning around to hold out a drink to you. An invitation. One that you had expected you’d have to give yourself—that you’d have to kick and cry before he ever let himself find you. 

“Just have a drink,” he soothed in that southern lull of his, the words rolling from his tongue with ease. As if he had practised the scenario before he knew it would befall him. “No point in worrying over your tap, I can’t do anything until I buy new washers. I’m out 'cause of you.” 

The irritation he’d shown earlier seemed palpable now—as if he was inviting you into his home simply to make you as uncomfortable as possible, hold you down by the hips until you promised to leave him alone. A taunt, a ploy to make sure you would never get what you wanted. 

However, you had never stepped foot in his trailer, had only ever been on his porch and ran your hand over the chair he frequented, wondering what it looked like beyond the four walls, and curiosity prevailed as it always did. 

Uncertainly, you stepped onto the carpet, gently closing the door behind you, and mumbled a thank you as you took the beer from his hand. 

Almost immediately, you felt like apologising for his irrational emotions. 

“I’m sorry,” you muttered. “I didn’t mean to put you out. I’ll pay for whatever you need-”

“You pay in ways you don’t know. I don’t need your money.” 

The cryptic way in which he spoke, the casualness as he gave you a look that hinted at something you couldn’t decipher and the slow saunter to his armchair left you in a state of uncertainty. Standing there, with a beer wetting your hand, a frown on your face and a furrowed brow, you had no idea where to go next. What would await you if you questioned him—the things you would discover that were best left in the hands of God and no one else. 

Again, curiosity thrust its violent hand into your stomach and forced your feet to start moving towards him, hoping that he’d appreciate your bravery—your denial of your urges to run far away. It was noted, however, that Joel Miller could care less about bravery. That the quality itself was right down at the bottom of the ladder and that he could and would not give a shit if you welcomed his advances in spite of your lack of courage. 

Hesitantly, you planted yourself on his couch, the furniture built into the wall, curving into an L shape where you imagined he’d kick his feet up after a long day, palm the bulge in his jeans and pick from the litany of porn that you took one glance at and thought better than to stare at it too long in case he felt offended by your interest. 

The discovery admittedly took away a little of his allure. 

“Make yourself at home,” he insisted, taking a sip of his beer and urging you to do the same with a single nod of his head. The slight twitch of his lips when you did so caused your body to go squirming, shifting uncomfortably in your seat as the fire raged within you—unable to be sated with the way he looked at you then. 

Just a scoff, a sip, and a glance at your lips before he turned away completely and focused his attention on the blank TV screen— his reflection the only entertainment. 

Silence grew uncomfortable, the bitter taste of alcohol coating the back of your throat, dripping down your oesophagus and choking any words that you wished to say. The heat emanating from him was overpowering even from the distance you sat apart, the scent of cigarettes overwhelming, so much so that you needed a distraction, anything to dull the rest of your senses from shutting down—all because of his powerful presence; the effect he had on you even when he sat still and awaited your call. 

“What did you mean?” The words came tumbling from your mouth, driven by an insatiable desire and lacklustre confidence you had somewhere deep in the pits of your stomach, bubbling with the acid that nestled there until it rose to the surface—bile transforming into questions that could leave you in a shell of humiliation. At his furrowed brow, you expanded. “About me paying in ways I don’t know.” 

He leaned forward in his seat, elbows resting on his knees. Sombre, all of a sudden. Staring into the barrel of his bottle, the brown glass reflecting like constellations on his face—accentuating the sharp angle of his jawline, the sunken hollows of his cheekbones. 

When his eyes nestled on yours, burrowing right into your skull, you couldn’t move. Couldn’t even fathom the thought of taking a lungful of air, waiting with your breath held tight inside, for his answer. 

“You shouldn’t go asking questions like that.” He sipped quietly, wetting his lips by flicking his tongue in and out, averting his gaze back to the shadow of himself in the television. “You’ll get yourself in trouble.” 

It was not the answer you wished for, eyes downcast, focused on your shaking knee as you tried to gauge some form of clarity beneath the mystery that clouded the gates to his head—what lay beneath his skull; what you wished to find. 

Against your better judgment, you pressed further, keeping the beer bottle clutched between your hands and hoping it would stay cold forever. 

“I can handle myself.” It came out more confident than you had expected, your bobbing knee ceasing its movement, your dry throat provided with moisture. A break from the anxious sweat you had broken out in. “If you don’t tell me I’ll just leave a hundred dollars on your doorstep and leave you alone.” 

You hoped quietly, in that stifling room, that he would make sure it didn’t come to that. That he would let you pay in any way he saw fit. You hoped that the sad hulk of a man sitting in the lone chair with porn in every drawer and money set aside for whores, would let you have him—bring back a semblance of light to his eyes. Find out what kept the despondency trapped so tight around him, the crown of thorns on his head expanding until it reached his feet and kept him locked in nature's prison—skin scratched, bloody and unable to be healed unless he found someone willing to cut through the overgrowth. 

He seemed to bristle at your words, shoulders tightening, jaw clenching in the manner he did when he was irritated. You’d seen it before when Dale had been drunk and had followed you home. When you’d stumbled uncomfortably to your trailer and pleaded Joel who sat on his porch, almost looking like he was waiting for you, to get him off your back. That tick, the downturn of his brow, the twitch of his lip, the look so intimidating you had rushed inside and watched through the window as Joel clapped a hand on Dale’s back and ushered him away from you.

You had no idea what he’d done after they’d left your sight but Dale barely looked at you after. The last interaction you’d had with him was the morning after when he’d knocked on your door, timid for a fifty-year-old man, and apologised. Joel had been there, like he almost always was—always dancing in your peripheral, waiting for you, taunting you—with a cup of coffee clasped between two hands and a smug look on his face when he watched the interaction. 

“You ain’t as smart as you think you are,” he uttered, slipping you away from the vignette and shattering the memory with his simple words. 

They stung. More than you cared to admit. 

Men were never this difficult, never this hard to get through to, never this confusing. He had given you every possible sign, every protection, every knowing look that confessed: you are everything I wish to have. 

It seemed every day he was further from you, every day he looked at you and thought that he was blinded by loneliness and that you were the last thing he needed to dote on. 

With the rejection, came vexation, a rumbling little thing that forced its way into your mouth—lips parting to let it out. 

“You’re not as discreet as you think you are.” As soon as they fell, the rest came following like a herd of bulls, a huge red flag flying through the air, right where Joel sat. They came for him, and you didn’t care enough to stop them. “I’m not stupid, no matter what you say.” 

The tick, tick, tick of his jaw. That subtle way his eyes narrowed, honing in on everything but the thing causing his problems, trying desperately to stop the truths from betraying his conceptions. 

“I see you, Joel. I see you through my bedroom window, using me as your personal stripper because you’re too fucking cheap to go down to the strip club and give a tip.” The push and pull was becoming apparent, the sympathy and disgust you held for him all at once growing and growing until all that prevailed was rage. That after everything, he still refused. That he was still a fucking coward no matter how many faces he pulled at anyone who looked at him wrong. You would not be deterred by the look he gave you then: one that should’ve made you shrink away in fear he would do something rash. “I see the way you looked at me from day fucking one. Just a pair of tits to stare at, a new young girl that you can prey on-”

“Stop.” 

“I’m not stupid.” Your voice was rising rapidly, your lips downturned in a scowl, unable to see the danger that befell you if you continued. “I know how you talk about me to your friends, I know that you make a show of being this immovable thing that no one can ever get to because you’re so wrapped up in your own self-pity that you can’t even admit to yourself that the only thing you are is a fucking pervert. And an asshole.” 

“You are crossing a line, little girl.” 

His words fell on deaf ears, a scoff coming from the back of your throat—so many things that you wanted to say but couldn’t voice. You settled for a final, blow. One that might kick him off his feet. 

“I know you stole my panties.” Jaw ticking, teeth grinding so hard they were liable to turn to dust in his mouth. “Took them right off my bathroom floor. Could you not help yourself? Are you that sad, Joel? Are you that much of a fucking perve-” 

Silenced by the way he towered, standing upright, bottle discarded by the leg of his chair and fury dancing in his eyes—so apparent and profound you finally stopped and cowered. 

“You don’t know a thing about me.” 

You were stunned into submission, finally on the end of his intimidation—a feat that was sure to happen sooner rather than later. You were just another Dale, just another one of his victims that he shot down with narrowed eyes and a nasty tone of voice that forced you to swallow down the confidence—sending it right back to your stomach, and burning the false assurance away. 

“I have been cordial with you for as long as possible.” There was danger in the way he spoke so calmly, a tremor in your hands as he stepped forward, facing you completely, and kneeled before you—eyes boring into yours, forcing you to look at him with the hand he placed on the couch beside you. “I’ve tried my hardest to be respectable but you make it so damn difficult.” 

“I’m sorry,” you began, wishing you could take it all back, wishing that you could’ve used your boldness for better: crawled into his lap and let him hold you, sank to your knees like he and worshipped him with every bit of yourself you had.

“Sh, sh, sh,” he shook his head, the hand on the couch, moving, the weight of it resting there dissipating and falling even heavier on the side of your face. “You can’t take it back now.” 

Nerves slipped like rapids through your stomach, the damn thing churning so much you began to feel sick with the anticipation and fear you felt being closer to him than you ever had been before. Your mouth opened as if to speak, then closed again when you realised that your throat had closed, the inside of your mouth dry and unable to lubricate your words with credibility as they fell from your lips.

“You think I’m a pervert?” he asked, eyes expecting an answer, eyebrows raising to help you find a response. “Hm?” 

“Yes.” The monosyllable fell shakily, unable to lie when he was looking at you so harshly, all whilst stroking your cheekbone with his thumb and engulfing the right side of your face with one, big, warm hand. 

He nodded with knowing, his other hand falling to your bare knee. You were crowded by him, completely consumed by his presence and with a harsh swallow, you hoped that he would slip away and allow you to breathe—if only for a moment. 

“I know,” he said with finality, your cheek whacked with cold air as he removed his hand, quickly providing you with warmth again as he pressed his thumb to your chin, holding it delicately. Making sure you couldn’t look away from him. “But you like it, don’t you?” he brushed the bottom of your lip with his nail, an uncontrollable shiver running through you that he revelled in.

He’d called your bluff entirely. He’d locked you up in his cage, gave you the upper hand for just a second, made you believe that you could get away from him if you kicked and screamed enough, only to leave you hopeless as he twisted the key to the right, and threw the metal that granted you freedom, into the fire. 

“If you had an issue with me looking, you’d close the drapes. You’re a smart girl, I’m sure it ain’t too hard for you.” 

His patronisation, his demeanour that consisted of arousal and determination, had a small breath puffing from your lungs, a sudden and overwhelming heat crawling from each of his hands and into your head—breaking your rationale and leaving you pliable and willing in his grasp. He’d got you. Right there. And if he wanted you, you would let him have you. 

“And if you didn’t want me to steal your panties, then you shouldn’t have left them there.” 

It was unbelievable, the way he twisted the blame onto you, the way he made you believe in everything he was saying with a simple swipe of his thumb over your bottom lip and a look in his eyes that stopped you from questioning him. 

“Yes, Joel, I’m sorry, Joel,” were the only words swimming through your head: words that you would’ve spoken aloud had he not stunned you into silence, the hand on your knee sliding along your skin, up towards the hem of your shorts where he slipped his fingers under and skimmed the skin concealed by the denim. 

“You understand me, little girl?” 

“I’m not a little girl,” you managed, voice shaky as the warmth of him engulfed you entirely, wrapped up in the scent of him, the feel of the callouses along your smooth skin and the eyes piercing you. If looks could kill…if those pretty eyes could rip you apart with the viciousness of their stare. 

“No you ain’t,” he murmured, gripping your chin, thumb rubbing along the flesh of your bottom lip, the skin bouncing as he peeled it back and let go. “I know you ain’t.” 

There seemed a flood came over his being, a white wave of purity dowsing him, ridding him of every adulteration and forcing sense back into his head as the hand fell from your face, the one on your inner thigh taking longer to slip away before the cloud of insensibility faded and he arrived to a semblance of morality. 

You watched as he stumbled over to the kitchen, hand working over the scruff he called a beard and forced his eyes away from you. 

“Joel,” you called softly, finally gaining back a little strength now he wasn’t crowding you; forcing you to look at him and make the first move so his conscience could be clean. 

“Just go.” The words were uttered much softer than before, the delicacy of his voice surprising you but the strain that coated his throat a reminder that this was still Joel Miller. Dangerously beautiful Joel Miller with a lifetime of terror stashed somewhere in the backrooms of his mind, a darkness in the depths of his eyes you couldn’t help but be frightened by, and a story you wished he would tell. A story that stretched years back to the life before he crept past the opening gates of Shady Springs Mobile Park and left a life that you had no clue wether  had been better or worse than his life now. “I’ll come over tomorrow afternoon and have a look at that tap. You might have to get maintenance round soon though if it keeps up.” 

“I don’t like strangers…in my house.” Your words trailed off at the end of your sentence, caught up in the possibilities of your words and how he would reply. If he would see right through you and clock how you’d only spoken because the tap was one of the biggest ties you had to Joel. If he would realise that you’d thought about getting maintenance months ago when it first started dripping but didn’t want a permanent fix, no matter how annoying. All because of Joel Miller and the way he’d perversely captured you in the plot of some barely legal porno that you would’ve turned your nose up at if it was anyone but him and you. 

You and Joel. 

The thought sounded nice—the reality a little less nicer. 

“Yeah, well…” he leant back on the countertops, arms crossed over his chest, eyes bloodshot and bordered by black—an undeniable piece of evidence that Joel perhaps wasn’t doing as well as he made everyone believe; that there was something deeper tugging at his mind and causing such aggravation. 

After a moments silence, when he looked at you and you looked right back at him, your head clear and working properly again, you diverted the conversation elsewhere—a ploy to hack deeper at his head and find what lay underneath his skull. 

“Are you okay?” Simple, easy. Not difficult to ascertain the concern laced deep in your tone because you were concerned for him. The moment he’d opened the door after days of barely seeing him, time spent cursing the fact he could peer through your windows but you could not peer through his, you knew something was wrong. That there was something happening to him. Something dangerous. Your sympathy began to overtake everything else, memory shed of all the times he had wronged you and replaced with the very little he had done right. “You look…tired. Exhausted, really.” 

“I’m fine,” he said with finality, the rage in his eyes returning but with less power this time. The fatigue was setting in, the constant running from himself finally catching up to him. 

“Are you sure?”

“I said I’m fine.” It shut you up well enough, so much so that you began to lose the commiserations. You could always say you tried. “Now get out of my house.” 

It was the final thing he said to you before he slipped away, striding down the hallway, footsteps echoing until he reached the bedroom; the click of the door resounding throughout the trailer. 

You stared at the spot where he’d kneeled, a finger brushing softly over your lip before shaking away the self-pity and gently placing the beer bottle on the table that sat next to his chair. 

Looking one last time at the door at the end of the hallway, shadowed and guarded by snapping dogs, you opened the door, the damn thing creaking as if to shout to everyone within a mile radius that you had made no progress with the man you desperately wanted, and stepped out. Leaving your pride on the doorstep. 

© virginreprise

thanks for reading !

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (3)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 8k

Warnings: knife throwing; Bucky being infuriating; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives, dead parents, sexism

Author’s Note: Third part here y’all!! I’m getting excited! Hope you enjoy ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

It has only been a week since the attack on the palace, but it feels like the span of an eternity unfolded between the life you once knew and the one you are now stumbling through.

Each day adds years to your soul, leaving you brittle and burdened. It feels like you are carrying the ashes of your old life in your lungs. They seem to cough up black dust every time you breathe.

Bucky - as you’ve tried to remind yourself to call him, though it feels strange - is a ghost at your side.

Sturdy and inflexible, but strangely distant.

He barely speaks. And when he does, his words are clipped and sparse.

You match his silence with your own, the quiet between you thick as the mist that lingers in the trees each morning.

But something has shifted, ever so slightly, in the way he speaks to you but also in the way you speak to him.

A spark of resistance broke through the exhaustion and fear you have been feeling ever since meeting the man.

You couldn’t explain it. Still can’t. The sudden surge of boldness that had begun to creep into your tone. You’re not sure where it came from - perhaps it’s the sheer strain of everything you had to experience in such a short amount of time, or maybe it’s his relentless stoicism, his refusal to bend or break.

You discovered something in that defiance. It wasn’t control - not over him, nor over the tides of your life - but it was enough to reclaim the smallest piece of yourself.

And it worked.

He didn’t raise his voice again. Hasn't allowed the intensity of his temper to affect you once more. His words maintain their typical roughness, but he appears to have eased the impact behind them just a little.

He even let you take a bath.

It took some time for him to relent, some persuading, but with a grumbled sigh and a muttered “Don’t take too long. We got ground to cover,” he let you chase the faint glimmer of a stream in the distance, even giving you a small bar of soap he had stored in his pack.

He didn’t follow you but you knew he wasn’t far.

The stream was small but clear and looked utterly enticing. The icy water shocked you back into yourself as you washed your hands and drank some of it. First, you splashed your face, gasping as the cold seeped into your pores, washing away the dirt and sweat that had accumulated over the days.

Glancing over your shoulder, you scanned the treeline. No sign of him. No sound of him either, but you still didn’t trust that he wasn’t near.

You stripped off your gown and the underdress, shedding some weight on your shoulders with it, thread by thread. You would have some problems putting it back on without your maids but it’s ruined anyway. It’s not like you would look like the perfect storybook princess anyway even if you’d have some help.

When you sank down into the water, you closed your eyes. To be honest with yourself, you tried to scrub and wash away more than just the dirt on your skin. You wanted to get rid of it all - the guilt, the grief, the rage. The memories of your parent’s voices, now silenced forever. The sight of your castle in flames. The ache of being pushed forward into an unknown future you had no say in.

Nails bit into your flesh as you scrubbed at your skin. But there was no point. You were well aware you could not just scrape away the person you had been to become someone else. Anyone else. But you still tried. Because the invisible tiara atop your head is pressing against your skull, unwelcome and unrelenting. And there is no way to get it off.

After emerging, pulling yourself out of the water, and ungracefully slipping your underdress over your head you even thought of leaving the gown behind, letting it wither on the forest floor and just continuing in your underdress when his voice startled you enough to make your heart lurch.

“Are you done yet?”

Bucky stood at the edge of the clearing, leaning casually against a tree, arms crossed over his broad chest. His expression was neutral, rather bored, but his tone held a composed hint of impatience.

“You-” The words died on your lips, replaced by a flush of heat that spread across your cheeks. “Were you watching me?”

He snorted. “I’ve got better things to do than spy on you playin’ in the water, princess.”

“I was not-” You cut your protest off, biting down on your lip. You wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you turned away, reaching for your gown and clutching it to your chest. You wouldn’t leave it behind after all. “Granting me a little bit of privacy would not kill you, you know.”

“No. But it might kill you,” he stated flatly, pushing off the tree, uncrossing his arms, and stepping closer. “Now let’s move. We’re wasting daylight.”

You grumbled under your breath as you threw on your gown without a care in the world how you looked like and stomped over to him.

A slow smirk played with the corner of his mouth as you stalked passed him and you even heard him breathe a suppressed laugh.

You don’t know what had shifted, but you remember the moment it began.

It was the morning after your argument. Actually, it was barely even morning. The sun was still missing and the cold of the night was tormenting you.

You woke up to a rustle. You didn’t notice anything at first, too groggy from sleep to process much beyond the aching stiffness in your joints and the cool fabric draped across your body. It took you a second to realize that what was covering you was Bucky’s bedroll.

Though what jolted you awake in an instant was the fact that he was still crouching beside you, carefully trying to cover your whole form with the fabric to ward off the chill of the night.

He was so close - too close - his broad frame towering even in his lowered position. The morning light filtered faintly through the trees, casting fragmented shadows across his face.

But it was the gleam of metal in his hand that drew your attention. His knife. He always seems to have it in his hand, always present, always ready.

But in that moment, after the things he said the day before, and with his presence in the dark now looming over your vulnerable position, it terrified you.

Every nerve in your body seized. The rough bark of a tree collided with your back as you scrambled backward, your heart racing and breath hitching as you stared at him with wide, panicked eyes. Your gaze darted between his face, the blade in his hand, and the many trees surrounding you. Already making escape plans due to the fear that clawed its way up your throat. It almost urged a scream out of you. But nobody would hear it.

You didn’t trust this man who wielded weapons so casually, who barely spared you more than a few begrudging words since he’d been tasked with your life and basically admitted to you being an inconvenience to him the day before.

And for a brief, horrifying instant, the image seared itself into your mind; the knife flashing toward you, the finality of it. Because why wouldn’t he? Why should you trust that he wouldn’t?

He saw it. Your fear. Because the moment your eyes locked, something shifted in his expression. His lips parted slightly, as though he wanted to speak, but no words came.

It even seemed to take him a second to realize that the cause of your fear was actually him.

And immediately, his jaw tightened, his lips twitched, his shoulders stiffened - and then slowly, he lowered the knife. Placed it on the ground beside him with a deliberate motion that spoke of careful control. With his eyes on you, he let his hands rise, palms open and unarmed, and he leaned back just enough to create space between you.

“I’m not gonna hurt you,” he said, his voice quieter than you’ve ever heard it, roughened not by irritation but something closer to regret. “You were shiverin’.” He shot a brief look at the material draped over your shoulders that he had placed there to explain himself.

You didn’t move, couldn’t move, the tension still coiled in your chest and ready to make you bolt through the trees if he were to pick up the knife again.

But the look on his face struck you hard.

And it made you pause ever so slowly.

Since his expression didn’t convey anger, frustration, or the typical facade of indifference he carried so convincingly. No, this was unlike anything else. This was suffering. Pain. Concealed beneath the unsmiling features of his face was an emotion that appeared to be painfully close to remorse.

He hated it, you realized. He hated that you were afraid of him.

The thought left you reeling. You were unsure how to handle the vulnerability reflected in his eyes, contrasting so starkly with the man you had grown familiar with.

For a moment, you almost felt sorry for him. Almost. But the fear still twisted your stomach, unseen hands wringing it and wringing it until everything felt dry. And you couldn’t bring yourself to move any closer or open your mouth.

He didn’t speak, didn’t offer an apology or anything more. Instead, he turned away. Jaw still clenched so hard, dark brows lowered deeply, eyes moving to the ground, hands in tight fists, shoulders painfully tense. He shifted to busy himself with something at the border of your clearing and then vanished for a few minutes into the forest. It seemed he couldn’t bear to remain in the same space.

You stayed where you were, back pressed against the tree, his bedroll still draped over your shoulders and you clutched it so tightly with your hands, you were surprised later that the fabric withstood your grasp.

He didn’t look at you when he came back. Didn’t talk. He was so quiet, his movements more subdued, and when he glanced at you briefly, his expression was on the verge of careful. To you, it seemed something had chipped away at some part of him.

He hadn’t wanted your fear, didn’t mean to inspire it. That much was clear. And it made you breathe a little easier.

Since then, he had softened in small, almost imperceptible ways. He no longer dismisses everything you say with the same outright disdain. His tone carries an edge of restraint, as though he’s making a conscious effort to temper himself.

You’re not sure if it’s because of what happened or if he simply grows tired of you, but the change is there, subtle but undeniable.

And that is what has you thinking as you lie there, staring at the interwoven branches above, their gnarled silhouettes jagged against the pale light of the moon.

The bedroll beneath you is threadbare, offering little comfort against the damp, uneven forest floor. Bucky carries it throughout the day but always throws it your way when you settle in for the night, accompanied by a warning glare not to argue with him.

You don’t. You’re tired of talking to him. And if he willingly chooses to deny himself the smallest comfort possible and instead allows you to have it, then hell, you won't argue.

But sleep eludes you, slipping through your grasp no matter how tightly you try to force it upon you.

Your body aches. Usually, exhaustion is able to pull you under, but not today.

Today you took care of your own sleeping area, ignoring Bucky’s raised eyebrow and missing the amusement in his expression by discharging your chosen spot of stones and sticks. But you guess you didn’t do a good enough job.

The hard surface of the ground pushes back against you in all the wrong ways, sharp edges and dips pressing into your back. You try to adjust, twisting your spine subtly, but your shoulder only digs into a rough patch of dirt or an unseen stone under the thin fabric. You sigh.

Turning your head involuntarily, your eyes search the dark for Bucky.

He’s not far, just a few feet away, sprawled near the gone cold fireplace, his back against a tree, head tipped slightly to the side.

For once, he’s still.

Not standing, not pacing, not sharpening that ever-present knife. Just lying there.

Never before have you seen him like this - at rest, or at least something close to it.

He’s always been awake when you drifted into uneasy slumber. And when morning came, he was already up. Sometimes at night, when you would wake up shortly after falling asleep, you would hear him pace, or light the fire.

You had questioned, more than once, whether he ever slept at all and what kinds of things might keep him awake through the hours of the night.

But now, here he is, his body splayed out, one hand resting on his abdomen, the other loosely at his side. His knife lay within arm’s reach, but his hand doesn’t grip it.

The moonlight catches on the sharp angles of his face, softening them in a way that almost makes him look peaceful. Relaxed. But not quite as much as you’d expect somebody dead asleep to be. There is still tension in his posture, a readiness that doesn’t seem to leave him even in rest. You wonder what it would take for him to let go completely.

Your gaze lingers on him longer than it should. Taking your time, you trace the softened lines of his face you are able to make out, the rise and fall of his chest.

It feels intrusive, almost, to watch him like this, but you can’t help yourself.

There is something about seeing him vulnerable - unguarded - that draws you in, even as it makes you feel unsteady, treading on sacred ground.

It makes you wonder who he has been before all this. Before the wariness, the stoicism, the constant presence of that damn knife. You don’t think you’ll ever get an answer.

But you won’t ever stop questioning him. Even if you can’t voice them out loud.

You wonder if he ever watched you sleep like that in the time you have traveled together.

You’ve definitely caught him watching you in daytime more often than not, his eyes intense and assessing and it is always enough to set your teeth on edge. You ask yourself what it is he sees. A burden, surely. A task he never wanted. He’s made that clear enough already.

But sometimes - just sometimes - you think there is something else in the way he keeps you in his sights, in the way he now moves through the woods with you always in his peripheral vision. It’s a kind of vigilance, that feels different than disdain. Protective, almost. Not kind, but not cruel either.

You don’t know what to make of it.

Another sharp forest object digs into your shoulder and you sigh again.

Your stomach is growling.

Thankfully, your bladder is empty.

Basically the second you noticed Bucky going still and breathing evenly, you got up to take a bathroom break. Admittedly, that’s not what you can call relieving yourself in the woods like an animal, but it is the only way for you to keep a sense of dignity.

Because managing this kind of thing in such a gown usually takes time.

And Bucky doesn’t want you taking your time when you aren’t in his sight.

So you always try to make yourself quick, fumbling with the layers of folds, muttering curses under your breath that would have left your parents embarrassed and shocked.

Still, he came calling for you just yesterday when your heavy gown wasn’t compliant.

“Hey!” he barked, sharp and commanding. “What’s takin’ so long? Where are you?”

You’d frozen, pulse hammering and cheeks flooding with embarrassment. “I’ll be just a moment,” you called back, voice high and thin.

“That’s what you said five minutes ago,” he snapped, the note of urgency in his tone carrying over to you through the trees. “Answer me properly. Where are you?”

You surely wouldn’t let him see you in such a degrading position, so you just shot back that you were fine and just needed a second.

His reply had been terse. “Just hurry the hell up!”

You finished quickly after that, stumbling back onto the path where he stood waiting - his arms crossed, face stoic.

He didn’t say anything when you rejoined him, only giving you a once over with those piercing eyes of his before turning on his heel and continuing forward.

But something about the way he’d looked at you in that moment stayed with you. Like he was measuring your well-being. Like he was ready to drag you back to him if he had to.

You also don’t know what to make of that.

Sighing softly into the night air and listening to the rustle of leaves in the slight breeze, your hand moves almost instinctively to the hollow of your throat, searching for the familiar feeling of your necklace. But your fingers only meet the fabric of your gown. You remember you tucked the jewelry into the folds of it after offering it to Bucky.

But you know it’s not there either.

It’s not yours anymore.

You turn your head to glance back at Bucky’s sleeping form.

You pressed the necklace into his hand just two days ago, along with the handful of jewels that had adorned you - rings, bracelets, earrings. All ornaments of a life that felt no longer like yours.

“I don’t want them,” you said to him then, voice steadier and more resolute than you expected. He looked at you so intensely but you didn’t falter. “I never cared for them. They mean nothing to me now.”

He didn’t say anything at first. He just stared at you for a while and then at the glittering heap in his hand.

They were undimmed even in the shadowed forest, but they looked out of place against his rough and calloused skin. He didn’t know what to do with them. That much was clear in the way his fingers curled and uncurled around them.

You planned on shoving the jewels into his hand and retreating to your little sleeping area, but he looked so utterly stunned, it was almost endearing.

“Take them,” you insisted with a softer voice. “You can sell them, trade them - do whatever you want with them. They will be more useful to you than they ever were to me.”

His chin dipped. His adams apple bobbed with a swallow that seemed to stay stuck in his throat for a second too long. His brow was furrowed. So tightly. So conflicted. So immensely confused.

You could sense his question in the way he looked. The huge why.

Because you did acknowledge that giving those jewels, the symbol of wealth and privilege to him with nothing but a shrug, was something tremendous.

But you could not tell him that they reminded you of everything you’ve lost. That they are a relic of a life you always took for granted and now never get back. That they felt like chains on your skin, not treasures. That they made you want to vomit.

Bucky glanced back up at you then, really looked at you like he had all the time in the world. For a moment, you thought he might argue. But he didn’t. Instead, he closed his hand around the jewels, his knuckles whitening as though the act of accepting them cost him something.

A tremor passed through his clenched jaw. His lips were a thin line and you heard his teeth grind ever so slightly.

And his eyes. His eyes were full of disbelief. At the way you could give away something so valuable. To someone like him.

“You’re givin’ this to me,” he said slowly, voice low and hinting at something far more difficult to make sense of than the incredulity that lay in his tone. “Just like that.”

“Yes,” you replied simply, yet hoping to put an end to this. “Just like that.”

He still stared at you for a long moment. There wasn’t exactly gratitude in his expression but you guessed there was no place for it yet since his confusion outweighed everything else. He almost looked soft. Younger, with the way he was studying you with a face so open with emotion.

But then, without another word, he turned away, slipping the jewels into his brown leather armor with a swiftness that suggested he didn’t want to linger on the act.

And you didn’t.

You don’t even know if he still carries them with him right now and what exactly he will do with them.

Your hand falls back to your side, fingers curling into the fabric of Bucky’s bedroll. They are so bare now. And it makes you realize how smooth your skin is. Never knowing, never finding out what it means to shape, to hold, to build a life out of what is given.

With your eyes back on Bucky you let out a shaky breath.

The forest feels too big, the night feels too quiet, and the questions in your mind feel too loud.

But you lay still, your gaze lingering on him. You just can’t look away.

You don’t know what you’re searching for as you watch him. He doesn’t give you any answers when he’s awake and he sure as devil can’t give you any answers when he’s asleep.

His face is as unreadable now as it was when he told you the only reason you’re still breathing is him.

The memory of the argument you had a week ago just doesn’t want to ease. Your mind is still crowded with his words.

“The only thing that matters is who’s still standin’ at the end of the day. And the only reason you are is because I’ve decided to keep you that way.”

Your fists clench against the bedroll.

To him, you are just another spoiled noble, another fragile thing too soft for the world.

He doesn’t see you. Not the way you crave to be seen. He strips your identity down to a title and a crown just like everybody else.

And yet, even as you hate him, even as your knuckles turn white against the thin fabric surrounding you, you hate yourself more.

Hate how dependent you’ve become, how easily your existence has been reduced to his choices, his skills, his protection.

He doesn’t understand. Doesn’t want to. Being a princess hasn’t made you feel special in years. It made you feel small, invisible, a thing rather than a person.

Your life has always been defined by what you represented to others, by how useful you could be in their schemes and alliances. A crown on a pedestal. A name on a contract.

You told him that. Or at least you tried to. You tried telling him that you spent your life being seen as something to be bartered, to be taken, to be used. You tried to tell him what it was like to be alive without truly living, to have no say in the course of your own existence.

But he didn’t listen.

He dismissed everything. Your grief. Your fear. Your anger at being dragged into this brutal, endless survival without so much as a choice.

And yet, there is something curdling in your stomach. It starts in your mouth, sour and bitter, and you swallow it down like poison.

Because no matter how much his words still sting, how much you want to prove him wrong, you can’t deny the truth his words held.

You would not have survived without him.

You wouldn’t even have survived the first night. The night your palace burned to the ground. You could never have fought your way through whoever attacked your home and the hunger and cold out here would have shoved you toward your grave. A princess left to rot on the forest floor.

You’ve never been taught how to hold a blade, how to navigate the wilderness, how to keep yourself alive in a world that doesn’t care about your bloodline. Your education has been in curtsies and pleasantries and how to sit still while men twice your age drank in the sight of you as if you were something to be won.

And now you are nothing more than a heavy and useless stone thrown into Bucky’s pack he’s forced to carry around and can’t toss out.

Out here, in the shadows of the world, you are useless. He knows it. You know it. It makes you feel like some fragile porcelain doll that has no business pretending she can stand on her own.

You will fight him again, eventually. You will find the words to break through whatever barriers he built to shield himself and make him understand. Make him care.

Perhaps he will forever meet you with the same infuriating indifference. But you’ve seen his walls crack for a second. The one second of vulnerability when he saw the fear in your eyes that night. The fear caused by him. The fear of him, and what he might do to you. And the way he seemed to hate it.

You wonder if it haunts him as much as it haunts you.

Bucky stirs slightly in his sleep. His fingers twitch faintly, a short grunt leaves his lips as he adjusts his back against the bark and your breath catches. You stare at him until he lays still once again.

Slowly, your gaze flickers to his knife. Always within reach. Always a reminder of who he is. What he is. You wonder if he dreams about it, about the blood it has spilled. Or if he dreams at all.

You bite the inside of your cheek, recalling the rest of the argument. The way his face turned dangerously solemn when you mentioned the oath he swore to your mother. You’d struck a nerve. Unfortunately, he cut you off before you could complete the question.

It certainly would have been a mistake, but you still wished you had pressed on.

You want to know what your mother - your gentle, loving, humane mother - had done to bind this ruthless man to her, to you. What did she do to earn his loyalty when no one else seemed capable of reaching him?

You hate him for silencing you, stomping on the last thing that ties you to a world where your mother still exists, even in memory.

You feel so small.

He dismisses you in everything you do and it seems so easy for him. So unbothered.

The life you lost, the identity you try to keep hold of, is nothing to him. A crown isn’t armor, he said. It’s not worth anything out here.

But it was. It has been. It has been your whole world, for better or for worse. And now it’s a pile of ash alongside everything else.

You don’t even know who you are without it.

And that terrifies you more than anything.

Your gaze is still drawn to Bucky.

You should definitely be concerned at the way your eyes can’t seem to find something else to look at, but the faint glint of his knife in the pale moonlight catches your attention again.

You wonder what kind of hold it has on him. What makes him carry it around like a child.

And then a thought passes your mind. A thought you definitely should ignore. You should ban it. You should have pushed it out the second it came up. But it’s still there.

Your skin tingles and your heart quickens, but you don’t know if it is out of fear or giddy recklessness.

The thought thumbs its nose at the rules you’ve been taught your whole life. It whispers of something that might even come close to the freedom you always wanted to explore, of stepping beyond boundaries, of tasting what you never have before. Because you are a princess.

Before you know it, you sit up. The soft rustle of the fabric of your gown blends with the sounds of the forest. The rustle of leaves.

Your heart pounds as you crawl toward him. You watch him closely.

Bucky doesn’t stir. His chest continues to rise and fall with each deep breath. His eyes remain closed.

Your fingers hover over the knife's hilt. You try to remind yourself that breathing is important and take a tight breath.

Taking his knife feels like a line you shouldn’t cross, a violation of something unspoken. But the thought of staying a burden for who knows how much longer spurs you on.

Your fingers close around the hilt.

You lift the knife.

And for a moment, you just hold it. It feels weird, really. So foreign. A little heavier than you expected. But maybe you’re just weak.

You turn it in your hand, marveling at the balance of the design. The way it feels almost powerful, dangerous, like a piece of the world you’ve never been allowed to touch.

Your gaze flickers between the knife in your hand, Bucky’s sleeping body, and the dark stretch of forest beyond.

And then you turn.

Your feet carry you a few steps away, to a fallen log that seems perfectly aligned for what you plan to do. The end of the log is smooth enough.

You square your shoulders, gripping the knife with a small tremble in your hands.

You’d seen soldiers practice with blades before, seen the way they moved with so much precision and grace. But watching is one thing. Doing is another.

You draw your arm back with a motion that feels so unnaturally wrong and let the blade fly.

It doesn’t stick. The knife doesn’t even reach the wood and rather clatters to the ground so far off, it makes you wince. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment even though nobody else saw. Bucky is still where you saw him last, his form undisturbed, and you exhale slowly.

Your second try is no better. Still awkward and hesitant. Still far off.

You retrieve the knife, the hilt cool against your palm, and try again.

It misses.

And it misses again. And again.

And it misses another time.

Again and again, you throw the knife. It feels like a small rebellion against the helplessness that has defined your life.

The blade flies from your hand and wobbles midair before it bounces off the edge of the wood with a thud that sounds so dull and sad, you groan under your breath.

Another throw. Another miss.

Another throw. Another miss.

Another throw. Another groan, because you missed again.

The knife thuds to the ground with an undignified thwack.

Sweat beads on your forehead, and your arm aches, but you don’t stop.

If Bucky can hurl this thing like it’s an extension of his arm, surely you can manage to land one throw on a stationary target.

Then, the knife grazes the wood slightly before landing in the dirt.

It gives you a glimmer of hope.

After trying another few times, the blade lodges in the edge of the log, its point biting into the wood with a satisfying thunk.

A spark of triumph flares in you, and for the first time in what feels like forever, you smile. It’s small. But you can’t suppress it, so it feels like a victory.

Until the blade slowly falls off and lands in the dirt underneath.

You groan.

And then you freeze.

Because there is a sound coming from the camp.

A low, rumbling chuckle.

Your shoulders stiffen and heat rushes to your face.

You straighten, winding your arms around your body. Slowly, you turn to find Bucky with his back leaning against the tree he’s been sleeping against earlier. His arms are crossed lazily over his chest, Bizeps bulging.

His lips are curved in a faint smirk, eyes glinting with unmistakable amusement.

“Practicin’ to stab me in my sleep, princess?” he drawls, his tone warm with dry humor.

Your stance grows defensive. Your mouth opens and closes and you look over at his knife lying in the mud. He won’t kill you for taking it, will he?

Bucky pushes off the trunk and takes a step closer, arms uncrossing. His boots are silent against the earth. “You should know,” he hums lowly, though with that hint of humor in his tone. “I don’t go down that easily, darlin’.”

Your head snaps over to him in an instant. You meet his almost lazy smirk that curls the corner of his mouth. He isn’t mocking, exactly. He is teasing.

“I am learning,” you ground out, though your voice is rather weak.

A dark eyebrow shoots up. His smirk deepens. “Learning,” he repeats, his voice smooth. “Right. That’s what you call this?”

Heat settles high on your cheekbones.

“Yes.” You try - and fail - not to sound defensive. “I am teaching myself.”

For a moment he just stares at you, his head tilting slightly, eyes trying to puzzle you out. Then he lets out a huff of laughter. “Like that?” He nods vaguely to the fallen log and the knife that lay beneath it, eyebrows high up his forehead. “You’re highly unlikely to achieve anything. Except maybe stabbin’ your own damn foot.”

Your fingers grasp your gown tightly. Irritation coils low in your gut. “I am trying,” you snap.

“Trying’s fine,” he eases, though his tone is maddeningly indifferent. He clicks his tongue. A small shake of his head. “But tryin’ without knowing what you’re doing? That’s just gonna get you killed.”

You press your lips together. You have to, because your mind is telling you to scream him in the face. And that might get you killed.

With a sharply released breath, you stalk over to retrieve Bucky’s knife off the ground and walk back to your sleeping area, where you sink down. Still in your defensive stance, you pull your knees up to your chest. You use the fabric of your gown to clean the knife off the dirt.

“It is my own problem if I end up dead,” you murmur bitterly, quietly, but he hears it.

Bucky is quiet for a few moments. But you have him in sight in your peripheral vision, standing there and looking over at you.

“I’m kind of tasked to prevent that,” he then mutters, also quietly, but with a profound sigh in his voice.

You huff..

It’s silence for a while longer.

You are still busy with cleaning the hilt of his knife, not caring about the fact that it only worsens the state of your gown. It was ruined the day you left your palace.

But then, with a sigh that feels pulled from somewhere deep in his chest, Bucky crosses the small space to stand over you.

You don’t look up.

“Stand up,” he says simply.

You blink up at him. “What?”

“Get up,” he repeats, not unkindly, but losing patience.

You hesitate, searching his face for a trap hidden beneath his words, but he only raises a dark brow, waiting.

Slowly, you rise with the knife heavy in your hand.

When you are fully standing before him, he holds out his hand, gesturing for his knife.

With a wary glance up at him, you lay the knife into his waiting palm, the blade gleaming just a little bit in the pale light.

He then walks past you without a word, but you know he expects you to follow him.

Bucky positions himself on the spot you stood before, turned in the direction of the fallen log you had tried to hit.

You watch him reluctantly.

He flips the knife in his hand - just for show, you guess, and suppress an eye roll. Then, he glances back at you. “First of all, don’t throw it like it’s a rock,” he says, tone light enough to count as teasing, but still tinged with seriousness. It’s not cruel though.“You’ve got to let the knife do the work. It’s about control, not brute force.”

Your teeth grind together, pride smarting under his casual critique. You open your mouth to defend yourself, but he only throws you a challenging look.

“Watch,” he cuts in before anything could come of you.

And, albeit reluctantly, you do watch the way he draws his arm back in one fluid motion, so smooth and precise, it’s actually interesting. When he releases the knife, it spins through the air before burying itself dead center in the target.

You stare at the blade, trying to hide your emotions from your expression, guessing it would inflate his ego.

He still turns to you with an expression that is just pure insufferable smugness.

“Your turn,” he drones out, as he goes to retrieve the knife.

You take the knife from him, the handle warm from his touch. You position yourself in front of the log again, but before you can do anything, he stops you with a shake of his head.

“No.” He moves closer. “Hold it like this.” His voice drops into something focused. He reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours when he adjusts your grip on the hilt. You let him guide your hand the way he wants it and try to bring yourself to ignore what his touch is doing to you. It’s fleeting, almost clinical, but it makes you feel like you’re sweating more.

“Your stance is all wrong,” he continues and moves to stand behind you. Big hands settle lightly on your shoulders, bringing them back, adapting your stiff posture. His boot lightly taps your heel to bring your foot further forward. “You need balance. If you’re off-center, you’re dead.”

He talks to you as if he really cares about you learning and remembering those things.

You follow his instructions despite yourself.

With a satisfying nod you can’t see, Bucky takes a step away from you and crosses his arms over his chest.

“Now, throw it again,” he instructs. “Aim for the tree this time.”

You bristle at the boldness of his amusement that makes room in his voice. It seeps through his tone so smoothly, fits there so nicely, as if he’s been talking to you like that the whole time.

You try to send him a glare, but it lacks the real heat since your nervousness doesn’t allow for anything else. You’ve already embarrassed yourself enough in front of him.

You throw the knife.

It still leaves your hand with a clumsy arc and misses the tree by several inches, embedding itself into the dirt.

“Not exactly inspirin’ confidence,” he remarks dryly, but there is no malice in his voice. No judgment either.

Still, your chest is tight with frustration and you turn to him with a glare. “Maybe if you weren’t watching me so-”

“What, now you don’t like me watchin’ you?” He interrupts you, stepping forward to retrieve the knife. His back is to you but you hear the smirk in his voice.

“It’s distracting-”

“Ah, now you’re just blamin’ me for your bad aim,” he cuts in again easily, making his way back to you.

He holds it out to you, just as you release a huffed breath. His fingers brush yours once more when you take it.

“Try again.” He says it almost gently, stepping back again to give you some space.

The knife hits the dirt again and a loud groan tears from your throat, not caring about your company. Your hand aches from the repeated attempts, frustration is boiling underneath your skin, and your pride - what little of it remains - is crumbling fast.

“Damned knife,” you mutter under your breath, more to yourself than him, but he stands close enough to hear it. He’s always close enough.

An amused chuckle follows. Bucky’s smirk tilts enough to be maddening. His eyes glint with curiosity, brows arched. “That’s high profanity for a lady like yourself, darlin’.”

You throw him a heated glance, chest rising and falling with breaths that are a little too uneven. “Do you ever not have something to say?” you snap, the sharpness in your voice as much from embarrassment as from irritation.

His grin spreads, slow and wolfish. He takes a step forward, unhurried and languid. He seems entirely entertained by you and it fuels the heat climbing higher inside your throat, over your skin, spreading with every heartbeat.

“You’re makin’ it quite easy for me, your Highness.” He does not regard you with a mocking tone, but his words are still said with half a chuckle, half a taunt.

His gaze flicks to the knife buried in the earth a few meters away and then back to you, taking you in with those studying eyes.

“No need to get frustrated,” he states after a few silent moments. “That’s only gonna hold you back.”

His tone makes you pause. You stiffen at the way he almost said it gently again. Voice underlying something akin to understanding, or sympathy.

It makes your head buzz.

It feels strange. As though this moment got just a little too intimate. Your skin begins to flush for whole other reasons now. Perhaps you liked his harsh tone more than whatever this is.

Because you don’t like the way you’re feeling right now.

It’s like he is seeing right through you. It’s still dark, but you feel like every shadow around you dissolved in the blinding light of his gaze. Of his voice.

It’s like he reached out his hand and clawed something out of your chest, unearthing a part of you even you were afraid to look at.

It’s like he sees that it’s not the knife or the fallen log or even him that has you bubbling with exasperation. No, it’s the helplessness. The feeling of trying and failing and being reminded, over and over again, how much you don’t know - how little you’ve been taught to fend for yourself and how much you took for granted that people were around to care for you.

And somehow, for reasons you can’t explain, he doesn’t try to make you feel bad about it. Not more than you already do.

Bucky went to pick up the knife again while you were lost in thought for a second and you take it from him again. Fingers brush. You feel like he does that on purpose. For whatever reason. Maybe to distract you more.

“You’re holding it wrong again,” he says, voice quieter, though there’s still that amusement dancing in the lines of his face.

You sigh profoundly, gripping the knife with a force that turns your knuckles white. Ignoring his words, you throw it again, only to make the blade clank against another tree before falling to the ground with a sad thud.

Bucks tsks, shaking his head with his arms crossed, grin tugging at his mouth.

But you just stomp forward and get the knife yourself this time.

“This won’t be gettin’ any better until you’re done sulking,” he tells you with that teasing edge when you reach him again.

“Sulking?”

“Yeah.” He tilts his head, eyes on you. His smile is a little softer. “That little tantrum just now? That was sulking.”

You get in position again, huff out a scoff. “Bloody bastard,” you mutter under your breath.

Bucky snickers. It’s a sound stemming from surprise. Still with his arms crossed, he leans closer to you, something delightful glinting in his eyes. “Careful, princess,” he drawls, voice dipping low and sly, smirk in his tone. “Keep callin’ me names like that and I might start thinking you like me.”

Your focus is on the tree, but you feel your breath hitch and your hand turn clammy around the hilt of the knife. “I do not,” you retort half-heartedly. Rather lamely. His response is a huffed laugh that brushes over your cheek. You do your best to ignore him.

This time, you adjust your grip as he has shown you earlier, fingers tightening.

“Good.” He nods, but he’s not really looking at the knife in your hand.

Bucky brushes his hand over your shoulder to adapt your arm and lightly taps your heel again for you to move your leg forward for better balance. His chest almost brushes against your shoulder.

“Now, plant your feet. Keep your weight balanced. And aim where you want it to go, not where you think it’s gonna end up.”

Again, you follow his instructions, narrowing your eyes in concentration.

Drawing your arm back the way you had seen Bucky do it, you focus on the target, on the way the blade should arc through the air. And then you throw.

The knife sticks. Barely - it’s wedged at an awkward angle near the edge of the log - but it sticks. It doesn’t fall off.

A breath escapes in a rush, a small flare of triumph sparking in your belly, your chest heaving. You swirl to Bucky.

He gives you a small nod, the grin on his face is sincere and there is something in his eyes that speaks of approval.

Perhaps not for the way it landed, but for the way you tried until it did.

“Not bad.”

And something in the way he says it makes you turn away out of the fear he sees what it does to you. Because he means it. His tone doesn’t follow a tease. He is genuine.

You’re not sure when it started - when his opinion of you began to matter. But it does. It matters in a way that makes thousand tiny fingertips press against your chest in an almost tender way, but only to remind you of your cage of ribs that don’t seem to let you breathe the way you should.

Approval. Slight satisfaction. That’s all it is. So simple, so small, and yet it crushes you. How he looks at you with a softened expression, his sincere tone, his thoughtful eyes as he watches you. It makes you feel like you just conquered something monumental, something larger than just a knife hitting wood.

It terrifies you.

Because for so long, you have been measured by others. Your worth weighed against expectations, traditions, titles. You were the sum of what you represented, never who you were. Approval, in those circles, was currency. And you hated it. Hated the way it chained you.

But this is not just a curtly nod or a murmured compliment laced with ulterior motives. This is earnest. And it makes you feel like another blade is thrown, but this time, the target is you and it’s not known for missing. It hits dead in the center of something inside you, a place you don’t want to consider, a place that wants to earn it again.

You don’t look at him when you walk to yank the knife free.

You hate this feeling. Hate that you crave this so much. Hate that you crave it from him of all people. He has insulted you, dismissed you, reduced your struggles to trivialities. He’s been cruel and sharp and unbothered.

But he also keeps you alive, even when you never want to admit how much you actually need him.

His insufferable smirk, his barbs, the way he calls you princess as if it’s a burden and a joke all at once - they should only spur on the disdain you felt for him at the beginning. And you still want to feel.

But somehow you are desperate for his regard, for his respect.

He still stands there, brown leather engulfing his chest, worn trousers hanging from his hips, dark strands framing his face haphazardly, broad shoulders almost relaxed, the grey shirt under his armor rolled up to his elbows as if it isn’t the middle of the night and damned cold.

And he is looking at you.

Focused and almost bold in the way he doesn’t take his gaze off you.

You stalk over to him and hold out the blade for him to take, eyes not meeting his. You barely hold onto the knife, but still, his fingers manage to touch yours again.

“I am sorry for taking your knife,” you say quietly and turn to your sleeping spot before he can respond.

“Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.”

- Samuel Beckett

Part four

Taglist: @cjand10 @unaxv @bellamoret

[chronicowboy]

worship like a dog (at the shrine of your life) | 6.8k

"Y-you're thinking about moving?" Buck asks, words turning to ash in his mouth.

"Starting to think about it anyway," Eddie says, braced like he's waiting for Buck to snap his tablet in half.

But Buck is a good dog, really. Or, he tries to be. Tries so hard. So, he doesn't do anything he wants to. Doesn't throw up on the living room carpet. Doesn't piss in every corner of the house. Doesn't scratch his presence into all the furniture—it's there already, he thinks, I'm there already, aren't I?

No, instead, he plasters on a smile, thinks about plastering all the walls in every grocery list with three mismatched but equally illegible handwritings, every drawing of Christopher's he and Eddie have accumulated over the years—the cardboard box at the bottom of Eddie's wardrobe, the accordion folder under Buck's bed— every ticket stub from the aquarium, the arcade, the zoo, the movies, the museum. He imagines sketching a hundred more hearts in every colour the Diaz boys have made that ball of glowing light in his chest turn, imagines pasting them to the windows of the house, so that the light seeping into the kitchen was filtered through Buck's love like, like, like.

Like stained glass.

Buck doesn't believe in God, but he has his faith. Buck doesn't believe in The Holy Trinity, but he believes in The Father and The Son. Buck doesn't believe in a higher power, but he knows what it is to worship.

(OR: eddie's house is home, buck finds worship there)

[genshin-impact-updates]

Version 4.6 Event Wishes Notice - Phase II

Traveler, stock up on weapons and characters in the event wish to make your party stronger in combat!

Event Wish "From Ashes Reborn" - Boosted Drop Rate for "Eons Adrift" Wanderer (Anemo)!

〓Event Wish Duration〓

2024/5/14 18:00:00—2024/6/4 14:59:00

〓Event Wish Details〓

● During this event wish, the event-exclusive 5-star character "Eons Adrift" Wanderer (Anemo) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

● During this event wish, the 4-star characters "Fantastical Evening Star" Layla (Cryo), "Enigmatic Machinist" Faruzan (Anemo), and "Uncrowned Lord of the Ocean" Beidou (Electro) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

※ Of the above characters, the event-exclusive character will not be available in the standard wish "Wanderlust Invocation."

※ This is for "Character Event Wish." The wish guarantee count for "Character Event Wish" and "Character Event Wish-2" is shared, and is accumulated between both "Character Event Wish" and "Character Event Wish-2." This wish guarantee count is independent of the guarantee counts of other types of wishes.

※ The "Test Run" trial event will be open during this event wish. Travelers may use fixed lineups containing the selected trial characters to enter specific stages and test them out. Travelers that complete the challenges will receive the corresponding rewards!

※ For more information, go to the Wish screen and select Details in the bottom-left corner.

Event Wish "Immaculate Pulse" - Boosted Drop Rate for "Beyond Mortality" Baizhu (Dendro)!

〓Event Wish Duration〓

2024/5/14 18:00:00—2024/6/4 14:59:00

〓Event Wish Details〓

● During this event wish, the event-exclusive 5-star character "Beyond Mortality" Baizhu (Dendro) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

● During this event wish, the 4-star characters "Fantastical Evening Star" Layla (Cryo), "Enigmatic Machinist" Faruzan (Anemo), and "Uncrowned Lord of the Ocean" Beidou (Electro) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

※ Of the above characters, the event-exclusive character will not be available in the standard wish "Wanderlust Invocation."

※ This is for "Character Event Wish-2." The wish guarantee count for "Character Event Wish" and "Character Event Wish-2" is shared, and is accumulated between both "Character Event Wish" and "Character Event Wish-2." This wish guarantee count is independent of the guarantee counts of other types of wishes.

※ The "Test Run" trial event will be open during this event wish. Travelers may use fixed lineups containing the selected trial characters to enter specific stages and test them out. Travelers that complete the challenges will receive the corresponding rewards!

※ For more information, go to the Wish screen and select Details in the bottom-left corner.

Event Wish "Epitome Invocation" - Boosted Drop Rate for Tulaytullah's Remembrance (Catalyst) and Jadefall's Splendor (Catalyst)!

〓Event Wish Duration〓

2024/5/14 18:00:00—2024/6/4 14:59:00

〓Event Wish Details〓

● During this event wish, the event-exclusive 5-star weapons Tulaytullah's Remembrance (Catalyst) and Jadefall's Splendor (Catalyst) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

● During this event wish, the event-exclusive 4-star weapons Prospector's Drill (Polearm) and Range Gauge (Bow) as well as the 4-star weapons Favonius Sword (Sword), Rainslasher (Claymore), and Sacrificial Fragments (Catalyst) will receive a huge drop-rate boost!

● During this event wish, use Epitomized Path to chart a course towards a promotional 5-star weapon, such as Tulaytullah's Remembrance (Catalyst) or Jadefall's Splendor (Catalyst). For more information on Epitomized Path, go to the Wish screen and select Details in the bottom-left corner.

※ Of the above weapons, the event-exclusive weapons will not be available in the standard wish "Wanderlust Invocation."

※ For more information, go to the Wish screen and select Details in the bottom-left corner.

[daddyhausen]

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ 「 PENTAGRAMS IN THE NIGHT SKY 」 ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 MASTERLISTS 」 | 「 BAND/MUSICIAN MASTERLIST 」 | 「 VESSEL MASTERLIST 」

「 COMMISION INFO 」 | 「 LIKE MY WORK? BUY ME A COFFEE — KOFI — DXDDYHXUSEN 」

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 SUMMARY 」 — he waits in the shadows for your nightmares to paralyse you, to claim you body and soul all for himself.

「 WARNINGS 」 — 18+ [ MINORS DNI ] smut, somnophilia, dubcon, cnc, dom!vessel, sleep paralysis, demon!vessel, forced breeding, forced pregnancy, breeding kink, oral sex [ female receiving ] nipple play, biting, blood, fingering, multiple orgasms, male + female orgasms, internal cumshots, rough sex, unprotected sex, squirting, vaginal creampie

「 WORD COUNT 」 — 3k

「 PAIRING 」 — fem!reader x vessel

「 GENRE 」 — smut

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

「 TAGLIST 」 — @thewrestlingbitch @omg-im-such-a-masochist @bayleymania @wardlow @alexisquinnlee-bc @sammiejane22 @im-just-a-mississippi-girl @omegasluvbot @melissahausen @writtingrose @drummergrl1310 @unoficialy-married-to-ace-austin @bonehead-playz @legit9thlunaticwarrior @crowleysqueenofhell @romanreigns-supreme @janetreader @thenerdybaker523 @sunshinevirus @nicoleveno14 @rubyred1980 @harmshake @igncrxntripley @ripleyswhore @embermdk @thepalaceofmelanie @seeingstarks @kennysbadkitten @darkangelchronicles @ripleyswife @selena-tyler-564 @auburnwriter @alyyaanna @nightmare-viper

「 COMMENT IF YOU WANT TO BE ADDED TO THE TAGLIST 」

you could feel it, the burn, flames sticking to your skin, melting the flesh and surfacing the bone underneath. the ache, the red of the fire, how it burned angry, vengeful against your fragile, weakened body. in between the flamed streaks laid the remains of what you’d once called a home, only mere smoke and ash now, and in there laid your burning body, trapped underneath rubble, blackened with soot. you could see yourself, outside of yourself as a third person looking in, a most ungodly sight to behold. and the wisps and crackles of the flames did nothing to quell or soothe your panic, only heighten the vicious sight before you.

your eyes shot open in a daze, a shaky gasp parting from chapped, dry lips. trying so desperately to quiet your mind, remove the nightmare from your thoughts, your skin still heated but was not burned, flesh and bone still intact. you let out a small sigh of relief, upon the realisation that you were unharmed, attempting to wipe the sweat that accumulated on your brow, only to find your arm numb, stuck to its position on the bed beside you, no matter how much you jolted and twitched it remained the same. your heart began to race, thumping hard against your chest like the crash of thunder that rang ever so often outside your bedroom window. you were asleep still, you knew that, put something about this predicament seemed far too real even for your standard of dreaming.

the left side of your bed dipped with a foreign weight, a hand came into view. inky jet black fingers met your viewline, palms rough and callouesed, intricate veins flowed like rivers on the back of the palm and up the forearm, pulsing softly as fresh blood flowed through them. it was a strong arm, masculine no doubt. rings adorned the slender fingers of the strange hand, ones of silver that shined against the black obsidian of the skin. you felt them, so gentle as they traced delicate lines across your skin, almost hesitant in their touches, you lay there, numb and unmoving, watching them shake and twitch as a thumb swiped the sweat from your forehead.

“don’t fear little dove, it was only a nightmare”

the voice was deep and coarse, the twinge of a british accent on the end of his words that made your stomach churn with worry. the words rang sinful from his lips, as his hand ran down your cheek, caressing the warm, mortal flesh. a face came into view…more so a masked one. one of pearly white, traced with gold and rubies that of blood red adorned around the maw. slits in his mask covered his eyes, three to be exact on each side, obscuring them from your vision, only the lower half of his face exposed, soft pouty lips outlined a row of sharp teeth, the canines the most prominent. he smiled, showing them off, looking as if he was about to take a bite out of you at any second.

he would notice the subtle twitch in your movements, how your fingers would shudder every few seconds trying to get a better grip on reality, while the remainder of your body laid frozen in place, paralysed by the weight of your own dream, or was this still your nightmare? his hand remained stagnant on your cheek, every few seconds, taking the time to swipe his thumb across the flesh gently, in soothing circles. your eyes welled with tears, in obvious fear, unsure exactly who or why this strange man… or whatever he was, was looming over you so omnipresently, so…domineering.

“now i know you're afraid, little dove, but i can assure you i bring you no harm” he noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks

“no no…do not cry…”

you could see his pupils dilate behind the slits of his mask, how the shroud would fall over the top if it, shielding them from your gaze.

“relax little dove. the paralysis is only temporary”

his eyes darkened momentarily, keeping the outstretched hand stagnant on your cheek, his thumb adjusting itself only to wipe away stray tears, an inky streak leaving stains in the corners of your eyes from where his flesh made contact.

yet you could not relax. how could you? your mind was wide awake yet your body frozen in time, and to make it worse, this large domineering…thing… you could hardly call him a man despite his corporeal form being akin to one, practically levitated above you.

he noticed the ink smear across your cheek, a primal sensation grew in his belly, something about it felt so primative, so raw to him, a piece of him left behind on your mortal flesh. he was only supposed to provide comfort in your weakest hour. to comfort your mind when your body could not. yet…he wanted to provide more, relax where your fingers could not reach, soothe with words your tongue could not provide.

“little dove…forgive me…”

his body ever looming over yours, growing closer as he brought himself in. his lips painfully close to yours, tongue teasing your cupid’s bow with the words he spoke.

“but i must..i need to”

his lips fan over yours before meeting. your eyes widen with the sudden contact, flickering wildly, still trying to adjust the the sight of him under the dull moonlight, just the flicker of his mask, a milky pearl in colour, even more so up close, and the reds like garnets and specks of gold leaf reflect in your eyes.

his maw opened, revealing sharp canines that prodded at your bottom lip leaving indentations in their wake as they parted, tasting the cherry and cream of your lip balm with a shudder. despite the interaction, despite your lack of say or movement in the matter, you couldn't help but melt into the kiss, the stubble wafts of his breath fluttering against your skin as he pulled away, observing the swollen red petals with lustful adoration. how despite parting, your lips still connected by a thin lips of spit. he hummed at the sight, licking the inky blacked-out curve of his cupid’s bow, savouring the subtle cherry flavour on his tongue.

he shifted his weight. his thighs resting dangerously close to your cunt, nestled against your inner thigh. despite your warmth being shielded by your panties, you could still feel the coolness of his skin, touch featherlight, feeling like light snowflakes against your flesh. you let out a small whimper, it was the only thing you could do in your semi-stasis state. vessel’s ears pricked up at the sound, with a soft hum.

“hmm? you like that my little dove?”

his words like velvet in her ears, drawing out any semblance of rational thought you had left. he left you entranced, enraptured, entwined by the silk ropes of his tongue. he pressed his knee against your clothed cunt, swirling against it slightly. your cunt pooled with warmth, slick with arousal for the strange demon that resided above you.

“oh…so wet already…mmm, didn’t think you’d submit so easy, my sweet”

his voice rumbled deep within his throat, evident by the way his throat contorted with a goan. his cock growing hard behind the confines of his shrouds, the appendage pressing, throbbing against the thin fabric. your stomach swirled with desire in spite of your mind resisting, failing to miserably.

“need to feel your flesh on my tongue…” his fingers raked down from your cheek, a hand shaky in their movements. trailing cautiously down, featherlight touches only separated your skin from his by your shirt. he let the fabric mingle with his skin, savouring the sensation as his palm ghosted across the peak of your breast, feeling the supple mound, groping it, squeezing it, eventually revealing them from beneath the fabric.

“so divine…” he muttered through clenched teeth, trying to stifle a moan as your breasts became revealed before him. your nipples perked and stiffened as the winter chill graced them. behind the mask’s vessel’s eyes widened, he’d never witnessed a woman reverared with such beauty before. he felt the need to fall to his knees before, worship your body with his tongue, repent and relinquish himself solely to you.

“a goddess baring herself before me…”

vessel’s throat tightened with a gulp, his breath teased your nipple, tongue barely jutting out to hesitantly lick at the peak, the bud glistening with his spit under moonlight. he noticed the subtle eye roll on your behalf, noticing you could not do more than moan and whine. he smiled. a devilish one at that, one that boarded on the like between endearing and threatening, one that showed his canines on full display. he had you firmly under his tongue.

“my dear…i shall revel in your flesh…i shall show you no mercy”

he gave another lick to your nipple, wrapping his lips around the perky bud, sucking greedily like a fawn feasting at its mother’s teat. his tongue swirled around the bud, a hand wrapped around the mound of your breast, massaging the soft flesh, his cock hardening, standing fully mast in his shrouds, throbbing against your inner thighs.

“i shall not adhere to your cries…and you shall enjoy it”

his free hand was quick with its movements. shuffling past the barrier of your panties, a evident wet spot present. it did not surprise him, you’ve already proven submissive enough already. his inky digits part your folds, slick with your own wetness as he explores deeper.

“mmm” he hums, feeling the stretch of your cunt around his fingers.

“so wet… so warm…”

your eyes widen at the sudden intrusion, your cunt clenching instinctively to forcibly eject him out, although your attempts proved futile, it only aroused vessel further. in response, he sunk his fingers deeper, thumb drawing rough, rigid shaped against your sensitive clit.

“you dare reject me…? oh little dove…” his words mutter against your breast, the flat of his tongue rippled against your nipple with every syllable.

“your rejection only fuels my desire”

he bares his teeth, clamping down around your breast. enough to cause a substantial amount of pain, yet your body’s lack of response and overall paralysis only emphasises his statements. he pulls away with haste, removing his teeth, indentations litter with small specks of crimson in their wake, his teeth stained with that same iron-flavoured sweetness, he licked them clean, savouring the taste.

“you’re lucky, sweet thing, that i did not split your pristine skin more…” he was breathless from the sudden blood-rush.

“but oh gods i wish i did…you’re so…intoxicating…”

his teeth bared again with another sinister smile.

“but i shall hold my tongue…i have plenty of time to sample you again”

the lanky digits of his right hand hooked into your panties, shuffling them down your motionless legs with intense vigour, grool clinging to the fabric, cunt soaked in wait for him. vessel stifled a grunt, his lips parting as his tongue spread across his bottom one.

“gods…” his voice barely above a whisper, muttering subtle curses and praises simultaneously. how you tease and tempt him with your luscious thighs and dripping void, yet he’s so willing to accept the offer, inviting himself into your warmth, drowning in your wetness. he could die happy, your mortal flesh consumed by him.

“now i claim you, for you have presented yourself so willingly to me…”

vessel monologues, the sound of his voice drowned out by other senses. fear and panic overriding your being. he spoke so surely that you were willing to engage with him so frivolously, when in fact he was the one manoeuvring your figure, oddly gentle yet careless at the same time.

“oh and i will enjoy tainting your flesh, my love…” he began to free himself from the confines of his shrouds.

“every waking moment, every dream-filled night, you let your mind drift and you shall warm your loins to the thoughts of me”

his voice, a growl, animalistic and primal. his cock now freed, blackened by the same ink that stained the rest of his body, it prodded at the supple meat of your inner thigh, moving towards your folds, gathering your wetness on the tip of it. he shuddered, the sight almost too much for him, his cock twitching with primal desire. in an instant you felt so full. vessel made no attempt to ease himself inside. the stretch burned, your cunt not fully lubricated to take him with the force and speed he provided. you went to scream, however the paralysis reminded you that your throat had been forcibly shut, vocal chords shredded.

“fuck…” he growled, almost buckling under the weight of the pleasure, your tight cunt clenching around him, once again, trying to force him out.

“oh no… no you don’t little dove.” he panted, already beginning to thrust at a voracious pace. “you let me in now…you just lay there…and take every inch of me”

he bottomed out, his entire length sinking deep within you. his cockhead forcing itself through the meaty ring of your cunt, prodding harshly against your cervix with vicious movements resembling that of a dagger.

“you feel like sin, my love…” his tongue lopped out past his lips, licking hot stripes against your flesh, burying his head into your neck.

“so fucking perfect…so tight…” he gasped in pleasure… “i may not last long if you continue to clench around me like this…”

vessel’s moans ring around your bedroom, his robes now discarded by your bedside, the glow of the moonlight illuminated his obsidian skin, you could not take your eyes from him, not that you had a choice to look anywhere else, he practically eclipsed your figure, manoeuvring your limbs like a ventriloquist would his puppet. allowing you to bend and break, submit to him all at his free will.

“let me position you better…so you can feel me entirely”

he repositions your legs so that they rested atop his shoulders. he lowered himself, pressing his hips against yours so he could fuck you deeper. he had you folded in half, his meaty cock driving into you with full force.

“going to fill you…your womb shall home my spawn”

his grunts grow more feverish by the minute, you could feel the visceral throb of his cock increase.

“would you enjoy that? forced to birth my spawn? to be my subservient queen? to rule the underworld together?”

he paused, giving a rough thrust.

“oh i know you would, little dove. i could tell by the way those eyes bore into mine”

he gave another thrust.

“by the way that pretty cunt clenches around me…you want to be mine…”

vessel grows more feverish at the thought, to watch your womb round and swell, to have to be barefoot and pregnant roaming the halls of his hellish estate. you his queen, subservient to only him. he noticed the tears streaming down your cheeks, his gaze softened slightly, his lips curling downward into a small frown.

“no tears my love…shh…” he whispered against your cheeks. “i do not deserve to have those tears wasted on me…”

in what felt almost heartfelt on his behalf, when you thought the dominant facade was beginning to slip, instead of peppering your cheeks with sweet, reassuring kisses, his tongue lips out of his mouth once more, licking your tears in a final attempt to mock you.

his cock throbbed deeply in your cunt, no revelation that his release was upon him. he was not one to simply let his orgasm arrive unannounced. he increased his speed, the force of his thrusts was almost enough to shatter your pelvis…and you could feel him holding back from doing so.

“little dove…you’re going to take every drop and savour it…”

his grunts grew more animalistic as he progressed, the clench of his abdomen was indicative of his closeness, how it quivered as it slammed into you the close he got.

“mmm fuck…”

he gave a final thrust, your belly immediately swelled with his warmth, so much so that he was dripping from within you. he grew ravenous, blinded by lust and need.

“you’re mine…all mine!”

he pulled out of you, his cock still leaking with cum in the process. some of the feeling begins to return to your limbs as you hesitantly, weakly attempt to move. your toes and fingertips twitching slightly.

“no no…i’m not done with you yet, little dove” he pulled you back by the ankles, positioning himself between your thighs once more. his breath fanned against your clit, as his tongue made teasing movements towards it.

“need to taste myself in you…” he mewled. “need to make sure you don’t waste a single drop of my seed”

vessel’s lips wrap around your clit, the aching pearl overstimulated from the previous abuse of his fingers. he hummed into you, sucking greedily at the nub.

“you taste so good mixed with me, my love…” it wasn’t just lust in his eyes, but pure obsession, one that you would not hesitate to threaten him over. but as he lay face buried between your thighs, devouring you, you could not help but lay back and enjoy it, the wonders he provided, the spells of pleasure he cast with his tongue was nothing short of marvellous.

he let two fingers spread your dripping folds, pushing his seed back into your void in a greedy attempt to secure you all to himself. you heard a low chuckle rip through his throat, the rumble vibrating against your swollen clit.

“mmm…” his. breathing quickened as he felt your cunt begin to pulse around his lanky fingers ebbing closer to orgasm. his words came out in harsh, unintelligible whispers, coercing you to savour his seed. he’ll let you cum eventually, but not until he’s certain that he’s filled your womb. his slender fingers pumped into your void at a rapid pace, curling upwards as he forced his cum deeper into you.

“accept all of me, little dove…that’s it…”

his tongue drew shapes against your cunt, tasting himself. the sweetness of your skin mixed with the vile concoction of his seed did not deter him. if anything it made him more enamoured. he grew feverish, his cock hardening again. his lips clasped around your clit, teeth lightly grinding the sensitive nub between them. his large hands wrapped around your thighs, pulling you onto his tongue, letting the appendage sink deeper into your already full void. he moaned into you, devouring you with such violent intent.

“oh?” he mumbled into your cunt. “you enjoy this?”

his arousal spiked, his hips grinding languidly against the mattress, noticing the way your cunt clenched with desire around him, so desperate for your own release, you were chasing it, in hopes he would allow it.

“you enjoy the idea of being full of my seed?”

you could not help but mewl at the idea, despite your current predicament, the paralysis on your throat and voice wearing off slowly, allowing you to make small utterances of pleasure in response to his touches, now featherlight, slowly ebbing an orgasm from your walls. vessel smiles, pearly whites flashing in between the shadowy corporeal buds of his lips. feeling the movement of his mouth between your thighs.

your walls began to throb around his fingers, feeling them curl upward, allowing your arousal to spiral out of control. vessel marvels at the sight, the numbness in your thighs begins to subside with soft trembles, the familiar pulse of orgasm rising, feeling it tingle up your spine, feeling the breath catch in your lungs as you teetered on the edge of pleasure. his voice was soft yet his intention remained the same. he wanted to feel you unravel before him.

“your tainted flesh is mine to consume, mine to control…and i command you to release”

his fingers dug into your core with vicious pumps, controlling and commanding the instinctive clench of your cunt around them. your skin burned, like white hot flames of desire for the strange being, who’d effectively ruined your body for his own pleasure. the bite mark on your breast, the depressions of his teeth circled your nipple already beginning to swell and bruise in splotches. your orgasm hits you like a wave, building and building before finally crashing, your warmth cascading down your trembling thighs. vessel admired the sight, how your skin glistened with your sweetness under pale moonlight, how his taste buds danced with the taste of you. he lets out a guttural moan in response, his cock aching with release as he wastes his seed on your bedsheets, the appendage throbbing and swollen, a fiery red upon orgasm from grinding against the mattress.

he savoured your taste, enjoying how well you mingled with his. his head rested upon your inner thigh while he regained his breath, the intricate spirals of his mask poking the flesh. he sighed contently, placing chaste kisses to the skin, an odd sensation considering how relentless and unforgiving he was mere moments ago. you welcomed it, welcomed the feeling of his tongue swirling hot shapes into the skin.

you finally came to, your muscles still ache from paralysis, the weight of him heavy on your chest as he repositioned himself above you, his head now buried in the crook of your neck, peppering soft kisses to the tops of your shoulders. you felt oddly comfortable beneath him, listening to the shallow wisps of his breath, the dull throb of his hellish heart beating within his chest. his fingers draw shapes in the valley between your breasts, almost as if he was inscribing his name into your skin.

“i shall return tomorrow evening” his words separated by small pants of breath.

“i will not relent until you accept me, my love”

｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡ ｡ ･ : * ˚ : ✧ ｡

[blasphemousclaw]

Thoughts on the Curseblades?

the Curseblades are interesting because they’re related to a concept that seems very unique to hornsent culture… tutelary deities:

“Curseblades appear to dance when they spin their shimmering circular blades. These ascetics, who failed to become tutelary deities, were a scourge for those who attempted to invade the hornsent homeland.” (Curseblade Meera)

“Attire of the tower's ascetics, embodying their commitment to an austere existence of strict self-control. In order to ascend from their mortal flesh into tutelary deities of the land, they heighten their spirituality through severe ascetic training.” (Ascetic’s Loincloth)

“Weapon of the masked Curseblades. Circular backhand blade with wave-like cutting edges, sharpened into points that incite blood loss. Long ago, this was employed by the ascetics who strove to become tutelary deities as a ritualistic object in their self-flagellating dances.” (Curseblade’s Cirque)

The Curseblades are essentially a religious sect who live as ascetics in order to ascend as tutelary deities, which are in fact the hornsent corpses holding the Revered Spirit Ash that you find all across the lands of the tower:

“Spirit ash of those who came before, infused with potent spirituality. Acquired from the corpses of hornsent and other objects that ritually decorate townships and villages across the realm of shadow. Consume these at sites of grace to bolster your Revered Spirit Ash Blessing. The Revered Spirit Ash Blessing bolsters both summoned spirits' and spectral steed's abilities to deal and negate damage but has no influence outside the realm of shadow. The withered corpses were called tutelary deities, and Revered Spirit Ash was said to quietly accumulate in the palms of their hands.” (Revered Spirit Ash)

The word “tutelary” means “serving as a protector, guardian, or patron,” so the purpose of these tutelary deities were probably something like spiritual guardians or guides for the townships and villages they’re placed in… we use the Revered Spirit Ash to improve our spirit summons and spirit steed, implying that collecting the ash makes us more hashtag blessed, so I think it’s a fair assumption that the purpose of tutelary deities was to guard and guide others spiritually, help deepen spiritual connection, etc.

The most interesting thing about tutelary deities though is that they were mortal beings who ascended their mortal flesh to become “deities!” The Curseblades were people with incredible abilities due to their severe ascetic training, but presumably started out as regular hornsent, and yet it seems like a sort of godhood was within their reach! A similar sort of thing is described with Divine Bird Warrior Ornis:

“Ashen remains in which spirits yet dwell. Use to summon the spirit of Ornis the divine bird warrior. Spirit of the divine bird warrior from whom the horned warriors claim descent. Clad in golden armor, and granted wings and feathers by divine invocation. Ornis succeeded in taming the divine bird and made its wings his own as he soared through the sky. When he finally fell to earth, he lived on as the guardian deity of the temple quarter.”

Ornis, a mortal warrior, “tamed the divine bird” and lived on as a “guardian deity.” This is pretty unprecedented from what we’re familiar with in the base game: in the current order of the Lands Between, only ONE person — who must be an empyrean chosen by the Two Fingers — is able to ascend to godhood. Divinity is not something just any mortal can ascend to, even with all the spiritual training in the world! It doesn’t seem like the hornsent even had an equivalent to Marika, a “one true god.” To the hornsent, the Divine seems like it was something less centralized, with mortals regularly communing with and invoking divinity, and ascending as minor deities. This kind of makes sense with the concept of the Crucible as a “current” of spiraling energy, a primordial force from which life originated, something all-encompassing rather than centralized. This video by Zullie the Witch even implies that ALL hornsent were once called “empyreans,” and are referred to as such in the game files! I wonder if Enir Ilim’s Divine Gate is what allows the hornsent as a whole to access this divine power and invoke divinity, and no one person was supposed to seize that power for themselves?

This isn’t to say that the hornsent elite didn’t try to control who gets to access divinity, though… it seems like the spiritual elite strictly controlled what kinds of spirituality were “allowed.” Of course, in hornsent society, only those with horns are the ones considered touched by the divine to begin with. But even amongst those with horns, the Curseblades themselves were shunned and imprisoned:

“These ascetics, who failed to become tutelary deities, were a scourge for those who attempted to invade the hornsent homeland. Long ago, before the land was overshadowed by invasion, this scourge was shunned, and the curseblades were imprisoned.” (Curseblade Meera)

I’m not sure if they were imprisoned specifically because they as a group failed to become tutelary deities, or if the Curseblade cult as a whole was seen as a dangerous or distasteful way of ascending to tutelary deities. We do know of another cult that the elite imprisoned out of fear, though:

“A stone mask twisted into an expression of rapturous grief. Use while disrobed to transform into a lamenter. The change cannot be undone except by death. Using this mask while already transformed causes the head to swell in size. This transformation tallies with the state of a denizen of paradise, but the people of the tower denied and hid it from the world. In their foolishness, they viewed true bliss with deep fear.” (Lamenter’s Mask)

The Lamenter’s path to enlightenment being achieved through grief is kind of similar to the Curseblades’ ritualistic “self-flagellating dances,” pain being a way of accessing spirituality. There’s definitely a pattern of the hornsent elite suppressing forms of spirituality that don’t fit the status quo, so I think this might be a reason for the Curseblades’ imprisonment rather than them just being imprisoned for being cringe and failing to become deities

[madame-fear]

Feel free to not write this my love. I know you don’t think you can write for her but I’m here anyway.

Can I have a Alicent hightower smut request. Maybe she is helping the reader de stress (I really need it right now my brain is in peaces) but with some breast play of her doing it to the reader? And some praise ? Honestly it doesn’t have to be here, could be some random person I just need this.

(I’m going to jump off a roof) (stressed Batman)

꒰ 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐐𝐔𝐄𝐄𝐍’𝐒 𝐃𝐄𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 | 𝐃𝐑𝐀𝐁𝐁𝐋𝐄. ꒱

ೀ amira speaks! : my darling wife Ash! 🥺 I truly hope you feel better now, my love. This is my first time writing for Alicent + breast play, so I hope you like it, and it makes you feel better! All I can do for my Batwife, I will. 💕 ˗ˏˋ ꒰ summary : request above. ♡ ˗ˏˋ ꒰ word count : 441.

˗ˏˋ ꒰ genre : smut, drabble, WLW. ˗ˏˋ ꒰ pairing : Alicent Hightower x (fem!)Reader

→ click here if you want to request a drabble for my followers milestone celebration! drabbles open from February 14th, to February 19th.

“My Queen,”

The sound of soft pleas and hushed moans echoed through your private chambers. Your eyes were closed shut, with your head thrown back as your lips were partly open, allowing all type of sounds to escape deep from your throat. As you sat on the edge of your bed, your nails dug deeply into the silk sheets beneath you.

A proud smile grew at the corner of the Green Queen’s rosy lips. Her lips delicately placed kissed on your areola, occasionally nibbling on your flesh as her other hand gropped your free breast; her thumb stimulating your needy nipple by caressing it gently, yet firmly. “My sweet love,” she whispered against your overstimulated skin. Alicent had found her way to remove the stress accumulated on you. You were too precious for her, she couldn’t tolerate the thought of you carrying any type of burden — and any way she could think of pleasing you, she would use it.

Needily, your hand went to the back of her head; your fingers intertwining between strands of her brunette curls, feeling your cunt become increasingly wet as her lips greedily took your nipple, feeling her tongue suckle on it as she moaned against you. Her hand clawed on your breast, massaging your hardened nipple. For a moment, she pulled out from sucking on your tit, but her glossy lips grasped against your flesh as her stare moved up to your features, which was drowned in pleasure. A gasp escaped from you, abruptly feeling her mouth leave your breast for a moment.

“You’re so incredibly beautiful, my love.” your gaze moved downwards at her, weakly begging for her attention, as the Queen proved slightly upwards your neck to press a loving, delicate smooch against it. Her lips lingered on your skin for a few long seconds before she pulled apart, fixing her coffee eyes on yours. A rosy hue formed on your cheeks as you panted continuously from the stimulation.

“You are such a good, pretty girl. You’re my good girl.” she praised, pressing one last kiss on your chin, before lowering back to your breasts. Her mouth ravenously took your other stimulated breast, the one she had used her thumb to caress it, needily feeding and sucking from it — using her tongue to stroke your hardened nipple. A loud growl escaped from you, as you instinctively moved your body forward to give her more access.

“My poor sweet girl, so stressed.” she cooed, in between ragged breaths, as her fingernails scraped against the skin of your other breast. “But I will take good care of you. You’re mine now, all mine.”

[theorist-fox]

Some type of skin (and two keys)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Reader

Currently crossposting previous works from AO3.

Inspired by "Some type of skin" by AURORA (I have an obsession and it's a Norwegian pale lady)

Summary: Johnny's passing has left you devastated. Simon is there to pick up the pieces, while you, although unconsciously, mend his tired heart.

CW: talk of grief, death and loss, angst, broken promises, hurt/comfort, soft Simon Riley but also angry Simon Riley. Mention of pharmacological drugs.

Masterlist 🦊

The air felt clogged; thickened and uncomfortably warm. You tried to blame it on the closed window and the unrelenting sun that reflected against the glass, but the truth was that you felt awkward in your own skin. The uniform clung to your body like a prison. Once, it had been your armor: the breathable dark green cotton of the tee, the black leather of the belt cinching your waist, until the thick camo trousers. They all felt bulletproof.

Yet, ever since you’d witnessed that bullet tearing a hole into Johnny’s head, each piece of clothing had turned into something akin to a goddamn straitjacket. It replayed in your head ad nauseam until it turned into a living nightmare. Until you saw his bloodless face in everyone around you, until you felt a hole in your own skull, as if his death were an omen of your end, as well.

For the first time in the years you had worked with the task force, you were the one who called for a meeting. Well, it was an informal encounter more than anything. A text you had sent simultaneously to all of them.

“We have to talk. Room 4A in HQ 10AM?”

By mere habit, you’d also sent it to Soap; it wrecked your heart to see the red alert on the right side of your bubble, the small Not Delivered right below it. The cracks shattered further when you received the automated response telling you that the number didn’t exist.

How could it not, when you had accumulated thousands of hours on phone calls? How could it not, when you could scroll for days on the chat and never find the first text he’d ever sent you?

You had tried, one of many sleepless evenings: your thumb almost ached due to the mere motion. Fingertip up. Swipe down. Fingertip up. Swipe down. You found it, then. Something old, ancient. The bubbles were green because iPhones still didn’t have the feature that allowed you to text using internet between Apple devices.

“glad to have you on the team. big boss gave me your number. this is soap anything you need im a text awya.”

“aywa*”

“away !!!!”

You'd laughed and it quickly morphed into strangled cries, until your vision got foggy, and your lids yielded. You fell asleep clutching the phone to your cheek.

After having spread his ashes on the Scottish Highlands, everyone had made the sensible decision of taking time off – a sort of unsanctioned compassionate leave. On the other hand, you stayed buried in the tight office you had in Stirling Lines. You couldn't handle the silence that your empty flat would bring. Granted, that didn’t mean you spent much time talking to passersby here at the headquarters, strangers and colleagues alike.

You hovered around the hallways like a specter – paled and depleted. Utterly unavailable to anyone who decided, for reasons unknown to you, to waste their breath on your person. You’d hear grieving words tossed your way, and you'd nod warmly at those. Polite. Affable. Like you’ve always been, even now that the light had been sapped out of you.

Johnny brought it with him - the light. The sun of the team: beautiful yet deadly. Necessary, but dangerous. Lethal only to those who tried to unravel his equilibrium, warm and inviting to the ones who embraced his person.

Now that he was gone, there was darkness – the world dimmed to pay its respects.

It had been eight months. During those, you had worked tirelessly to concoct a plan to have your revenge. Price sometimes knocked on your door only to find you hunched over blueprints and notes. The look he gave you each time was nothing short of pitiful. He didn’t try to stop you, but you could feel the disappointment seeping through your bones and grating them to dust.

Gaz brought you coffee, sometimes. He often came to your office, knocked softer than Price – a knuckle against wood, compared to all four of them incessantly rapping against the door. Sometimes, it wasn't coffee. Sometimes, despite how bad it might have looked, Gaz spilled a few drops of Rozerem in your chamomile tea, hoping it would force your eyes closed for some rest.

All of them, drove from their respective homes only to come and check on you. You wondered if they had an unofficial shift schedule, shared between them both.

Ghost, though. Ghost stayed. 

Angrier than you. Insatiable. Raging. Went for runs at ungodly hours, when the sun wasn’t even about to peek from the horizon. He monopolized the gym of the headquarters; an easy task for him, all he needed to do was use his thousand-yard stare against the unlucky lad who dared cross the threshold. When he felt like the punching bag had taken enough of his gauzed fists, he would come to your office – sweaty and bruised. He rarely bothered to shower. He’d sit next to you, and he’d help.

Everyday.

Ever the detached bastard he'd always been, he grew closer against his better judgment. Albeit it had been years since you had joined the task force under Price’s will, Ghost had always stood several steps away from you. Yet, lately, he’d woven himself to you like a spider spinning an intricate web. He wrapped you in a cocoon, and differently from the eight-legged creature, Simon didn’t want to drain the nectar of life.

He wanted to be your armor. A panoply of rustproof iron: encasing you in chainmail, helmet, and all.

It’s why, now, as you sat on your own at the briefing room table with the increasing temperature in the room, guilt ate you from the inside. Termites feasting on wood.

The first one to enter was Kyle. Pretty brown eyes looked at you fondly, as if they were taking in a long-lost friend. He sat next to you, exchanged a few tentative words, and smoothed the hair away from your forehead. He didn't care about the grease clinging to them, instead, he grazed short nails against your scalp as he told you about his week.

You were eternally grateful for him and his tactful ability to make you feel normal when life seemed to have turned askew.

Price walked in a few minutes later. Stoic as ever, but with kindness in his blues. He held a tray in his hands, four paper cups of steaming coffee balanced on it. He set it on the table and slumped on the chair in front of you. He asked you how you were doing. You answered that you were fine. You asked it back. He answered the same. No one believed a single word.

Ghost made you all wait. You explained that he was probably at the gym, or having a late-morning run around the training grounds. If they were worried about you, the concern for Ghost was something even greater. While only Price knew of the intricacies of his past, it didn’t take a doctorate in psychology to understand that whatever had forced him to wear the skull mask was something that still haunted him in the present.

You remembered it vividly, that one evening. Life had battered you both, kindred spirits in what seemed to be the inability to grieve properly.

You, with your head propped on the armrest of the narrow couch in your office. He, slumped on the cushions as he cradled your calves in his lap. A hand absently brushed the thick cotton of your work trousers. His eyes were to the ceiling. His empty stomach growled incessantly, much like yours – both running on fumes, caffeine, and nicotine, or the occasional shared bite stolen from the cafeteria after its closing time.

As your eyelids were about to flutter closed, you heard the rumble of his voice vibrating in his diaphragm, close to where he held your feet.

“Hooked by the ribs,” he said.

The inquisitive look you sent him was missed because he didn't divert his eyes from the ceiling.

“Buried alive,” he strained, “Crawled outta my own grave.”

It hit you later, that he was sharing. You slowly sat up, pushing your torso with your tired arms. You moved gingerly, afraid a mere shift in the air would cause him to sew his mouth shut. While you had an inkling that whatever happened to him must have been gruesome and cruel, those few words (which you were sure, merely scratched the surface) already caused your stomach to churn.

“They used me, tried to break me and they did.”

Your jaw worked. Propped on your elbows, you gulped down the stone in your throat. Eyes glued to the unmasked profile – to the crooked nose, flattened by punches and butts of guns, to the divot between his lips, to the absent brown eyes with their halo of pale lashes. His fingers curled around your ankle and his thumb brushed over your sock.

“Killed my family,” he went on, and you wondered if he was talking to you at all, “Killed my nephew, too.”

Barely noticing how your eyes glazed over with treacherous tears, you bent your knees over his thighs and scooted closer. The only indication that he had acknowledged your presence and wasn’t simply musing out loud was how his palms shifted: from your ankles, up to your calves. He furled his fingers around the meaty part, while his other hand blindly went to look for your neck. He rested his palm against the side of it, let his thumb trace the outline of your jaw.

“Took everything from me, turned me into this,” he muttered, and his brows furrowed while his pupils danced over the chipped paint of the ceiling.

Half of the times you were given the luxury to gaze at the face beneath the mask, you’ve wondered where those scars came from. What kind of heroic deed had he carried out that caused each mark, or what awful act he must have committed that ended up leaving perpetual memories of it, etched in his flesh.

Never, not once, you thought someone else purposefully did it to him. Someone so cruel, so brutal, that made him regrow his skin – like a snake, shedding his frail past to build a thicker armor.

“The army left me to rot, y’know," he whispered, and although you weren't answering (truthfully, you were barely breathing) he knew you were listening.

“But not Price,” his thumb pressed into your cheek, “Not Price, nor Garrick, or you – or Soap.”

It was grimly ironic how such an idiotic callsign could bring this remarkable heaviness on your heart. The silence lingered after he uttered it, either a way to pay respect or a simple inability to continue right afterwards. Because that’s how it felt like.

Months ago, when his body flattened against the concrete of a forgotten underground tunnel, the word Soap met an end. Forever, there will be nothing else to add right after it, if not things you already knew, or heavy silence.

“Can’t lose any more people in this life,” he sighed, “Johnny must be the goddamn last, y’hear?”

You heard.

You craned your neck to the side so your cheek would slot in his palm. Saltwater dampened your skin and moistened his calluses.

“Deal,” you croaked.

He nodded, taking in your word, digesting it. A stupid promise, really. No one can pledge such a thing, but at that moment he cared very little for it. Especially when he felt your lips press against his palm.

“Deal.”

You bit your thumbnail in silence, then brought it in front of your eyes to look at the red indent around it. A droplet of blood seeped through the crack, and you suckled on it to soothe it.

Ghost abruptly walked in, the door almost flying off its hinges. He closed it behind him but didn’t take a seat. Instead, he rested his back against the shut threshold and folded his arms in front of his chest. A nod of his jaw that shifted the fabric of the balaclava was all he offered.

Now that everyone was in, the moment you had been dreading the most arrived. Albeit you had been planning this for weeks, your stomach still felt like it had swallowed a rock.

You stood up, wonky on your feet. The chair screeched as it slid back.

“I’m retiring.”

If the silence was thick before, now it felt like a boulder.

When volcanos erupt, it’s rare for lava to burst into the air and fall like sizzling rain over the landscape below it. What kills every living creature, it’s the dust that settles afterwards: it's scorching hot, stops life in its tracks.

The moment the words bubbled from your throat like molten lava, the residues puffed out of your crater and deposited on everything surrounding you. The room now felt like a ghost town, with each breathing soul inside turned into a forever statue.

The only thing that moved was Simon, who wrenched the door open and left.

It had been weeks since you last saw him. Well, you did see him: Stirling Lines wasn't that big. But he didn't see you. He didn't knock on your door anymore and barely acknowledged your presence if he found you in his vicinity.

It felt pointless to continue your search for attribution if he wasn’t looking for it with you, so with a quick swipe of your arm, you trashed every blueprint, every post-it note, every map, and leaflet. Maybe that would grant Soap some rest as well.

A signature away from your departure, you were lying in your bed, ready to knock yourself out with a few droplets of benzodiazepine. The route to the comatose dreamless night that awaited you, though, was interrupted by a series of raps against your door.

After years in the military, you had developed quite the remarkable hearing – if one was willing to exclude the tinnitus. It meant you could recognize whose footsteps belonged to whom, whose breathing was coming from whose mouth, and which knock pertained to which hands. You knew these knuckles, indeed. Hastily tossing your legs over the edge of the bed, you padded your socked feet against the linoleum of your private quarters. Fingers shakily curled around the doorknob, and you yanked the door open.

It wasn’t like in movies, when after such a long absence time slows down when your eyes touch, no.

It was raw, irate, and spiteful.

Simon placed a thick hand on your shoulder and shoved you aside to barge in. You barely managed to recollect your balance when he slammed the door closed behind him. He looked around the room as if searching for something but not being quite sure of what. Habit, you thought.

Brown eyes that never showed much of the constant turmoil brewing in his head now landed on you sizzling with hatred.

He yanked the mask off. It fell limply to the ground.

His cheeks were flushed, whether from the warmth that had been building behind the cheap fabric of the mask or from hot anger, you couldn’t tell.

"We had a deal.”

It ripped the air from your lungs, vacuumed them clean, and ironed them flat. Your hand flew at the base of your throat, fingers nervously rubbing against your collarbone.

His voice was clouded by an unbreachable fog of anger. You felt as if you were sailing through the ocean on a moonless night, only darkness ahead of you and a single oar in your hands. That’s how it felt to navigate through Simon Riley, even now that you had managed to have a grasp on the person he was.

Your pupils traveled along his person to settle on his face, not jaded like usual but contorted in a scowl. The strain at the junction of his jaw wasn’t a new sight, nor were the taut tendons of his neck.

Sometimes, he’d fall asleep on the couch in your office; your head on his shoulder or cradled in his lap. You’d wake up then, at the sound of teeth grinding. Bruxism in his sleep, jagged sounds that made your hair stand on end. Gingerly, you used to lift your hands and press the tips of your fingers at his jaw hinge, massaging the spot until he stopped.

You wished you could do it now.

"I’m sorry," you replied calmly, trying to quell his spirits and failing spectacularly.

He took hasty steps around the room, pacing like a lunatic. You didn’t have the guts to walk closer to stop him, not yet. What left his lips next, though, made you want to crumble to the floor like a house of cards.

“Leaving ‘cause I told you all tha’?” he snapped, “’cause you can’t handle another broken case to add to your file?”

Fear of approaching him left your body like steam from a cup, indeed that’s what you did. As he relentlessly paced around the cramped space of a military-issued room, you stopped him with a gentle hand on his bicep.

He froze and yanked his arm away. Your palm like blistering coal against his skin.

You knew he was as hulking as they come, you knew he was built like a goddamned brick house, and you knew he towered over you (he towered over most, in your defense). Yet, nothing could have prepared you for the way he languidly turned to face you, looking down. You craned your neck back, otherwise your eyes would only meet his collarbones, peeking through the loose black tee he was wearing – casual comfort clothes he wore to sleep at night, those few times he did.

"Never think that,” you stated, stressing the adverb, “Never think that.”

You swallowed thickly, yet your eyes never wavered, "I – It’s complicated,” but it truly wasn’t.

Your expression softened, but you knew it would do little to smother the flames in his eyes, ready to flatten the entirety of the room.

"After Johnny, I couldn’t anymore,” you whispered, “I can’t, Simon.”

The defeated tone of yours had the bite of a skillfully honed blade. It cracked his ribcage open and stabbed the heart he didn't think he owned anymore.

He murmured then, eyes narrowed, “The fuck you mean you can’t?”

Your mouth curled down and you rolled your lips between your teeth. The tip of your tongue soothed a crack in the skin.

"I'm scared," you wheezed as if the words were difficult to utter. Scared of loss, scared of death, scared of pain, scared of scars, both physical and mental. Scared of the future, scared of your past and his, scared it would haunt you until you'd turn cold and stiff - all the people you've killed and those who survived. Fear, in its unfettered, most gut-wrenching form.

He tongued his cheek, somewhat irritated by the statement. He let the words stick like molasses to his eardrums, muffling each sound. Simon wasn’t a stranger to fear; he walked with it hand-in-hand, a faithful companion that never left his shadow. Yet, he hated that you were feeling it because in his mind you didn't deserve it.

He would have liked to tell you that, but words always failed him when he needed them the most.

"Thought you’d have grown thick skin by now," his voice was low, controlled, and deadly. Meant to hurt, meant not to graze but to cut. It was all he knew, how to hurt – especially when he was aching as well.

You looked up at him through the furrow of your brows, brief anger flashing in your eyes. You set it aside, instead opting to cast your gaze sideways. You cupped your elbows in a sort of self-reassuring hug, thumbs indenting in the flesh of your biceps.

"I wish I did,” you murmured, “Can’t grow that type of skin, it seems.”

He wanted to rebuild the cocoon he had so carefully crafted around you. He wanted to go back being the shield that kept you from any harm. The chainmail that prevented each stab.

He wanted to be that skin you didn’t seem to grow, like a reptile losing its inborn ability to replenish its flesh.

Johnny’s passing took his cold heart and thrashed it. The bond he deepened with you afterwards made it regrow. He wondered, when he'd look at you during those days, as you leeched your brain dry over blueprints and notes, if you were aware of it.

You scared him most delightfully, and he thought whether his heart should reveal itself to be more than a muscle, or a fist covered in blood.

That's why the resentful look in your eyes felt like fresh water on the fire in his chest. How could he let you drain yourself dry over this, when you had been the only light the moment his world blew out each candle.

So, his anger took the backseat, and he sighed. Drawn-out, long, and tortuous.

“Where you goin’, then?” he said, softer.

You felt it, the sorrow of his tone. It made your head swivel in his direction. You blinked, opened your mouth to answer, and hesitated.

“Bury,” you breathed, “Bury St. Edmunds.”

His eyes narrowed in thought: you could almost see the map of England he had cast in front of him reflected in his pupils.

“’s about a four-hour drive from here," his voice trailed off.

"Yeah," you mused, slightly confused by the abrupt switch in his behavior. But you weren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, were you?

Instead, your hands slid up your arms soothingly, "Found a nice flat there, in the city center.”

You shrugged, trying to act as if it wasn’t a big deal, although Simon could tell it was by the way your eyes twinkled at the mention. Something new, something fresh that promised a new beginning, away from bloodshed and loss, closer to warmth and familiarity.

Closer to home.

"It’s nice. It has a small balcony that faces the cathedral,” you went on, sounding almost bashful, “Was thinkin’ about growing my own herbs? Like basil, and such.”

He didn’t reply or move. Barely breathed.

Just stared.

Stared at the soft expression on your face, at the way your lashes framed your eyes. Stared at the way your lip trembled, ever so slightly, as you blabbered about such ordinary things like balconies, and churches and bloody herbs.

He could already picture you with dirt under your bitten fingernails as you dug into brown, ceramic vases, refusing to wear gardening gloves.

He could hear your bare feet padding against the hardwood floor as you went on to brew your tea. Or the squeaking sound of the cushions of a leather couch as you dropped on it, without a care in the world, holding a book by its spine.

You truly disarmed him in that simplicity – a dress he realized he would’ve loved to see you wear more often.

You seemed unaware of the subtle awe that glinted in his pupils, since you went on to add how the flat had a guest room – although it completely flew over his thick head. What did reach his eardrums, though, was what you said next, "And it has two keys."

He snapped out of his reverie and swallowed.

"Two keys," he echoed.

His willpower felt as thin as an ice slab under the blistering sun. It melted pitifully and turned into a warm puddle in his chest. Nothing could’ve stopped him as his feet marched to you, closing both physical and emotional gaps.

He palmed your cheek and whispered with certain hoarseness in his voice, "Two damn keys.”

Your heart swelled three times its size. You swore you felt the indents left against it by each rib. Leaning your cheek against his hand, like you’d done many nights before, the most subtle of smiles graced your features.

Simon vowed he’d fight tooth and nail to see it grow.

You whispered, then, "If you want, you can just drive those four hours 'n pop in. I'll make you a cuppa, maybe take you for a tour around Bury.”

His eyes softened – crinkles at the corners and brows twitching in the middle.

"Four fuckin' hours for a cuppa and a tour,” he mumbled, "What are you, the Queen of England?"

You huffed a chuckle, pretending to find his sarcasm annoying by adding a roll of your eyes. Truthfully, you’d pay good fucking money to hear it daily.

"I'm gonna need the spare key, though" he whispered, his thumb brushed your cheek reverently.

You lifted your hand to trace his often-cracked knuckles with the pads of your fingers, “Not a spare key – your key.”

Simon swallowed thickly again. He ran his tongue over his teeth, clamping his jaw shut. His gaze hardened, his pupils danced about your face, awfully concentrated, as if he were refraining from doing something.

His sudden silence made your resolve waver. You removed your hand from the back of his, curling your fingers as if you were touching some hot surface. It stayed there, furled in a loose fist in the space between your chests.

“You could come and spend your leaves there," you whispered tentatively, "Leave your things at my flat, so each time you come over they're already there."

It took all your courage to speak, but you knew the die had been cast already. The only thing left for you to do was to simply go for it and take the damage, or leave victorious.

"Until it's full of you,” you released a shaky breath, “Until it's your little flat, too."

Simon’s breath suddenly shortened. He'd never felt at home, not even when he was supposed to have one. He'd come close to it when his brother got clean and managed to build a family for himself, or when the task force was tight-knit, with Johnny chatting his ear off with his incomprehensible Scottish lilt. But it was never his.

This, though.

He’d be damned if he let it slip through the cracks of his fingers.

"Until it's our flat," he breathed.

His other hand reached out as well, and he placed it on your opposite cheek, "Until it’s our little flat.”

You’d be lying if you said those weren’t words you had been reciting in your head ever since you put in your retirement request. Ever since you started looking for a flat that could host two people instead of one.

Indeed, you’d naively thought that the moment they would be uttered (if ever) you would have been ready for them. But you weren't, not at all – they felt like a gut punch.

You had to bite your lip to repress tears that had treacherously made their way into your eyes, now glossy and a little wide. To think that you were able, somehow, to give him some reprieve from a life that seemed to not want him, gave you incommensurable joy.

"Our home," you croaked.

"Our home," he echoed languidly, with a thick voice, as if it hurt to speak, "Our bed. And our bloody balcony on the cathedral, and our sofa, our kitchen, and – “

He paused. Swallowed, seemingly torn. Words seemed to fail him again, but he didn’t let them – not this time. He’d fight through the fear of it all being the umpteenth joke life was taunting him with. Not you, never you – his one good hand in a lifetime of poor draws.

"And every – fucking – thing in between."

You chuckled. It’s wet with tears and disbelief.

Oh, to see him thrive in anticipation for something, instead of dreading what life has in store for him.

Your hand left the gentle grip it had on his knuckles, and you cupped his face as well – mimicking how he was holding yours.

"Every," you whispered, "Bloody, fucking thing," and nudged your nose with his, "In between."

Your lips landed on his instantly.

It was stupidly clumsy at first because you were both torn in half between what felt good and what was right. His tongue slipped between your lips as soon as you parted them for air; your teeth clacked together. You chuckled against his lips; he drank it like an oasis. His life parched of what you could give him, what you were giving him.

It took him a moment to get used to the sensation, to adjust to you. But when he finally did, he kissed you back ravenously, nothing shy from desperate. He craved your touch so fiercely. A push and pull of wandering hands, tangled in your hair and yours in his.

You were finally back where he wanted you, in the cocoon he crafted just for you, made with his flesh. He held you to his chest as if his ribcage could open and like bony fingers wrap around you and keep you safe.

He placed his foot between your legs, pushing them open. You complied when he gently nudged your knee so you’d fall back against the mattress.

Eventually, your lips parted, yielding to his, to a shared breath.

You were positively flushed, breathless, and limp in his grasp. He thought he'd never seen anything this breathtaking.

You smiled, all teeth and creases at the corners of your eyes, cheeks tipped pink as they pushed against your eyes – little crescents he’d look at for days on end.

Simon was left a little dumbfounded, though, when you squirmed under his weight to extend an arm. He followed it with his eyes and saw your hand struggling to fumble with the drawer of your nightstand. You pulled out a key and held it in the space between your faces. 

"Your key," you whispered bashfully, as if unaware that the mere sight sent Simon's heart into arrhythmia.

You placed a soft peck to his lips, "To our home."

Simon let out a staggered exhale. He wrapped his fingers around the key, closed his fist around it.

A symbol of a new beginning, one that Simon finally didn’t dread. Something good rippling through his life like fresh water, even amidst the mud of shared grief and loss.

We're good people,

And we both deserve peace.

"To our home," he whispered back, "To our home."

And let breath be air, 

And love the things I know might disappear.

And the last light of the sun

I let it slow me down

I'll crawl where everybody runs.

[imagine-darksiders]

Cold Hands, Warm Heart.

Chapter 25 - Friction.

Loss will affect you, whether you realise it or not. It can make you angry. It can make you bitter. Words are traded when wounds are prodded, and they'll come back to haunt you when it's most inconvenient.

There are billions of grains of ash blanketing the Gilded Arena, layer heaped upon layer of dead cells, deep enough for you to drown in, if the particles weren’t condensed so solidly, interlocking like sand on a beach to keep your weight distributed. To have accumulated this much, the place must be ancient, far older than humanity, far older than Earth even. So old that it might have existed for as long as the Universe has known the concept of death.

Thousands of grains – history in each and every one - hiss through the gaps between your spread fingers as you teeter forwards, hands rising from the ash to catch yourself on the colossal skull in front of you when you start sinking down to your knees.

It’s hard not to think about how you’re surrounded by the remnants of people right now, that you have been since you first entered the realm.

And now here’s another one, another death to add to an unending multitude.

One of your palms has landed on the lustreless crystal jammed inside Gnashor’s cranium, while the fingers of your other hand curl with an unexpected fervour into the edge of an empty eye socket, as dark as it is deep. So deep that you could fit your entire fist inside the cavity, though the prospect causes your stomach to fill with bile.

You know it’s utterly illogical to try and search for any traces of those vivid, green lights that had, mere seconds ago, been burning down at you with inscrutable intent.

For God’s sake, the skull has been completely severed. It lays a few feet from the top of Gnashor’s spine where the rest of its titanic body has fallen, already breaking apart at the joints and allowing the smallest of those borrowed bones to sink back into the ground, where they too will one day become ash.

“Gnashor?” you croak at the skull anyway, wincing when the name stings at your throat and reminds you of the aching lines that have been crushed intermittently into the skin around your neck.

Jesus, you’ll be feeling those for a while…

You don’t know exactly why you call its name. Perhaps it’s the uncertainty of how this realm operates that leaves you wondering if there’s a part of the creature that might yet live and hear you. How do you know the dead here truly die, after all? Does decapitation work the same as it would on any living thing when Gnashor had already borrowed most of its other bones from the skeletons around it?

Then again, perhaps you’re just feeling guilty, and saying the name aloud is all you can think to do in the moment.

Because you could have done something.

… Couldn’t you?

Because the Champion, for reasons you can’t yet begin to fathom, just saved your life.

Whatever the case, you suppose you get an answer to your unspoken question when Gnashor remains perfectly still and wholly silent, a husk in the ash. Dead as any other corpse scattered inside this wretched arena.

It’s…. sad.

You’re sad, and you can’t immediately pinpoint why.

Somewhere nearby, there's the muted thud of boots hitting the ground.

“You killed him,” comes your tepid voice, curling your hand into a fist over Gnashor’s crystal.

Silent footsteps trace around the skull and slip close to your side, a dark shadow falling across your face and blotting out some of the morning light.

“Well,” Death’s throaty timbre sounds too far away in your ears, as if he isn’t standing right next to you, looming like a spectre at its favourite haunt, “That was the goal of our being here.”

A ‘shink’ of metal draws your bloodshot eyes to the Horseman, and you observe bleakly whilst he throws his scythes back into their straps on each hip.

“… He didn’t attack me,” you draw out in a daze, your eyebrows crawling together as you stare at Death’s curving blades.

“Yes, I endeavoured to make sure that was the case,” he quips bluntly, bending down to slip a hand underneath your arm, “Regardless, it seemed very inclined to attack me.”

His callused fingers feel even colder than usual as his grip tightens and he hauls you up off your knees too quickly, too roughly. The sudden movement jars your dizzy head and betrays the Horseman’s agitation, not to mention his urgency.

If it weren’t for the hand still keeping your bicep trapped in its iron grip, your legs might buckle and send you toppling straight down onto your backside again.

Ash hisses into the indents left by your weight.

Death has his forefinger tucked beneath your chin before your brain has a chance to stop teetering.

“Mmf,” you grunt softly as he pushes your head up, giving him a good view of your neck. Squeezing your eyes shut to try and alleviate the headache building at the base of your skull, you start to speak even with the Horseman silently twisting your head from side to side. “I think it was because of your scythes,” you tell him, “Ostegoth warned me not to raise a weapon against Gnashor. A-and Karn’s sword is still up there, in the stands.”

Death doesn’t speak for several beats, and when he finally does – voice pitched so low you can feel it in your teeth – he growls, “When I get my hands on that wretched nothus-!” Hesitating, he flicks his eyes up to meet your gaze and gruffly amends, “Do not repeat that word.”

Frowning back up at him, you wrench your head from his fingertips and huff, “Are you even listening to me?”

His arm remains suspended in the air for a moment, poised as if to reach out and gather your chin in his palm once more, but then the Horseman’s eyes harden behind his mask and a muscle jumps in his jaw – what little you can see of it. With a dull thwack, he lets his hand flop back down to his side. The other, still wrapped around your bicep, gradually slides away and joins its twin on Death’s opposite flank.

“What?” he sighs out. His gaze has already returned to your throat.

It’s the impatience in his tone that strikes a nerve, and suddenly, it isn’t sad.

It’s funny.

‘How stupid,’ you think, ‘to assume I could have stopped Death from killing.’

Why, it’s so funny you want to rip your hair out and laugh until you stop breathing altogether.

But that would hurt too much.

So you don’t.

“I’m telling you; Gnashor didn’t want to fight,” you declare, raising a hand and jabbing your forefinger at the Horseman’s mask whilst the other digits carve crescent moons into your palms, “He didn’t attack until you pulled a weapon on him!”

It’s curt and accusatory, and it gets Death bristling.

“If you’re trying to make a point, then make it,” he sneers, eyes flashing like an amber warning sign, “Because if I hadn’t pulled a weapon on it, you might have been killed!”

“Gnashor didn’t have to die.”

There. That’s your point.

A crack in your vocal chords disrupts you on the final word, a break in your own aching throat as you squeeze it out. It hurts, you’re reminded quite unfairly.

Quieter this time, but still with fierce conviction, you glower up at the Horseman and bite out, “I don’t think he wanted to fight. But he probably didn’t think he had a choice.”

Death’s chest lurches with a ludicrous scoff. “Even if your theory holds any merit, what would you have had me do instead? Hm?” Throwing an arm up to indicate the arena as a whole, he barks, “We came here to collect its skull. Or did you forget that that’s the only way to get an audience with the Dead King?”

At that, your brows manage to beetle together into such a deep, solid line, you’d swear you could make them touch.

There have been many instances where you’ve let his condescending tone roll off your shoulders.

This isn’t one of them.

“No, I didn’t forget,” you snap, irritated by the way each word squeezes painfully past your gullet, like you’ve swallowed something too large, and it’s wedged itself in the middle of your neck.

There’s a tiny voice at the back of your head asking why you give so much of a damn about this that you’re willing to stand here and argue with Death while your temples throb excruciatingly with every heartbeat and the ghosts of powerful fingers are still curled around your neck.

Another part of you even suggests that your reasons are borderline shallow. That if Gnashor hadn’t pulled you out from underneath that falling pillar, you probably wouldn’t be making this much of a fuss. But whatever the case may be, the fact remains that the Champion had, in the span of a few seconds, gone from a mere obstacle to a sapient creature who recognised you weren’t a threat and made an active choice to save you.

It was easier when you thought Death was only putting down a feral, bloodthirsty beast.

Now, after what Gnashor did, you can’t pretend that’s still the case.

Worse still, it was a death that could have been avoided. Just like-

A flash of white beard, strands stained scarlet as the deluge of a storm cascades across the vale, a mighty chest growing quiet and still beneath your hands…

Exhaling sharply, you give your head a shake to dislodge Eideard’s wizened face from your mind’s eye. And although it feels like the ultimate disservice to banish his memory so brusquely, you can’t think of him now, not here, not when the body laying in the ash nearby is so nearly the same size as a maker’s.

Wetting your lips, you try to take a breath, in through the nose, out through a tight jaw. “I just mean, couldn’t we have… - Shit, I don’t know - found another way?”

Sometimes you feel as though you sound more and more like a child with values still drenched in idealism, trying to appeal to the most real, unavoidable truth of the Universe.

“And wasted even more time trying to find the Well of Souls?” the Horseman retorts, taking a single step away and cocking his head back, peering at you down the hollow ridge of his mask’s nose.

You can’t ignore the guilty twinge your guts give at his question. It rankles you, fuels the aggravation where pain is already fanning sparks into open flames. The urge to claw at your hair returns.

“If the Well’s as old as I think it is, it’s not going anywhere,” you argue tightly, “Why are you suddenly so concerned about wasting time?”

Unnoticed by you, Death’s hands spring into closed fists as he snaps his head down again to level you with a blistering glare that’s one part offence and three parts disbelief.

Have you forgotten why he wants to find the Well in the first place? Have you forgotten who’s name he’s trying to clear? Has your foolish and misguided compassion for an undead monster blinded you to the bigger picture?!

Or did Brumox knock some sense out of you after he dropped you into the Gilded arena?

Grinding his teeth, Death finds himself further taken aback by the unexpected squirm of disappointment that rears its head.

Its presence is unwelcome. ‘Because,’ he realises with a pang in his dried up guts, ‘it means her opinion - her verdict – matters.’

It matters to him, more than he realised it did. More than it should. He wouldn’t be disappointed if it didn’t.

The revelation is… foreboding, to say the least.

When did it start to matter?

“Maybe,” he bridles, defensive in the face of his own realisation, “I wouldn’t be so concerned about time if I hadn’t already lost so much of it watching somebody else’s back.”

He doesn’t notice that he’s drawn himself up, a towering, prickling spectre that looms over you, all burning eyes and bitter acid rising into his gorge.

He doesn’t notice…. until your expression bursts open as if his words had just struck you across the cheek.

Pinched brows spring apart, and your eyes widen exponentially, then blink. Your mouth falls open – whether to gasp or retaliate, Death doesn’t find out, because before he can even register that he’s just planted his boot right over an invisible line, the sudden slap of footsteps on ancient stone begins to echo through the arena, drawing his gaze from yours and turning it to the railings overhead.

A figure, tall and decaying and entirely too familiar, all but slams into the barrier at full speed, careening to a halt only when his hands catch the bars.

Wild green eyes blaze vividly from inside the darkness of the newcomer’s hood. Frantic, they dart across the pit as he leans over the railings, his shoulders heaving beneath a tattered cloak and the weight of several broken swords.

“Lady Y/n!” he pants raggedly, finding you within seconds and locking you in his sights.

Momentarily startled by his unexpected arrival, you do a double-take, letting your jaw fall open for a second before you manage to sputter out, “Draven?”

“Oh, oh thank God,” the undead rasps, his rigid hands going slack on the bars when he sees you looking back at him, “Thank God… Stay right there! I’m coming down!”

Then, as briskly as he’d arrived, he’s gone, shoving himself off the railings and whirling around, disappearing from view.

Brows raised, you return your focus to Death, only to find the Horseman is already staring back at you with an unreadable expression. Upon meeting his gaze, your eyebrows instantly snap into a scowl, and you grace him with a heated glare for another moment before turning sharply away from him, crossing your arms over your chest and hoping he hadn’t been looking too closely at the wetness teetering perilously close to the edge of your lashes.

It’s… never an easy thing to have an ugly truth ripped up from the grave you buried it in and held in front of your face, forcing you to look at it for the first time.

Several years ago, you ignored a warning light on your car for three months before the vehicle sputtered to a halt five miles from home. You knew the problem was there… it was just easier to pretend it wasn’t. Until you couldn’t… Until something else broke on the back of it.

You know you rely too heavily on his protection, even if – until now – the fact had remained largely unspoken. You know that if it weren’t for you, Death would be miles ahead of where he is. You know it, but it still hurts to hear it aloud from the Horseman’s mouth.

And it hurts because you believe it.

You believe him.

You care about what he thinks of you.

The sudden clanking of heavy chains snaps you from your ruminations, tearing your gaze from the Horseman and turning it to the side of the arena, where a narrow portcullis is built into the wall not far from where Gnashor had fallen.

Beyond the dark, iron bars, you spot the familiar Blademaster, furiously hauling at a winch with all his might.

His hood has drooped down to conceal much of his face, but you can still make out the sinewy strands of his jaw tightening and falling slack again as he grits his exposed teeth around arduous grunts of effort, raising the portcullis up off the ground.

He barely gets it halfway open before he evidently decides that he’s raised it far enough.

Jamming a lever into the winch to lock the chains in place, he ducks beneath the jutting spokes with a flourish of his cloak, shaking his hood back so he can peer underneath the lip of it as he strides towards you, his viridescent eyes riveted doggedly in your direction.

“There you are,” he gushes out, suggesting a breathlessness that shouldn’t be biologically possible.

“Draven-” you begin, only to have the wind knocked out of you when the undead reaches you and, without warning, throws his hands out to grasp you by the arms, anchoring you in place as his eyes scour you from head to toe – presumably hunting for injuries.

“I came to find you at my quarters,” he says stiffly, “When I saw you gone, I… I admit I feared the worst.”

A chilly presence brushes close to your back. You don’t have to look to know who’s standing there, couldn’t even if you wanted to. Draven is dominating your focus, drawing one of his bony hands up to catch your chin and tilt it back in much the same way Death had, inspecting the bruises around your neck.

A rough hiss slips between his bared teeth.

“… The merchant told me you were challenging Gnashor for an audience with the King,” he utters in a dangerous lilt, tearing his eyes off your throat to toss a glare at Death over the top of your head, “What were you thinking? Bringing her to the battle!?”

“I’m afraid it’s a little more complicated than-,” you begin, only to choke on the words when an ice-cold hand snatches the back of your shirt and you’re unceremoniously ripped out of Draven’s grasp and flung backwards behind Death, who immediately surges forth to take the spot you’d just been standing in.

Staggering to an unsteady halt in the ash, you press your fingertips tenderly to your neck and aim a grumble at the back of his head, tugging your shirt back into its proper place. The damn thing is sure to wrinkle if he keeps that up.

Towering at least a foot over the incensed undead, he jabs a finger in Draven’s rotting face, shoulders all quivering and ruffled as he barks, “Perhaps, Blademaster, if you spent less time fretting over her, and more time focusing on your recruits, she wouldn’t be down here in the first place!”

“The Hell’re you on about?” Draven snarls back, irritably smacking Death’s hand away from his face, “What have my recruits to do with your follies?”

But you see it there, in his eyes – that tiny narrowing of the flaky lids, the way the pale lights flick to the left, as if something brief and sudden has just occurred to him.

As if he knows something…

“My follies!?” Death’s outrage comes through palpably, thickening the air with the necrotic stench of rot, “One of your men followed us here and saw fit to toss the girl straight over those bars-!” Flinging an arm out, he gestures wildly at the iron spokes ringing the arena overhead. “No doubt-” he continues, spitting vehemently, “- in the hopes that Gnashor would finish us both off! That-! is what your recruits have to do with my follies.”

Draven’s lips curl downwards at the admonishment, but when he peers around Death’s shoulder to catch your eye, the hard line of his jaw eases, and he grows rather urgent, brushing past the Horseman to reclaim his position in front of you once again.

“Fair Lady, I trust your word in all of this-“

“-But not my own?” Death barks incredulously from the rear.

Ignoring his indignation, Draven reaches down and scoops up your hand, clasping it firmly but ever so carefully between his enormous palms. Bewildered, you blink up into the shadows of his hood as he peers back down at you, the ridges of his brow furrowed to leave a crevice in the paper-thin flesh between his sunken eye sockets.

“Was it Brumox?” he whispers hoarsely, leaning closer to your face, “Was it he who laid his hands on you?”

“Brumox?” you echo, eyes narrowing. You never said his name.

Subconsciously, you give your hand a tug, feeling his grip tighten in response. “Draven… Did you know he’d do this?”

“No,” he declares so firmly that you jump, his voice like unwavering steel. Then, heaving a sigh, he lowers his gaze to your hands grasped between his own, and winces at the bone gleaming through tears in his flesh. “No…” he continues, a note quieter, “Believe me, If I had known what he was planning, I’d’ve…”

Gruffly clearing his throat, he finally lets you go, taking a step back and glaring hard at the ash around his boots. “Of all my recruits….” he begins to explain, “Brumox has been the most opposed to your being here, my lady.”

“You knew this,” Death spits, “And yet you allowed him to remain a threat to my-…! To her!?”

“I knew he had no love for the living,” Draven argues, twisting his head towards a shoulder and addressing the Horseman, “I knew his feathers were ruffled by her arrival in the Eternal Throne. I did not, however, think that even he could be capable of this treachery.”

Throwing an arm out in your direction, Death continues on his tirade. “And because of your oversight, she was almost killed - would have been, had I not saved her life.”

“Uh, Gnashor saved my life,” you interject petulantly, irked to be spoken about you as if you aren’t even here.

“Gnashor?” Draven’s skeletal face goes slack as he shoots several glances between you and the skull laying nearby. All it takes is one more look at the branded fingers sweeping around your neck before he presses his teeth together and lets a sigh slip between the miniscule gaps. “Ah, perhaps you can regale me with the story later,” he amends, “You need rest, and those bruises must be tended to.”

Before you can open your mouth to argue that you’ll be all right, that you’ve been through worse, Death cuts in. “And Brumox? What do you intend to do about him? Because believe you me, Blademaster, when I get my hands on –“

“-You leave Brumox to me,” Draven interrupts darkly, “His transgression was done by a man under my watch. I’ll be the one to deal with it.”

And with that said, the Blademaster moves to stand beside you and raises a long, sinewy arm, letting it hover mere millimetres from your back.

You know when you’re being steered, and you’re not averse to it here. Draven doesn’t push or pull or use his strength to move you where he wants you to go. He simply waits, content to let you take the first step.

Offering the undead a tired smile, you begin to trudge slowly towards the portcullis, wiping a hand down the length of your face and feeling coarse grains of ash scrape gently over your cheeks. Draven easily keeps in step with you, taking a single stride for every two of your own.

The pair of you breeze past Death, paying the Horseman no mind even as he twists to follow you with his eyes, glaring caustically at the arm Draven has snuck around the back of your shoulders.

Gnashing his teeth together hard, his jaw springs open again and he snaps testily after your retreating forms, “And I suppose I’m to lug this skull back by myself, am I?”

Your stride doesn’t even falter, though Draven’s hood turns slightly towards you, as if he’s prepared and ready to receive an instruction at the drop of a hat, so long as it comes from you.

Striking a sharp look over your shoulder, you lock eyes with the Horseman and primly retort, “You killed him, you carry him.”

You don’t give yourself time to see the expression shift underneath that pale, mask of bone. You’re too sore from the insecurity he’d just pried open with those cold, calloused fingers, laying it bare for you to acknowledge properly for the first time. So, you turn away without another word, leaning heavily against the undead at your side, weary enough to let yourself rely on his sturdiness to keep you moving forwards.

Draven, in his most private opinion, is only too pleased to be used as a makeshift crutch. The warmth of a flesh-and-blood woman under his arm seeps through his flaking skin and fills him with a vigour he hasn’t known since those bygone days, when he was a young man himself, alive and striking, with a lover on his arm and a burst of affection in his chest. He can almost remember it so clearly in the hollow cavity that used to house his heart. It’s intoxicating to be allowed to feel it again, and he finds his appreciation for your presence in the Dead Plains is beginning to grow tenfold.

He is, however, less than pleased to see the injuries you’ve sustained, and there’s a rage rapidly building in his long-decayed guts that insists upon finding retribution for the crimes committed against you here today.

What Brumox did was nothing less than an egregious betrayal. And Draven won’t abide by traitors under his command, even if it isn’t directly himself that they’ve betrayed.

There’s a sudden, phantom twinge in the middle of his back, between the notches of his spine that reminds him of his own fate. The face of a coward rises from the depths of his memory, and he has to clamp his jaw shut to conceal the growl that almost slips out.

It won’t do to frighten the object of his sudden yearning. Right now, there’s only one order of business, and that’s to return you to the relative safety of the Eternal Throne.

He distracts himself from thoughts of bloody, searing vengeance by braving the last few iotas of space between your skin and his, pressing his forearm across the breadth of your shoulder blades and trying not to shudder at the warmth spreading through his limb.

It’s like feeling the first touch of sunlight after an eternity spent embraced by a cold, dark grave...

----------

Ancient, wooden doors fly open with a resounding ‘wham’ that sends a jolt of momentary alarm through the undead milling about the Eternal Throne’s courtyard.

Dozens of heads whip towards the source of the sound – the courtyard’s main entrance – and every eye in the place grows wide upon spotting the Blademaster himself prowling out into the sunlight, an unfamiliar yet easily recognisable figure sheltered underneath the weight of one of his outstretched arms.

Draven ignores the stares. His eyes are on the hunt, flicking from left to right as he glares poisonously at each undead in search of one particular face.

His arm - the one without an array of rusted blades sprouting from his mouldering flesh – is loosely slung around your shoulders, keeping you close against his side, though he hopes not so close that you’re able to pick up on the faint stench of rot that perpetually clings to his remains.

He hasn’t said a word since he pulled you from the Gilded Arena and left Death in the proverbial dust, mindful that with his thoughts circling Brumox like a bird of prey, nothing that leaves his lips would be suited for a lady’s ears.

Not that you’re in any particular mood to converse either, too preoccupied by the very plausible worry of running into Brumox again. You’ve been chewing a fresh ulcer into the inside of your cheek for the last five minutes, fretting over how he’ll react when he sees you alive. Will he deny ever being in the Arena? It’s your word – and Death’s – against his. Are you about to find yourself caught up in the Dead Plain’s judicial system?

Is there a judicial system here?

The unanswered questions cause your stomach to roll miserably like a ball of lead has dropped down inside it, and you curl an arm across your abdomen, grimacing at nothing in particular as your other hand idly squeezes the grip of Karn’s sword.

It’s an unbelievable relief to have the weapon back in your grasp where it belongs. The scabbard, however, hadn’t fared so well. Its leather was snapped just in front the buckle when it was torn so unceremoniously from your hip, leaving you with no way to secure it around you anymore.

Your crestfallen expression was enough to send Draven scrambling to offer reassurance. “We got plenty of those back at the Barracks,” he’d told you as you took the broken leather in hand and gazed down at it with a quivering lip, “I’ll take you there myself after your business with the King’s in order.”

It was kind and thoughtful, and you told him as much, earning yourself several sputtered sentences and stilted chuckles in response. Still, you don’t know to explain to him, without sounding like a fool, that it just won’t be the same. This is Karn’s scabbard. It, and the sword he forged, are the only parts of the young maker that could follow you into this strange, new world, and to be without even one of them feels…

“Bastard’s not ‘ere,” Draven grumbles to himself, pulling your gaze off the toes of your boots as you shuffle along next to him. Casting him a sideways glance, you’re just in time to catch the wince that warps his expression before he spares you a sheepish look. “Er, Brumox isn’t here, I mean.”

There’s a tiny shift of the leaden weight in your guts.

“Oh, good,” you sigh, returning your eyes to the courtyard and sweeping them towards the stairs.

All at once, you perk up significantly when you see the large, woollen figure standing near the undercroft, a spiralling trail of soft, purple smoke drifting lazily from the pipe between his lips.

He’s in the midst of waving off a wiry undead and feeding several glinting coins into one of the pouches on his side when he glances up, his movements coming to an abrupt halt once he catches sight of you halfway across the courtyard.

Beside you, Draven has lifted his gaze to the rickety ramparts above, a snarl pulling the skin around his mouth even further from his crooked teeth. “Don’t worry,” he tells you in a low growl, “I’ll track ‘im down… He won’t get away with what he did…”

The decisive nature of his remark prompts you to put a voice to one of your fears. “… What if he doesn’t admit to it?”

“Oh, he’ll get a chance to say his piece,” Draven amends, albeit darkly, “But those bruises don’t lie. Gnashor ain’t the stranglin’ type. And I’ll bet the Horseman’d rather cut his own legs off than put a mark on you.”

He says it so matter-of-factly that your concern is knocked slightly askew, and you wonder what in the world had given him that impression. He barely knows Death.

“Whatever the outcome though,” he continues, hesitating for just a moment before he plucks up the courage to give your shoulders a consoling squeeze, “I don’t intend to let this happen again.”

Before you can ask him what exactly he’s planning to do to, Draven roves his head up once more and tosses his chin forwards, calling out across the courtyard. “Ostegoth, ‘ve got a favour to ask.”

The Capracus has already taken several steps towards your unlikely duo, meeting you both right in front of the staircase, ripping the pipe from his mouth. 

Concern, painfully genuine, has been etched deeply into the lines between his brows.

“Lamb,” he squeezes out, nostrils puffing quietly at the air. His strange, yellow eyes dart back and forth between the bruises on your neck and your solemn expression. “What happened to-?”

“-Gnashor,” you cut him off, shaking your head, “You were right.”

Blinking back visible bewilderment, he lifts one of his lengthy arms up to take you by the elbow, pulling you gently away from Draven, who lets you go with a soft pat to your back.

“Stay with the Old one,” the undead tells you, earning a harrumph from Ostegoth, but Draven has already tugged the lip of his cowl forwards to cover his eyes and turned on a heel, letting his cloak swish regally behind him as he stalks his way across the courtyard on a dead-set path towards the recruits still training diligently in their circle.

“Where are you going?” you call after him, straining through discomfort to raise your voice enough to be heard.

Without turning back, Draven raises an arm and jabs his thumb at you over his shoulder, loudly declaring, “To find the bastard who gave you those.”

You can only assume he means the bruises.

A large, spindly appendage lands on your shoulder and draws your attention back to Ostegoth, who is gazing down at you through wide, searching eyes. You don’t miss how they flick to your neck and back again.

“Oh,” he croaks hoarsely, “Gnashor… did he do…?”

“He didn’t hurt me,” you’re quick to reassure him, giving him a probing squint of your own, “He… actually, he saved me, Ostegoth.”

The Capracus’s hand slackens by a fraction, and his expression, once taut with concern, loses some of its rigidity. “You did not raise your sword against him….” he breathes, gazing down at you in astonishment.

Pressing your lips together, you hesitate for a moment, scuffing the toe of your boot against the ground.  “Well... I didn’t,” you stress at last, twisting to shoot a glance over your shoulder, directing Ostegoth’s gaze to the doors at the far end of the courtyard. “But…”

As if on cue, there’s an almighty ruckus as the doors are battered open, cracking off the stone foundations surrounding them.

From the darkness of the corridor, twin flashes of burning, golden fire precede the rest of the Horseman as he prowls into the pale light, his knees stooped to bear the awkward weight of Gnashor’s skull upon his back.

The whole courtyard seems to stop and hold its breath. Undead milling about the outskirts pause to stare, and even you find yourself freezing, goosebumps raising along your arms when you feel that luminous glare sweep over you.

 At your back, Ostegoth shifts, and his hand slides slowly from your arm. “Ah,” he utters, the relief gone from his voice, “I see.”

“I’m sorry,” you immediately turn back to him, “I tried-“

But he merely raises a hand to stop you, his horned head bowed, understanding.

 “What’s done is done,” he says, ears flicking back, “To secure your audience with the Lord of Bones, a sacrifice must be made."

'Sacrifice?' you blink, silently wondering at the term.

"It is…” Trailing off, the merchant hums to himself, then heaves a sigh that causes his entire frame to sag, like all the wind has been taken from his sails. “He will be all right.”

You don’t know how anyone could be ‘all right’ after decapitation, but before you can try to gently broach the topic, the percolating chill that rolls of Death finally reaches you, raising the hairs on the nape of your neck.

A glance to your left reveals the Horseman in profile, paused at the foot of the wooden staircase that leads up to the upper balcony and the adjoining throne room. His mask has tilted towards you, an impassive stare catching yours and holding it for the breadth of a second.

You exhale softly.

While you're still sore about his comment in the Arena, it would be a lie to say that your frustration with him hasn’t already started to wane, leaving a kernel of guilt to lodge itself between your ribs. You open your mouth, prepared to extend the proverbial olive branch and offer a stilted and awkward apology for leaving him to carry Gnashor’s skull all the way here, but just then, he speaks, cutting you off.

“Will you be joining me now?”

And okay, perhaps that was deserved, but you let it roll of your shoulders. He’s said more hurtful things before, and if he was truly angry, you’d wager he wouldn’t be inviting you back to his side.

Perhaps you're not the only one with designs on making peace.

Bolstered by this revelation, you find it in you to offer him a sheepish grin and a nod. “Yeah,” you say, timidly adding, “If that’s okay.”

And Death, for as adept as he is at maintaining an air of emotional vacancy, allows himself a blink, the hard creases around his eyes smoothing over as his face relaxes beneath the mask.

“Of course,” he returns, appraising you as you give Ostegoth a murmured farewell.

Eyeing the Horseman through a narrow gaze, the Capracus waits until you’ve sidled away from him before he suddenly pipes up, “Shall I tell the Blademaster where you’ve gone?”

Death has already begun his ascent, but you hold back just long enough to knock two fingers off your forehead in a quick salute. “Please, and thanks, Ostegoth.”

He grumbles something as he waves you off, flapping a wrist at you until you turn and fall into step behind the Horseman, traipsing along in his shadow.

At the top of the stairs, the pair of guards posted outside the throne room promptly snap to attention, crossing their weapons over one another to bar any attempt at entry. Death, however, readily ignores them. They’re not his quarry. Not quite yet, anyway.

Instead, he makes a beeline for the Chancellor, who reels away from the balcony and squawks out in shock when he sees the two of you coming, his jaw is hanging so far from the roof of his mouth that it looks as if it might pop off and tumble to the ground at any second. The undead starts to sputter something, and you can’t help but take some childish glee in his floundering as you lean around the Horseman and catch a glimpse of those pale, green eyes bulging with unmitigated alarm.

Then, with all the collected poise of a diplomat but none of the gentility, Death hoists Gnashor’s skull over his shoulder and drops it discourteously to the ground.

It lands just in front of the Chancellor’s robes with a ‘crack’ that has you cringing sympathetically, and the undead stumbling back until his spine hits the railings behind him.

“Your Champion,” Death drawls, pleased to see him squirm, “As requested.”

The Chancellor’s mouth flaps open and closed before he eventually locks his jaw, gaze darting down to you, as if you might offer him an explanation more concise than Death abruptly dumping a skull at his feet.  

Instead, all he gets from you is a nonchalant shrug.

At that, his eyes fly back to Death, and he manages to squeeze out a tight, “Impossible!”

You wonder what he’d been expecting. And then you start to wonder how many people he’s sent to Gnashor who hadn’t returned. Enough to apparently warrant such shock.

Your lip curls disdainfully.

“I believe your King will see us now,” Death continues with a cock of his hips, draping one hand over his belt.

Once again, the Chancellor looks to you, apparently still hoping that you can talk some sense into the Horseman. Several terse seconds pass, one of which he even seems to spend noticing the marks around your neck, but whatever he thinks, he neglects to mention them at all.

At long last, his lip starts to twist into a nasty frown as he senses that he’s only delaying the inevitable.

You brace yourself, ready to for him to refuse you entry yet again or come up with some other bad excuse as to why you can’t see his Lord.

But then, to his credit…

“I… cannot deny you,” he realises softly, and gestures with a slow wave of his arm towards the guards at the door.

You and Death turn to them, and it’s almost comical to see how readily the two, hulking undead stand to attention and uncross their weapons. One of them reaches back and raps his knuckles soundly four times against the petrified wood, and with a shudder and a groan of their hinges, the doors start to swing inwards, letting a gust of stale air rush out through the gap and waft across your face.

"Watch your tongue around my Lord," the Chancellor hisses at the back of your heads, "You'll find he is not so forgiving as I..." 

Swallowing thickly, you take a single step forward, only to find a hand pulling you up short. Glancing at the pale appendage curled around your shoulder, you follow the arm up to Death’s mask, and his narrowed eyes floating in the dark sockets. He’s peering ahead, straight through the open doors and into the throne room.

You catch his drift without needing to hear a word.

He’ll be going first then.

“After you,” you concede, leaning onto your back foot and letting him move ahead.

Straightening his shoulders, the Horseman moves purposefully through the open doors whilst you follow along in his wake, whispering a quiet ‘thanks,’ to the undead who tips his helmet at you as you pass.

Just as you set your first foot inside, something dark and feathery shoots over your head without warning, zooming into the room ahead of you and Death.

“Dust!” you exclaim, startled yet pleased to see the crow, “Where the Hell have you been!?”

“He has a habit of turning up when the hard work is finished,” Death remarks coolly, watching with a bored expression as the bird flaps his way towards the tall throne at the far end of the room, perching daintily on top of it and cocking his head down to beadily eye the figure slouched in the seat below him.

“Aw, I missed him.”

“Speak for yourself.”

"Alright, hardman." 

Trailing over the threshold properly, Dust’s emergence is soon forgotten. You can’t keep your eyes from drinking in the sombre architecture all around you.

There are two more guards posted up inside the entrance, and another pair standing at the top of some stone steps on the other side of the room, both clasping their respective halberds as they glower you and the Horseman down.

The air is stale in here despite the high, curved ceilings and gaping holes in the walls that let daylight spill inside. It reeks of old stone, like the cold, sepulchral church you’d sought refuge in all those days ago… But beneath the must and stagnant dust, there’s another smell, something earthy like compost. It reminds you of Draven, though it’s far stronger in here than it is on him.

And then, as Death moves forwards and slows his pace, allowing you a glimpse of what’s ahead, you spot the likely source of the smell.

Instinct keeps you holding onto your words whilst you slip into place behind the Horseman, edging out to peek around him at the corpse slumped over in the throne ahead of you. A reverent breath slides past your lips as you take it in.

There’s no life inside it. Not even the bastardisation of life the rest of the undead you’ve met seem animated by. It... No... He sits as stiffly as a long-dead carcass in the throne, shadowed by the high backrest that’s been inlaid with skulls in a gruesome depiction of power. Even in his elevated position on the dais, he looks tall. Taller than Death, perhaps in the same league as Ostegoth, but nowhere near as soft and approachable.

You’re not expecting it at all when, all of a sudden, the cadaver moves.

A sharp yelp jumps out of you before you can catch it as a pair of blank, green eyes spring open, lighting up the sunken sockets of a drawn, skeletal face. Lips as dry as ash crackle and flake at their edges, turned down into a grimace, and without warning, the head jerks up with a visceral ‘snap.'

Raising a hand to cover your mouth, you realise with a dawning sense of horror that you’re watching rigor mortis in motion.

Ancient bones that probably haven’t moved for a long, long time start to wake up. They creak like tree limbs as he wrenches his shoulders back.

‘Snap!’

And tugs at the limbs draped over the arms of his throne.

‘Crack!’

Every little movement looks painful and stilted, and even the crown of bones perched on top of his skull seems too heavy as he pushes his body forwards in the seat, hands spasming into fists when his terrible gaze takes in his new visitors.

When he speaks however, you’re taken aback by the rich, if gravelly voice that thrums from his half-decomposed throat, hidden partially by thin strands of a wispy, white beard which has somehow managed to cling to what little scraps of leathery flesh still remain along his jawline.

“Horseman,” the Lord of Bones sneers, and you can’t help but stare at the puff of dust that flies out from between his crooked teeth, “You stink of the living….”

With an accusing glance down over his shoulder at you, Death lets out a soft little ‘hmph.’

Offended, you furrow your brows right back at him and mouth, ‘dick.’  

There’s no way you’ve made him smell like you…. If anything, you’re probably the one who smells like him.

Your little stare-down is cut short when there’s another crack of bones from the figurehead before you.

In a far more violent motion, the King surges forwards as far as his spine will allow, curls of fetid, green smoke rising from his shoulders like a miasma. Eyes ablaze, he locks the Horseman in his sights, peels blackened lips back over his teeth and snarls, “You are not welcome here.”

“Pity,” Death remarks, casual as can be, “I was starting to enjoy the atmosphere.”

The Lord of Bones sneers derisively, leaning back and sitting tall with another crack of his spine, leering down the length of his nasal ridge at Death. “Then you have not been here long.”

You’re growing bolder, inching further from the Horseman’s side to stare unabashedly up at the King on his throne.

He could have been human once, you marvel, old as the Earth’s core, a giant among men, now wizened and haggard but no less an imposing figure with his regalia made from bone and a face so sunken and cruel, it makes your palms sweat just to look at it.

But it’s as you find yourself taking that first step out into the open, mouth slightly ajar and eyes on stalks, the King finally takes note of your presence.

You know precisely when he meets your gaze because you’re suddenly frozen solid. A bolt of ice lances up your spine, anchoring you in place like a beetle pinned to a corkboard.

It occurs to you then, that accompanying Death in here might have been a terrible idea. Officially, you’ve met exactly three undead. One had welcomed you warmly into the realm. Another met you with scorn and derision. And the third had tried to kill you.

So, how will you be received here by the Lord of this realm?

You suppress a shudder, averting your gaze at once.

“So… the whispers were true,” the old undead finally rasps, breaking the suffocating hush that had drifted into the room.

You hear him lean forwards, flinching when sharp, splintered fingernails curl over the throne’s armrests and scrape audibly against the bone as they tighten their grip.

“One survived after all.”

[devildomwriter]

Ain’t No Mountain High Enough | Mammon x Reader

3.4K Words | GN! Reader | CW: mentions of sickness, some suggestiveness | Romance/Humor

When your common cold turns out to be something much more dangerous Mammon rushes into lava-flooded land to find what he believes is your only chance at making it out alive.

Another cough echoed through the house and Mammon flinched. He clicked his tongue in annoyance but Lucifer knew he was only worried.

“They’re still sick?” He asked for the millionth time that day. Lucifer sighed, tired of hearing the same question every few minutes, and nodded.

“Mammon, for the last time—“ he began but his office door swinging open cut him short.

“Lucifer,” Diavolo exclaimed making the two brothers jump.

“Lord Diavolo?” Lucifer asked, unprepared for his sudden entrance.

“I’m afraid I have some unpleasant news—“ his words were cut short by another gaggle of hacks and coughs from the other side of the house.

“That’s, ___, isn’t it?” He asked, brows furrowed in distress.

“Yes. Their cold hasn’t gone away,” Lucifer confirmed and Diavolo shook his head as Barbatos entered the room, equally concerned.

“That’s why I’m here, actually,” Diavolo frowned and Barbatos stepped up to explain in his place, seeing how upset Diavolo was.

“It’s not a cold.” He stated and Mammon jumped to his feet.

“Huh? What is it then?”

“If you’d let me explain,” Barbatos scowled but in his panic, Mammon wasn’t phased.

Lucifer clenched his jaw anxiously and Barbatos continued. “It’s the Hell-Magma Virus.”

“The what?” Mammon interrupted again and this time Lucifer glared at him too and yelled at him to quiet down.

“The recent volcanic eruptions in the third layer have released a slew of ancient viruses. This one is akin to the common cold and relatively easy for a demon to recover from, however—“

Another cacophony erupted from your room as you coughed and cleared your throat continuously. You struggled just to clear your airways from the drainage so you could breathe.

Leviathan cautiously walked into the office while Satan strode in as if he belonged there. He walked up to Diavolo and demanded answers as he’d been eavesdropping.

“You’re not even gonna hide the fact you were listenin’ in?” Mammon scoffed and Satan rolled his eyes.

“As if you wouldn’t do the same.”

“Well, yeah, but that’s different—“

“Mammon shut up!” Lucifer scolded.

“Why only me?” Mammon yelped.

“Quiet!” Satan, Lucifer, and Leviathan yelled simultaneously.

Barbatos shook his head at their quarrel and continued. “The medication we’ve acquired was made from flowers at the bottom of the volcano before the lava burned what was left. We don’t have a strong enough variation of this medication to cure ___.”

“So, we’ll call for Simeon,” Lucifer suggested but Diavolo shook his head.

“This virus…it’s more of a curse, there’s only so much Simeon can do. This curse which acts as a contagious virus will continue for at least twenty days. The medication for demons should clear up their symptoms in three days but for ___ that will be too late. The effects they are experiencing now will worsen until their saliva bubbles and the accumulating mucus in their throat becomes hot enough to burn through their lungs—“

“Aaaah! I don’t wanna hear it!” Mammon cut him off. “Just tell us how to fix it!” Rather than scold him, his brothers agreed and they looked pointedly at Diavolo and Barbatos.

“Well, we’re working on a medication now with aid from our magic but it would be beneficial for us to have more of the magma-glories to work with.”

“Right, got it! Where are they!?” Mammon exclaimed, ready to run.

“Hold on, Mammon,” Lucifer warned.

“There should be more in the fourth layer. However, it’s too dangerous to teleport there as we can’t be sure the lava hasn’t spread anywhere we attempt to land.” Barbatos explained.

“Flying isn’t an option either. The plume of smoke and ash will make it impossible to see or breathe,” Diavolo continued.

Lucifer clenched his fist, “Then I’ll figure something out,” he growled and Diavolo nodded.

“Right, why don’t we call Solomon,” Satan advised and they agreed. All except for Mammon who was already out the door.

“Where did Mammon go?” Lucifer asked, already knowing the answer.

“That idiot…” Leviathan mumbled.

Leviathan left to tell his brothers what was happening and they rushed to your bedside as their older brothers and wiser friends discussed what to do.

You continued coughing and groaned in agony. You felt like you were choking and not even Simeon’s and Luke’s angelic powers could cure it; they could only keep it at bay enough to let you lay down again without suffocating.

You saw their worried expressions and knew something was different, it wasn’t just a cold.

“So—“ you croaked. “Wh-ats, hap-ppen–ing?” You struggled to speak as your throat scratched with every word.

“Well…” Asmodeus bit his lip and looked away and Levi looked at the ground while Beelzebub stayed silent.

You could only wonder what was threatening your life this time around. Tuesday was the last time you nearly died, it was Saturday, and you’d gotten sick Wednesday. That didn’t take long at all, did it…

“Well…” Belphegor tried to explain when Solomon burst through the door to your room.

“Eek! Solomon, give us some warning!” Asmodeus cried out. Solomon ignored him and instead rushed to your side.

“My poor apprentice,” Solomon cooed sadly, but then he grinned and held up a glowing purple vial.

“N-o!” You choked.

“It’s not food,” Satan explained walking in with Diavolo, Lucifer, and Barbatos. You sighed in relief and Solomon frowned.

“I could make you some soup though—“

“There’s no time for that nonsense,” Lucifer hissed and the sorcerer sighed and fed you the potion.

“What is that?” Leviathan asked and Lucifer sighed, more relaxed than he had been.

“It’s the cure. Solomon made it the last time it went around in the Devildom, just in case he could catch it. He didn’t…so he still has it and now it’s very potent due to the amount of time.”

“Wow, really?” Asmodeus gasped. “How long has that been?”

“Hey, there! There’s no need to go explaining my age to them,” Solomon waved, silencing him in an instant. Solomon turned back to you in bed and ignored the question.

Your sickly pale, pasty skin, ten shades lighter than usual began regaining its normal color. Almost immediately you felt the strength to sit up, but as soon as you did, the nausea came in full force. You bent over the trash can, vomiting what seemed like an eternal river of mucus that burnt through the trash can.

“Eek!” Asmodeus screamed in fear and disgust and the brothers looked away uneasy.

Solomon was shocked, “it’s already gotten so bad?”

Barbatos shook his head amazed, “I see. Thankfully ___ is significantly stronger with their pacts and the help of Luke, Simeon, and Raphael.”

“Yes. Thirteen was keeping an eye on their candle too,” Solomon informed.

“That’s cause she wants ___’s soul.” Belphegor chided.

“That’s true, but she doesn’t want it right now,” Solomon argued for Thirteen’s sake. Thirteen wanted your soul as much as anyone but more than that she wanted to enjoy your presence and life much longer.

You rubbed the crust from your eyes and Beelzebub gave you a wet rag to wipe your mouth as Belphegor pulled your hair back.

“Hey…where’s Mammon?” You inquired and everyone looked at each other.

“Oh…somewhere in the fourth layer surrounded by active volcanoes,” Satan said nonchalantly.

You spit out the water Asmodeus had just handed you and he shrieked and wiped his face off.

“What do you mean!?” You demanded.

“Well you see, before we got in contact with Solomon, our options were to experiment with lesser medications we had or to create more potent ones.” Barbatos explained, “We needed a special flower for that, so Mammon ran off to get it.”

“Active volcanoes? He slips down the stairs at least once a week why in the three worlds did you let him go alone!?” You panicked and Lucifer looked guilty.

“He’ll be back when it gets too hard,” Leviathan clucked and you shook your head.

“No, he won’t! It’s Mammon we’re talking about!”

“Exactly,” Belphegor sneered.

You shook your head and glared, “Right! So you should know that when it comes to me Mammon will do literally anything.”

They all fell silent as they thought it over and realized you were right.

“Oh…so he’s probably,” Leviathan muttered.

“At the volcanoes…” Beelzebub worried, frowning.

“Ugh…” Belphegor sighed but was the first to speak up, “Let’s go get our idiot brother.”

Everyone nodded, “Right.”

They began to shuffle out the door but you stopped them before they could leave.

“Wait! One thing!”

“Yeah?” Leviathan asked, worriedly.

“All of you need to promise me—no—you must obey me when I tell you—do not let Mammon know you cured me.”

The six brothers immediately nodded, subjected to your power, but Solomon looked puzzled. “Oh, and why not?”

You frowned, “because…I want Mammon to think he saved me. He tries really hard and…”

“Falls flat?” Satan huffed.

“Fails?” Leviathan stated.

“Disappoints us every time,” Lucifer grimaced.

“He tries?” Asmodeus questioned.

“Enough!” You barked. “Mammon tries really hard and I want him to think he saved my life. Especially because if you didn’t conveniently have this vial, Solomon, Mammon was the first one out that door ready to brave flowing lava and poisonous smoke for me!”

“Poisonous?” Belphegor asked.

“How poisonous…” Beelzebub gulped.

“Uh…well I’m not a volcanologist, as cool as that would be, but…” You looked at Barbatos for help.

“Human world volcanoes release ash that can be detrimental to health when inhaled, even having long-term effects,” he began. “The volcanoes also release carbon dioxide which is deadly when exposed to for too long. Here in the Devildom, it’s the same but at more lethal levels. A high-level demon like Mammon should be fine if he inhaled some but…”

“But he’s probably panicking and running around like a moron looking for the flowers,” Lucifer sighed.

“Well, hurry and get him, he might be passed out on a rock somewhere!?” You ordered and they immediately left.

Simeon, Raphael, and Luke stayed behind to monitor you. Thirteen showed up an hour later when she was sure your life candle was stable.

“Which button do I press if there’s an emergency…?” Simeon asked and angled his phone for Luke to look at it.

“The green one! It’s always the green one!” Luke barked, upset he still had to explain these things to Simeon.

“At this point, he’s got to be messing with you,” Thirteen remarked and walked to your bedside, sitting next to you.

You could tell she had been stressed and you squeezed her hand. She blushed and took it away, “huh? What was that for?” She asked and you laughed at her cute response.

“Thank you,” you said and she turned a deeper shade of pink.

“You mean for looking after your candle? Obviously, I’m not just gonna let you die, you’re way too entertaining.”

You chuckled, “Okay. Sure.”

“What do you mean, sure?” She demanded but Simeon’s phone began ringing.

“The green one?” He asked.

“Yes!” Luke threw his hands up in the air, exasperated.

“Calm down Luke, it’s okay,” Raphael patted his shoulder and Luke crossed his arms and huffed as Simeon held the phone out for everyone to hear.

“The speaker, Simeon,” Thirteen reminded.

Simeon instantly looked confused so Raphael hit the button for him.

“Can you repeat that,” Luke asked.

“We found him,” Satan’s voice sounded over the speaker.

Your shoulders relaxed and you let out a deep sigh, relieved your precious but often stupid demon hadn’t gotten himself killed while running around.

“He didn’t even know what the flower looked like!” Leviathan shouted into the phone and Satan scolded him for being so loud.

“And?” Raphael prodded.

“He found it anyway…” Satan mumbled, seemingly not wanting to admit it.

“Wow, really!?” Luke exclaimed and Raphael looked similarly surprised.

“You were right, ___.” Simeon smiled at you knowingly and you blushed.

“How is he doing?” You asked loudly until Luke finally handed you the phone.

“He’s unconscious. As soon as he saw us he passed out.”

“From fear?” Raphael questioned disgruntled.

“IDK, probably relief. Looks like he was trying to call us.” Leviathan responded and you frowned.

“There’s no fucking signal out here what’d he expect?” Belphegor complained.

“Then how are you calling?”

“Solomon has a spell for everything,” Leviathan responded. “Anyway, we’re teleporting back home now, clear the area in your room.”

“My room—“

“Hurry,” Raphael warned and picked up Luke, jumping away to the edge of your room as Simeon and Thirteen scrambled to jump on your bed.

With a puff of smoke the brothers, Barbatos, Diavolo, and Mephistopheles appeared in the room covered in ash.

Mephistopheles started coughing and wiping the ash off himself as much as he could.

“Oh, hey, Mephisto,” you commented, unaware he’d been part of the crew.

“Likewise,” he grumbled, unhappy with his present state.

“Yeah, we found him too,” Belphegor chuckled and Mephistopheles blushed.

“I would’ve been just fine for your information,” he insisted.

“You didn’t even realize you were surrounded by lava you were so busy taking pictures of it,” Satan argued and the purple-haired demon stiffened up and blushed.

“Mephistopheles, please take better care of yourself. It may be a historically large eruption, but still,” Diavolo worried and Mephistopheles straightened up and bowed, offering a strew of apologies as Diavolo awkwardly accepted them.

Lucifer had Mammon slung over his shoulder and you got up from your bed. Your legs were shaky from all the time you’d spent there and Simeon caught your arm and helped you stand up properly.

“Lie back down, he’s fine,” Lucifer ordered but you ignored him and pointed to your vacated bed.

“Lay him down,” you demanded and Lucifer rolled his eyes and unloaded Mammon.

“Great, now your clean bed has ash everywhere,” Asmodeus pouted. He’d been the one trying to keep the room clean for you during your sick days.

You snapped your fingers and whispered under your breath and the ashes shone brightly and vanished into the air. Luke gasped and Asmodeus’s eyes shone as he watched its brief glow.

“Wow, it’s all gone,” Luke exclaimed.

Mephistopheles nodded and thanked you, as he wasn’t in the mood to deal with any more dirt on himself.

Mephistopheles left, still embarrassed, and Diavolo waved Barbatos and the others from the room. Lucifer ordered his brothers to follow and left you with Mammon passed out on your bed face-down.

Before Satan shut the door behind him you made a zipping motion across your lips, “Remember.” You said and he nodded and repeated the motion before closing the door.

You sighed and smiled.

You looked at the demon snoring in bed and rolled him onto his back.

“That can’t be very comfortable…” you said to yourself and with a bit of magical assistance you removed his coat and took off his sunglasses and shoes.

You drew the comforter over him and crawled onto the other side against the wall, waiting for him to wake up.

Mammon was sound asleep for a long time. Asmodeus brought you food and you played on your phone as you waited. Finally, as the sky reached its darkest hour, Mammon’s nose twitched and he began to softly mumble.

Your name poured softly from his lips and you watched him in adoration. Mammon has always been your favorite even when he wasn’t on his best behavior but today you both proved to everyone else that Mammon could be serious and trustworthy. When it came to you, there was no mountain Mammon wouldn’t climb, no sea he wouldn’t swim across, no hell he wouldn’t face…all for you.

You gently planted a kiss on his lips and his mouth twitched. Slowly Mammon’s eyes opened and his vision cleared up. He sat upright and began coughing, “Oh shit! ___! ___’s flower— I-!”

You threw your arms around him, bringing him back to the present, and as Mammon’s heart slowed he realized where he was. He felt your arms around him and immediately held you close to his chest. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and you felt your shirt dampen as he silently cried in relief.

“Y-you’re okay?” He asked.

You nodded, “Thank you Mammon.”

“Thanks? Did—did I do it?”

You nodded and he hugged you tighter, “Thank goodness… thank goodness!” He exclaimed and began laughing as a weight lifted from his chest.

“Don’t worry! What’d I tell ya, Mammon’s got your back!”

You nodded and laughed still hugging him tightly.

“Forever, right?” You asked and he pulled back looking surprised.

“Of course, forever. Did ya ever doubt me?”

“Not even for a second,” you beamed and his eyes sparkled as you leaned in and kissed his lips.

Grinning, Mammon grabbed your hips and moved you closer to him, positioning you on his waist. He moaned softly as he deepened the kiss between you both. He flicked his tongue across your bottom lip asking for permission. You smirked playfully and parted your lips for him. He growled in excitement and began exploring. He grabbed the back of your head with one hand to pull you in as close as he could and when that wasn’t enough he flipped you onto your back and leaned over you.

Mammon explored your mouth with his tongue excitedly until you patted his back, signaling you needed to breathe. Mammon parted unwillingly, a string of saliva still connecting your lips as you panted heavily. You both laughed excitedly to yourselves and Mammon adjusted himself over you, slinking one hand beneath your shirt.

You moaned into his kiss when suddenly the door burst open, nearly flying off the hinges.

“Oh good, I thought you might be awake,” Satan said in a painfully fake cheerful voice.

“Shit! What the hell man, give us a minute will ya?” Mammon shouted annoyed and angry.

“Really, a minute? That’s all?” Asmodeus strode into the room and shook his head. “Poor ___.”

“Wh-hey! Y’know that’s not what I meant!” Mammon protested.

“Enough shouting,” Lucifer hissed as he joined his brothers in your room.

Your face turned red and Mammon finally swung his leg over the bed and got off of you. His hand still lingered on your slightly exposed stomach. He didn’t intend to leave without seeing more of you that night.

His brothers knew this and they had every intention to stop it.

“You guys—“ Mammon tried to protest.

“Is he awake?” Luke asked nearing the room.

“Ah, shit,” Mammon mumbled and you both straightened out your clothes and sat up straight as Luke walked in holding a small cake.

“I made an Angel Cloud cake! For your recovery!” Luke smiled excitedly and handed it to you.

“Ah sweet, looks good,” Mammon commented and from behind Lucifer, Beelzebub nodded slowly, drool running down his chin.

“Let’s split it,” you said turning to Mammon.

His eyes lit up. “Really?” You nodded and fed him a piece from your fork.

“Wh-huh?” Luke blurted in surprise at the affectionate display.

“Okay Luke, they liked your cake, see? Let’s go back home now shall we?” Simeon suggested and pulled Luke out of the room.

“Hey—wait!” Luke protested, but it was too late.

Raphael glared at Mammon and Mammon hid behind you in fear but disguised this as hugging you from behind.

Volcanoes were nothing but a glare from Raphael had him using you as a shield. He was incorrigible. But he was yours and that would never change.

After an hour of banter and talking between you and the brothers they finally left. Each gave Mammon a steely look before leaving and when Satan left last, he slammed the door shut, well aware of Mammon’s intentions.

Mammon ran to the door to lock it and sighed in relief that you were finally alone again.

He turned around to look back at you and grinned playfully, “So…still up for some fun?” He suggested and you laughed and nodded.

“With you? Always.”

Mammon did not separate from you until the early hours of the following morning, and after his actions that day you spent most of your nights this way.

Mammon would eventually find out that Solomon’s vial had saved you but he successfully “redeemed” himself when the vial turned out to be deadly too and another cure was needed. Solomon was kicked to the doghouse again, and Mammon, without too much complaint from his brothers, deservedly got you to himself once again.

[tootoomanycats]

The Plan

Chapter One: Best Laid Plans...

Pairing:

Gil-Galad x Human Reader Fem

Word Count: 6,415 words

If you prefer to read on AO3 its HERE

Summary: (SET IN THE RINGS OF POWER TV SERIES) (Takes place years before the first episode) As time settles the world’s chaos, Gil-Galad begins to feel an unusual boredom. After centuries of war, his days are now filled with mundane paperwork, the ink on the parchment mocking him with its monotony. When he receives a letter from Master Boat Builder Cirdan, asking for aid for a small group of humans whose ship has sunk, Gil-Galad agrees, recognizing his duty to help. Upon meeting the High King, you are caught off guard by an unexpected attraction. With your ship at the bottom of the bay, you aim to use your charm to secure a new vessel for yourself and your crew. However, as days go by, Gil-Galad's genuine compassion and kindness complicate things. The initial plan to flirt and deceive begins to clash with the genuine emotions that develop. You find yourself torn between the charming facade and emerging feelings for the High King. As the truth looms closer, the question remains—how will Gil-Galad react when he learns the real reason behind your visit?

Warnings:

Mentions of fire

Descriptions of injuries

Descriptions of partial nudity

Reader is not a holy good person.

Two ideots pining and refusing to acknowledge it.

Not Beta Read

(smut stuff will be in chapter two, promise)

Author Notes:

Hello Everyone!

It’s finally here! Thank you for being so patient while I finally got this done and posted. In my overeagerness, I was hoping to get this finished on New Year’s Day, but sadly, life and depression got a hold of me. I have entirely rewritten this chapter and how it plays out over four times. This time, I finally had to reel my worry that this wasn't good enough and just be okay with where it was. Please note that I'm writing this without sitting to very strict guidelines of what elves are commonly like in the book. I am writing Gil-Galad and Elves with the idea that history books and lore always paint figureheads and royalty as if they lived by strict morals and values. And I think it's much more interesting if we see what Gil-Galad would have experienced if he had fallen in love, and it, in the end, was kept secret from history. You'll notice that Elrond isn't going to be in this; that is because at the same time this story is going on- I have a one-shot of what Elrond is doing elsewhere. I am working on it, but I have no set date for finishing it as of right now. As always if you like what you have read please remember that fanfic writers live off of likes, comments and reblogs- we wont admit it but we all have praise kinks. Have you fed your starving artist today?

Tea.

Every night since his arrival in Grey Havens, the Master Boat Builder has made a point to enjoy a cup of tea before heading off to bed. Be it rain, snow, or shine, that cup of tea will always be had.

The weather was sublime this evening: cool temperatures, clear skies, and a calm breeze. Weather being what it is, he opened the workshop’s doors to watch as the sun’s last glow gave way to darkness.

Once the last sip was finished, he reached for the large doors to close them for the night. But as he pulled the last one, a shimmer of light in the water caught his attention; its reflection was unusually bright.

Leaning out the side, hand gripping the door handle for balance, he gasped in shock at finding the source. Just a few leagues away was a double-masted ship- inflamed.

Its bow was raised dramatically into the cool night air, exposing an accumulation of maritime fauna. The vessels aft dragged along the sea bed, echoing whenever it hit high points of rocks. What wood was visible was already ashes or becoming the next fuel source for the inferno. Screams and bodies jumping into the river could be heard above all else.

Running out of the boat house, Cirdan reached the town’s warning bell. Its massive size was stuck from disuse and rust. He kicked hard and kept kicking until his ankle and foot burned in protest, until finally, it groaned in movement. The piercing sound of the tocsin woke and alerted those who lived nearby as he shouted, “FIRE!”

It became chaos as orders were given, supplies packed, and horses mounted. The few elves who could, followed the older one, sprinting to offer aid to the tragedy’s survivors.

——

Wet, freezing, and homeless.

The strength it had taken to carry your first mate from the ship’s bowls to the deck had caused more than one muscle to pull. Short as he is, the man is surprisingly heavy.

Unfortunately, jumping from a burning ship was more manageable than carrying him to shore. As the line of buoyancy and gravity met, a new struggle began as you started to stand halfway out of the water.

Heavy, wet clothes worked against frozen, numb limbs with each soaking step to dry land and out of its icy grip. Ankles almost twisting with each slippery step on the shore rocks before finally collapsing onto soft sand.

A small blessing was the man you had carried came too with only a few short chest compressions. You joined him on the sand once he could fully sit up and catch his breath.

What was left of the crew watched as the top of the crow’s nest disappeared, the bay groaning and gurgling in its consumption. The ship you and many others once called home had been swallowed into the water’s depths.

A hand gently pressed into your left shoulder, its callouses felt through the singed holes of your shirt—the contact causing you to look at the much shorter man. “I’m sorry, Captain. You did your best.”

The words meant well, but instead of commiserating, they reminded you that this was your failure. When the sensation of your throat tightening and eyes misting began, you shook your head. There would be no grieving until a new home was acquired.

Looking back at the shorter man, face composed and emotions pushed to the side. “Do we know where we’ve landed, Sal? I didn’t have time to look at the map; when I saw the opening, I thought it would be the only chance for our escape.”

Sal’s singular green eye widened before looking around the visible area, knowing he would be the only one of you to see in such darkness. “Not sure, we’ve never been this far north before.”

Not good.

Standing up, you internally shivered as the sensation of wet, sandy, cloth peeled from your damp, chilled skin. The only possessions left were on everyone’s backs, holes and all.

A strike of panic set in at that realization. Taking inventory, a hand reached up to count the baubles that adorned your earnings, relieved to feel all was accounted for. Looking down at the blistered and burned fingers, you grimaced at the thought of how bad the pain would be when removing the various roughly smithed rings. One of the bands looked almost embedded past the first few layers of skin, potentially touching bone.

Sal had followed in checking his personage for anything of value, even lifting his eye patch and ensuring that the smooth, unpolished diamond he kept was still hidden in the empty socket.

“We’re going to be stuck on land until a new home can be procured.” Turning, you saw the group huddled together for warmth, teeth chattering as they shivered.

“From here on out, it’s dry land rules and roles. We’re starting from nothing, so best behaviors until that changes.” At the nods given in response, you turned to your first mate. “We need to start a fire; we don’t need anyone dying of hypothermia-“ Everyone froze at a distinct sound.

Hoof-beats.

The sound rumbled further up into the tree line, accompanied by voices that called out, echoing into the fjord. Lanterns swayed and grew brighter with each moment the owners grew closer.

Head snapping back to the others, you whispered, “Remember the rules. No one speaks until I say so.” A groan caught your attention just before Sal almost lost his balance. “What's wrong? Why-“ Pulling your hand away from the back of his head, you felt the warmth just as you smelt its metallic scent.

Your hand was entirely coated in bright red blood from just that moment of contact; a quick glance back at the sand where he had first laid showed a small puddle where the ground's compression had helped to pause the bleeding, only momentarily. “Why didn't you say anything?” you hissed before trying to apply what little pressure your pain-filled hand could tolerate. A gruff whisper was his only response: “Didn't want to worry you.”

“Idiot” was the only word that could be mustered while ideas sprinted in your mind at what to do next. The lanterns were getting closer, the voices becoming more evident each second. It was a gamble, but it was the only possible choice you could see.

“Someone, help us!” Shouting into the night air, voice raising louder with the following sentence. “Pirates have attacked us!” At first, the crew members' confusion read clearly on their faces, until your stern glare made them realize what was happening. One by one, they began clutching various parts of their bodies, crying out and groaning in pain.

Sal chuckled in your arms, shaking his head before he lost consciousness, his full weight now on you to hold up. Once the owners of the lanterns broke through the bushes, they rushed in to help. But it was clear that there was surprise on both parties’ sides when seeing who the other was.

Elves? Just how far north had you drifted?

Cirdan was genuinely shocked at what he and his townspeople stumbled upon. When first spotting the burning ship, the assumption was that the sailors aboard would be his own kind—not humans. As the others rushed to those rolling in agony on the sand, he quickly made his way to where you were struggling to maintain balance while holding a relatively short man.

Finally, you allowed the tears to flow, teeth chattering as the adrenalin began to wear off and what little warmth you had dissipated. “Please, help us.” The older elf’s heart broke at the sight before him, and within the hour, you and your crew had been taken back to town to be tended to.

By midnight, Sal’s head had been stitched and bandaged. Once asleep, the shorter man's snoring rattled the walls of the boat builders' small home. The other members' wounds had been cleaned before special herbs that none of you recognized were placed over them. With no spare rooms, Cirdan was left to care for the ship’s captain on his dining table.

The first rinse to clean the wounds on your palms had not been too painful. But as the elf used various instruments to take out the bits of splintered wood, broken threads of rope, and shattered glass, you began to think that he was torturing you instead of healing.

At another flinch, Cirdan’s focus shifted to take in your exhausted face. The grimacing expression telling how much you were ready to be done with the tedious task before you both. “Almost done. I am pleased to say you will still have full use of your hands.” He whispered.

As everyone else slept, only a few candles lit the small area needed to see as he worked. In search of distraction from the sensitive and tender discomfort, attention shifted to the papers scattered around the table he had you perched on. The first few were just lists and notes, but something caught your eye.

It was beautiful.

Triple-masted, square-cut sales, the hull was designed in such detail that it felt like, with one good shake, it would drop out of the page into the water.

As you became further engrossed with the drawing, you unknowingly leaned further and further. Cirdan looked up, ready to ask you to sit still again. But when he followed where your attention had gone, he smiled softly before gently guiding your palms back into the position needed. Focusing back on digging out a particularly stubborn glass shard, he egged on your curiosity. “If you enjoy that one, you should see the one you are sitting on.”

When a deep blush of embarrassment spread across your face, he chuckled. “Here, let me help.” With the boat master’s aid to lean to the opposite side now, he pulled free the design to lay the now crinkled paper on the table for easier viewing.

Just like the previous design, this, too, was stunning. Were such ships possible to build? Once back to work on your hands, you took the opportunity to shift your attention from the design to begin admiring the unique features of the elf's home.

Intricate hand-carved details were everywhere. Spiraled door handles, doorway arches with such delicate flowers and vines it was a wonder they didn’t break, and the wall next to the dining table was carved from ceiling to floor, detailing a flock of cranes surrounded by tall standing trees.

“Did you design them?” Attention back to the page that had previously been sat on. An idea began to form in your mind at his nod and smile. “They’re beautiful; building something as grand as those must take a lifetime.”

“They are, though I am not sure if they will ever be brought into existence.” The tone of his voice tells of the pride in his creations and the enjoyment of such praise.

Allowing your voice to soften, your head tilting, and your lips turning up at the corners as you spoke, “They’re unique. It's so clear in everything you touch that this is what you were meant to do.”

As you continued, the tips of pointed ears peeking out from silver hair tinged in a faint blush. “Every detail thought through so clearly,” Cirdan gulped as he nervously tried to focus on the task before him.

But the poor boat builder struggled even more when you teasingly smiled while praising his work. “Even your door handles and chairs adorn your touches.” Your eyes locked for a moment, just long enough to see the faint tinge of a flustered blush topping the apples of his cheeks. A single fluter of your lashes and you glanced at his lips for a moment before returning to the pages laid out.

“Um, Y-yes. Yes, I feel such joy and fulfillment in what I do and what it means for my people.” He placed the metal instruments down on the woven cloth that held other items, ones that looked sharper and more intimidating the longer you looked. The response was a murmured thank you as he began placing crushed herbs over the now clean wounds. As the gauze was wrapped around each finger delicately, it was Cirdan’s turn to ask a question.

“I am curious about your ship; it saddens me that I did not have a chance to see its beauty.” The fingers he still wrapped tensed in his hands; at looking up, he saw how the color left your face, eyes turned down; it was clear you weren't there with him at that moment. “Oh, I am sorry,” turning, he brought a warm cup of tea to your lips, your hands still unable to hold anything. “In my curiosity, I did not think of your pain and loss.”

The elves' eyes watched subtly as your lips curled and then relaxed to part, observing how your throat swallowed the warm liquid he had provided. Patiently waiting until you had your fill before putting the cup down and turning back to finish bandaging up to your wrists.

Cirdan finished the bandaging with the last wrap around your wrist. In the time it took to stand, gather the instruments, and look between you and his designs on the table, an idea began to form at the front of his mind. “Is it difficult to ascertain a new vessel in your homelands?” His back faced you as he cleaned the blood from the metal objects in the sink.

His shoulders dropped as your voice broke. “My home is very far from here.” For the second time in the night, the boat master felt his heartbreak at such sadness.

That settles it, then. He had to do something. There was only so long and so little room that Grey Haven’s harbor could offer hospitality, not to mention there being no clear path ahead for you. “What I say next, you must know, is not meant to push you out.” He watches the way you curl into yourself, preparing in resignation already.

“My home is small, not suited to provide the proper healing your crew needs. I will send a message to my king-,” Your eyes widen, shaking your head as you tell him no. But he will hear none of it. Raising a hand to stop your protests, the elf continues, “I will write to my king and ask that he finds it in his heart to show compassion, especially to those that deserve it.”

You tell him you don't know how to repay his kindness; he scoffs and drinks the now-cold tea to hide the blush dusting the apple of his cheeks. The rest of the night is spent playing a few games of chess. It would have just been one, but with your hands being as they are, you kept accidentally bumping multiple pieces around. With each game, the conversation turned back to ships, elven ships.

As the darkness of night began to give way to the first glow of dawn on the horizon, Cirdan excused himself to write the letter that would be sent ahead to Lindon’s Capital. At that same time, you went to Sal. Gently, you slinked into the bedroom so as not to wake the rest of the crew before sitting on the edge of the bed that was so graciously granted to your first mate.

“Sal, Sal!” You voiced louder than planned at the shorter man’s deep sleep, which refused to release him. Finally, the rough shake to his shoulder roused him. “Wha-Whats going on?” With a quick hand over his mouth to quiet him down, you pressed a finger to your lips before whispering. “I have just spent the last few hours speaking with our new friend. He has been very kind.”

You couldn't help but chuckle at the responding wiggling eyebrows, his single eye wide in excitement. “How kind?” You leaned in to reply with a whisper, a wicked smile its companion. “Kind enough to ask if his king would help us.” Sal’s jaw dropped in shock before punching your shoulder. “How in the hell did you pull that off?”

Sitting straight, the back of your hand pressed to your forehead, sighing dramatically before speaking, “Who will take pity on little ole me, a female captain with no ship to call home? My poor crew, so ill, that even elven healers struggle to help them.”

Shaking his head while chuckling, Sal crossed his arms while wiggling more comfortably into the bed’s soft feather pillows. “So what’s the plan?”

Your smirk grew at the question.

———————

With the first rays of morning light, a plan in motion, and rules set in place, you met with Cirdan and the escort outside his home, where a hiccup had already appeared.

You nervously approached the giant beast, flinching back when its large nostrils grunted out a rush of breath. “I’ve never ridden a horse before. Can I not just walk behind?” A sympathetic smile graced the boat master’s lips as the other elf mounted their steed. “Walking would take extra days that your crew may not have. If you are unsure of riding alone, ride with the escort; they will ensure your safe arrival.”

Anxiously, you nodded in agreement, unable to see a different path around the logic presented. A few awkward jumps and one petrified yelp later saw you and the expert rider heading up the road to the capital—the poor elf at the mercy of your fearfully white-knuckled grip in their ribs. The pain in your hands be damned.

Lindon’s Palace

My Dear King,

I write to you earnestly, asking that aid be offered to someone deserving of such compassion. A pirate attack has left my new friend without a ship or home, and a crew suffering from ailments beyond my healing capabilities. The ship's Captain will arrive with an escort so that you yourself can make sound judgments of their character.

Gil-Galad re-read the letter. In his years of friendship with the Lord of Grey Haven, only a handful of times had the elder asked for royal assistance, unlike some of the other stewards of his kingdom, who seemed to lack such abstention.

He sighed when sid-eyeing the pile of letters and scrolls stacked high upon the oak desk, still awaiting answers. Fiddling with the paper’s edge, unrolling it further as he sat in thought, a previously unseen line of penmanship caught his attention.

I suggest conversing over a game of chess; you may be pleasantly surprised as I was in their company.

Your Faithful Friend, Cirdan

With a scoff, he flicked the paper back to its place on the desk's clutter. It had been hours, and barely a dent had been made in the mountain of documents that had arrived the day before.

With his kingdom settling into a gentle rhythm after so many years of war, the High King started feeling something unexpected- boredom. Gone were the days of extreme stress, battle planning, and mourning for his people. Now, they were filled with small pleasantries, mastering crafts, and, unfortunately, paperwork.

Leaning back into the hand-carved chair, fingers rubbed along the pulsing ache of his forehead, pain caused by the hours of eyes straining on documents.

A groan left his chest when an unfortunately familiar warmth spread across the top of a kneecap. The morning’s rays had started to inch into his room, their gentle cares on his vestige announcing that another sleepless night had passed.

Muscles ached and throbbed as he stood to stretch before walking to the window to watch the sunrise. His attention to the sunrise over the horizon was shifted down from his room in the tower at the arrival of a horse carrying two persons.

One was an elf, and the other a human woman. It was hard not to chuckle while watching as her arms shakily reached out to the escort to assist in the dismount from their horse, legs wobbling once on solid ground. As the escort walked off with the creature to announce their arrival, she stayed in place, observing the entry area's flora and white-barked trees.

It was rare to see a human in his kingdom. Even in memory, it was a struggle to gleam the last one and when they came. It was not surprising, as curiosity peaked about the mortal creature that had appeared at random.

That is what he told himself, at least, as his eyes fixated on the wild wind-swept hair that glowed from the crepuscular rays of morning. And repeated internally again, when observing the silhouette outlined from the sheer fabrics she wore when bending to smell a vine of jasmine.

The voice was not repeated a third time when his eyes honed in on the gentle slopes of her bust; nipples pebbled hard by the cold morning's dew. Each movement allowed more and more to be revealed by the fabric's owner. The tall elf’s heart rate panicked at admiring rounded hips that harmonized with the tops of plush, strong thighs and a waist--

When a knock raps at the bedroom door, he jumps, placing a wide palm to his chest, letting out a breath he was unaware was being held. With a final glance back at the woman, he shakes his head and asks the attendant to come in.

“High King, a visitor has arrived from Grey Haven to speak with you. Master Cirdan has sent them.” Gil-Galad froze, and his heart rate, still yet to calm down from moments ago, increased.

A quick glance to the desk where Cirdan’s note sat, as its words read out in his mind. Certainly, she was not the captain he spoke of. What in the world was that blasted boatmaker thinking? The shorter elf’s expression made Gil-Galad realize he took longer than usual to respond.

“I will be there in but a moment. Please see that our guest is attended to until then.” Gil-Galad’s eyebrow quirked as his attendant paused awkwardly, a tilt of his head letting the shorter elf know to speak. “Sire, your meeting with the human may need to wait a few days so that-“ Gil-Galad held up his hand as the memory of sheer fabric flashed away just as quickly as it had appeared.

“Master Cirdan has informed me that the aid needed for the human stands on the direness of time. I will meet with them first during my morning meal; that should allow a better inclusion of my schedule.”

With a swift nod, the shorter elf leaves to inform the morning staff of the changes. In the reflection across from where he stood, exhausted eyes and a stern expression looked back. In a singular sigh, he pinched the bridge of his nose. Just when it seems a moment to himself has appeared, the morning maids come in to prepare a bath and lay out the royal robes.

In toe behind them, the royal retainer began listing the days itinerary, explaining how every minute of the hours were filled with meetings, agreements, and document signatures. With a singular sigh and torpid blink, he turns to take the prepared bath and begrudgingly get the day started.

When an attendant had come to gather you and usher the way to an empty grand dining room to wait, it felt like a small gift.

Palpations had been occurring every few minutes since the moment your feet touched the ground after riding for hours. Hopefully, this would give time to help calm them. Chalking the rapid heart rate up to nerves and still feeling so tired, you reminded yourself that rest, food, and sleep would come eventually. But the plan took precedence over everything, no matter the cost.

The first few minutes were spent sitting at the opposite end of the room’s expansive stone table, until those nerves raised back up—skin itching, and not just on the slowly scabbing wounds of your hands. Legs crossed only to un-cross and then cross again. The liquid in the glass of wine on the table rippled from how hard your knee bounced. When all this did nothing to aid in the growing feeling of unease, you resorted to pacing back and forth, back and forth, until the feeling of dizziness came on.

At the sound of your stomach echoing into the quiet room, you side-eyed the table. The temptation was hard to resist at the site of the varying fruits, cheeses, bread, and dishes for breakfast. While subtle, the aromas still had made their way to your nose.

With a head shake, you continued pacing; by now, you were sure that a grove had been worked into the floor. Glancing back to the chair at the opposite end of the table, a small tremor corded its way from where the palpations started to both of your poor, still wobbling legs. One misstep, one accidental insult, and the plan would be over before it could be put into motion.

With a deep breath, you hoped to calm your heart’s racing; nervousness would not be an ally. Another breath, followed by many more in succession. Still, the beating thrummed with such intensity it felt as if the betraying organ was in your throat, determined to expel itself and do a jig at your feet to taunt you.

Distraction.

Distraction would help, you hoped. Turning around, you desperately tried to focus now on the grandiose tapestry that hung twenty feet in the air. Its textured masterpiece taking so much space that the raw threadbare edges touched the flooring and side walls.

Red, look for something red. Rose bushes came into clarity on the lower section. A breath, this one a little easier- but still, your chest held tight. Animals, find the animals. Swans were flying in the open sky of the fibers- was that a unicorn?

Each detail of the textile artwork helped to distract from the sensation that rattled against your ribs. In a further attempt to add comfort, you wrapped your arms around yourself, desperately hoping to soothe the nerves that struggled to dissipate.

____

Even after the warmth of a bath and fresh clothes, Gil-Galad found his heart rate had yet to slow since looking out the window. Surely it was just another sleepless night of work that made it hard to calm such a tempestuous beating? Obviously, this peculiar feeling was not brought on by how his mind's eye sought to wave the memory of curves, backlit in a warm glow—always right when mental clarity was needed.

When reaching the dining hall, Gil-Galad held up a hand to let his attendant know he would be entering the room alone, unannounced. Cirdan had made it clear that he should make a sound and solid judgment of the Captain's character before making any decisions in the offer of aid. A wisdom he would heed. Speaking would also be better without extra eyes watching. However, it would have been better if his mind had been allowed to think of questions to ask before this moment.

Quietly, the private royal entrance opened, its door only opening for him and him alone. Stone that once lay flat and blended into the wall shifted back, then slid just enough for his size to squeeze into the room—unnoticed. The internal expectation from past interactions with mortals was that his guest would be gorging themselves on the food laid before them. But once inside, surprise met that expectation. The only other chair besides his sat empty, the dishes untouched.

There, at the other end of the room, unaware of his presence, you stood. Elven ears picked up the sounds of deep breathing, eyes watching as your heavily bandaged hands rubbed your arms while swaying gently from side to side. Gil-Galad’s eyes trailed once more to the clothes draped on your figure. Cirdan had dressed you in something so sheer?

Perhaps the boat builder had not realized that the gift offered to you had been- No. Cirdan was too bright and observant to have missed something like this. That old perverted- at the memory of this morning, the realization he had no hill to stand on and judge hit him.

Yet, he could not look away. The tension came back to his chest, and just as it began to crawl its way down, inch by inch, to an area of his body that he refused to acknowledge, panic set in and forced the moment to break.

“You have yet to eat.”

With a yelp of shock, you nearly jumped out of your skin. Turning with wide eyes and a hand to your poor, overworked, thumping heart. Finding the voice’s owner standing at the opposite end of the room.

When first trying to picture what an elven king might have looked like, your imagination pulled from what was known of your own kind. Rulers that were repugnant, rotund, and gangrenous from a life of riches and idleness.

What you did not anticipate was to be greeted with the amused expression of a very tall elf, whose attractiveness you pretended not to feel any way about. It took a moment for the shock to pass before finding yourself. “N-no.” A breath. “No, I felt it would be rude to eat before my host arrived.”

It was as if time had frozen for a moment, two statues unmoving as they visually memorized what was in front of them. Sheer fabric clashed with the opulent, almost excessive layers of gold on the opposite side. Warm brown eyes, unblinking in their seriousness, scrutinized the shocked hesitancy in your own.

When you both tried to speak simultaneously, a polite smile graced his lips as he motioned for you to go first. A thanks would be the best choice, grateful that such a renowned, elven king would spare an hour to hear a poor human captain’s woes. Pleasantries to be embellished so prettily in their bestowment.

Sadly, that option would be ruined by a comically loud growl from your stomach, no doubt retaliation at being teased for so long by such appetizing smells. Gil-Galad watched as your eyes shut laggardly before opening again, now refusing to meet his own from embarrassment.

He gave you a gift of mercy in finding the strength to choke back a laugh. “It would appear that, as a host, I have been discourteous to test the patience of such a considerate guest.” Motioning for you to sit, he continued, “Please, eat. I would ask if you are hungry, but I believe that answer has already been given.”

Unlike the High King, you did not find the strength to choke back a laugh from the jest. When your eyes met again, an expression of mirth greeted the faint blush of your cheeks. Gods have mercy; this was going to be a challenge. The elf barely said two sentences, and already, you were struggling.

Gil-Galad gulped as you pulled up your chair to sit more comfortably; he could not understand the reasons for his nerves. His gaze trailed once more to the unexpected guest across the table, unknowingly unaware of the detail being taken in of your personage.

In the earnings that dangled down to the tops of your collar bones, polished beads of sea glass glowed, backlit by the candles behind you. Indigo-dyed whalebone and sea urchin spines brandished with petrified beads of amber hung on uneven lengths of fishing wire.

Rough and raw cut jewels adorned roughly smithed mental bands, assorted in the widths of rings that hung from your neck while your fingers healed. He would admit that such ornaments are much more maximal and eclectic than is commonly seen of his own kind.

His heart rate, which had just calmed, began racing again as he watched your lips part, tongue welcoming a bite of food. His vision tunneled to take in greater detail when your brows knit together in pleasure as the flavors danced across your palate.

Blinking, he pulled himself out of the hyper-focus when reaching forward to grip the golden handle of a wine glass. Trying to calm the returning tension he had felt when watching you from when he first entered the room. This was going to be a problem.

Light filtered off your fork, hand tremoring in hunger as the choices become overwhelming. It felt as if the room was getting darker and hazy around its edges. Cirdan had offered food when playing chess, but between the pain in your hands and the nausea from still coming down from the adrenalin of survival, any thought of eating was quickly turned down.

On top of that, the ship had floated for two days into the fjord without a bite of food or water. To say you were starving was an understatement. It took every ounce of self-control not to gorge like a wild animal after the first bite into a roasted pear with salted honey, its juices bursting in your mouth.

“Lord Cirdan wrote that your ship and crew were attacked by pirates and are in further need of aid.” The question caught you off guard, cheeks chipmunk-ed out at trying to fit as many roasted butter beans into your mouth as physically possible. Peeking up, it was obvious the elf knew exactly what he had done from the smirk that pulled from the edges of his lips.

As desperate as you were to swallow your way out of this, chewing was the only option. Could you simply spit out the beans? Yes, but that would only cause further humiliation for him to watch the act. Quickly grabbing the napkin laid under the other silverware, you covered your lips and cheeks as you chewed quickly, jaw clicking from the strain.

When finally able to get the last bit down to respond, another question was put forth. “What exactly happened to your ship, the- what was its name?”

Cirdan had been correct in knowing his king would hold no punches in the judgment of your character. Gil-Galad knew that his questioning was starting to get under your skin. And what better way to begin seeing someone for who they are than by seeing how they handle their frustration?

As the minutes passed and no response was given, his eyebrow raised expectantly. Were you trying to formulate a lie? At the tilt of his head, his eyes hardened. “Are you alright?”

You chuckled hollowly, feeling a spark of enjoyment in watching Gil-Galad’s expression change to irritation as you spoke. Two could play at that game. “Only waiting to see if there are other questions, Your Majesty. I do not wish to offend such a curious mind by interrupting its thoughts.”

Gil-Galad knew that if he were here, Elrond would snort out his wine. It appears that the High King would also be judged on how his temper would be handled. Raising his palm, he gave the motion to speak.

With a deep sigh, you tried to calm the frustration that had been brought forth. “My crew and I were set upon by pirates three days ago; their cannons tore holes into the hull of my ship. By some miracle, we escaped from being boarded, but in our escape, I had steered us into a waterway that none of us recognized.”

When no interruption came, you continued. “Lord Cirdan had seen my ship just as it began taking on more water than we could bucket out.” It was unnerving being watched so intensely, warm eyes unblinking in their judgment of every word uttered into the air. “He was kind enough to offer aid. But he realized we have no way of getting home, at least not any way that would not take years on foot.”

Still not a blink from the scrutinizing gaze, you gulped to wet your now cotton-dry throat as sweat dripped down your neck. “Asking for help is not something I have any practice in. But for the people that depend on me, I will do anything in my capabilities to see that they survive.”

Silence stretched between you both. Gil-Galad contemplated your tale, sight now set on the wine glass before him. When speaking of your crew and their care, he could sense no lies, but why was his gut tightening, waiting, and expecting? It felt as if something was missing. Perhaps speaking of such a harrowing escape was not something you wished to delve into further detail.

Or -gods forgive him- the tightening that was felt had nothing to do with your words, and more to do with the internal befuddlement trying to be ignored since your arrival.

You watched as golden fibers wrapped around the barrel waist in front of you strained against expanding ribs. A deep, belly-filled breath was exhaled slowly and quietly in contemplation. As his lips parted to speak, the dining room’s doors opened. The shorter elf that first guided you in giving a small bow.

“High King, I apologize for the interruption, but the lords are gathered and waiting for you.” Whatever tension that had been building was broken instantly. Fresh air from the outside corridor wafted in, and both of you took the opportunity to breathe.

The sound of chair legs scraped against the floor as he stood, an air of equanimity held in his stance as he stared down at where you still sat, slouched back into your seat. “Please forgive my sudden departure. I would like to continue this discussion later this evening if you are amenable to the offer.” He continued at the single nod you gave while walking over to his attendant.

“Please see that our guest is given a room and fed.” At the bow of the shorter elf, the two of them slowly walked out into the hall, leaving you to watch as the door closed behind them. Once Gil-Galad was certain that you could not hear, he leaned down to whisper one last order. “And see to it that she has…warmer attire prepared. I would not wish for our guest to take a chill from the temperature tonight.” At the hesitant bow given before the shorter elf left, Gil-Galad realized he was not the only one struggling whenever what you were wearing was seen.

Once alone, he sighed while pinching the bridge of his nose. It had only been a singular hour of the morning, and already, it was obvious that the day would be as long as it was stressful.

I have this idea that Gil-Galad is never truly content. War? -Hate it. Calm and tranquil? - Bored out of his mind. So when this Captain comes around he both loves and hates how hes feeling. I'm working on outlining the next chapter but it may take a bit before its edited and posted. So please be patient. Love you all and hope you enjoy and are surviging my friends!

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