#au gif

[marril96]

Agathario AU | Rio Vidal AKA Lady Death turns the tables on Detective Agatha Harkness.

[easternflowerofthesun]

　　　　　　　　　　 self-insert : indulgent

BEST FRIEND ── MONA ︰ Mona and I met at our first year of High School (EU system). We clicked almost simultaneously, her dramatic personality paired well with my more down to earth one. She was absolutely in love with astrology and the zodiac signs, and we did many fun things with our horoscopes. She often gave me tarot cards readings! ( ↓ click more )

RIVAL ── CAPTAIN BEIDOU ︰ Beidou was the Captain of the Girls' Basketball Team. She was very popular and very well-liked amongst schools' population. In my opinion, the tales about her are all greatly exaggerated. We didn't get along back then, because she was always doing moon eyes at Lisa, my girlfriend, I always caught looking at her. She was infuriating 🙄 worst thing is, that she got along with everyone like a bundle of sunshine, so if I breathed a honest word about her I would have a army after my throat. She also had no respect for education, a subject I was quite cross with her a tremendous amount of times. She always brought beer to drink during breaks and burped right into my face afterwards to annoy the hell out of me. She wore leather bracelets to hide the prominent veins around her wrists which I found weird, she is weird. A tactless weirdo! I don't even know how she got a better grade at History and Mathematics' compared to me. And she should stay away from Lisa.

EX-GIRLFRIEND ── LISA ︰ Lisa and I knew each other since middle school. We got along like a house on fire, and I was absolutely delighted when she asked me out on a date. She always called me a cutie + darling when we spend time together in the library. It was for us both, our favourite place. Even though sometimes I couldn't handle her... vigour, I was more than grateful that she... taught me many things regarding... human nature. But like everything else in the world, good things must come to an end. After graduation, Lisa got accepted to the prestigious Sumeru Akademiya, while I was accepted to Liyue Dàxué. She broke up with me and after that... I fucked up.

ONE NIGHT STAND ── GANYU ︰ After Lisa broke up with me, I was left heartbroken for days. I couldn't go out of my room, I listened to sad music all the time, I could barely read my favourite books, and I love to read! I couldn't function properly, but my best friend Mona told me I needed to start moving on. She took me to a farewell party for high school graduates, and that was where I met Ganyu. She was the cutest, and the way she looked at me... how could I not kiss her? The wine must have gotten into my brain because next thing I knew, her godsend thighs were wrapped around my waist and I was kissing her against the wall, muffling all her addicting whimpers and quiet moans. I didn't know however, that Lisa was at the party —— which was stupid of me, we were classmates after all. I could never get over the heartbroken expression on her face as she took a step back, and then another, until she ran into the arms of... Jean?

"Was that your ex?" Ganyu whispered in my ear, and I glanced at her, seeing concern in her face. My eyes softened, rubbing her back reassuringly.

"Yeah..." I admitted quietly. "I'm sorry for this-" I was cut off by Ganyu silencing me with a long peck on my lips, and the gentleness of it surprised me, until I willingly melted in her embrace, letting her erase the thoughts of Lisa and Jean out of my mind.

UNREQUITED LOVE ── ROSARIA ︰ Months passed, and I started having a huge crush on the assistant of my religious professor, Rosaria. She was two years older than me, and I once caught her smoking at the Unis' backyard. She was very pretty... okay, she was very hot and I would have loved to see those stockings up close. I wouldn't dare though, not when she...

IGNORES YOU ── ROSARIA ︰ ... ignores the entirety of my existence. Even my good mornings go ignored by her. Mona wouldn't let me live it down!

FIGHT AGAINST ── KEQING ︰ Turns out, my crush on Rosaria was so obvious that she herself knew, and told her... girlfriend. Keqing was my senior, and before I knew it I was dragged forcefully into a storage closet. She pinned me against the wall, and glared at me with such irritation that I had to double take.

"Listen carefully," Keqing hissed, her voice low and poisonous against my ears. "You stay away from Rosaria. I don't care what excuse you may think you have, but if I see you so much as glance her way again, we are going to have multiple problems."

"Whoa, whoa! Hold on, what are you-" I panicked, is this girl crazy?!

"I, don't care how charming you think you are!" she spat, catching my wrists in a deathly grip. "I don't take kindly to people being homewreckers for fun."

I froze, my heart falling into pieces. "What?! No, what are you —— you... Rosaria... she's taken?" I rasped out, feeling a lump on my throat as the realisation started creeping in. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Keqing eyed me suspiciously. "You didn't know?"

I shook my head, no. My eyes suddenly felt watery, and I looked away from the purple beauty in front of me. I clenched my fists. Great, just my luck, no wonder she ignored me like that. I- shit, what have I done? "No... I didn't know. I would never..."

"Then let's not make this more of a bigger issue, it should remain this way, don't you agree?" Her sharp eyes pierced into mine, and I nodded. She didn't glance back once as she turned to leave, and I could only slid down to the floor once I was alone, wrapping my arms around my knees, trying for once again to get over heartbreak.

SAVES YOUR LIFE ── MONA ︰ Mona has saved my life more times than I could remember, than I could count on my two hands. I always had the tendency to get into trouble even when I don't want to. Mona said it's Capricorns' karma, I say it's because of my love for actual intelligent debates, and all inclinations to avoid misplaced childish confrontations.

MARRY ── CAPTAIN BEIDOU ︰ If you asked me I would tolerate being in the same room with Annoying Beidou 7 years ago, I would have called you crazy in front of everyone. But now after we started studying to become Historians together we... grew closer. It was infuriating at first, because she was so... happy all the type, a ball of energy, and always annoyed me in one way or another. Looking at her back then made me tired, it was laughable. It is even more laughable because now... now I'm married to her.

"I told you not to try to make dinner while drinking, Beidou!" I called, voice dripping with amusement.

Beidou's voice floated from the kitchen, her characteristic cheerfulness muffled thanks to the cacophony of clanging utensils. "I'm fine! I'm fine! I may just knocked over' a glass or two... or five."

I rolled my eyes, not bothering to respond as I went back to my reading. I sipped my hot chocolate quietly, savouring the sweet taste of my wifes' making.

A few minutes later, Beidou entered the living room with a shit-eating grin on her lips, her eye gleaming. I felt my stomach drop.

"I may or may not have overestimated my culinary skills! But! Wait!" She silenced me when she noticed me parting my mouth, to which I clicked shut in surrender. "I didn't burn anything this time!"

"Wow, such a big progress, I'm so proud of you," I drawled.

Beidou scowled, jumping over the furniture so she can crawl over me, snuggling into my lap without hesitation. "You're always so mean to me!"

My eyebrows rose, and I couldn't help but laugh. "Are you whining? Beidou, Captain of the Crux, whining over a little mean comment?"

She turned her head towards me, still in my lap. My hand went to the nape of her neck unconsciously, rubbing the no-doubt strained tendons. I completely ignored her heated glare upon my being, a small smirk gracing my lips.

"You hate me. I don't know why you even married me. Is it love or insanity? It must be insanity," she decided the answer herself.

I didn't hesitate. "Both, most likely to definitely."

She narrowed her eyes at me.

I grinned cheekily down at her.

"Bloody Brainiac," she muttered, snuggling further into my stomach and wrapping her arms around my waist in a hug.

"Annoying Sunshine," I muttered back, leaning down to kiss her cheek lovingly.

"My sunshine."

Genshin Impact (waifu ver.) click and drag game!

warnings: flashing images

characters included: jean, mona, lisa, ningguang, beidou, ganyu, rosaria, la signora, keqing

Game notes • How to Play

Please use a browser other than Google Chrome to play because the GIFs always lock onto their first frame on Chrome. Safari and Firefox work, please try those

If you're on mobile, screenshot the GIFs either as a set or individually

[squalchinglobotomy]

Srry for the lack of arts!!! School has been throwing my ass around town recently 😭😭

Have my TF2 au tho!! Will defo draw more of it ;D

[moonselune]

By the Silk that Binds Us (pt. 14)

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Matron!Minthara x Wife!reader

An arranged marriage, enemies to lovers fic: part one part two part three part four part five part six part seven part eight part nine part ten part eleven part twelve part thirteen

CW: Blood, labor

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The darkness enveloped you like a heavy shroud, suffocating and inescapable. Yet, in the stillness of unconsciousness, a spark ignited. A memory surfaced, sharp and vivid, pulling you into its embrace. It was a quiet morning—a day that had begun with an air of peace, so unlike the tumultuous nature of life in the Underdark. You recalled it now with a clarity that was almost painful, the moments unfolding as if they were happening anew.

The day began with a faint discomfort in your abdomen, an ache that slowly crescendoed into something impossible to ignore. You had stirred from restless sleep, instinctively placing a hand over the swell of your belly. The realization struck you immediately: the time had come.

“Minthara,” you called softly, your voice steady despite the building tension.

Minthara was at your side in an instant, her sharp crimson eyes scanning you with an intensity that had always been as comforting as it was unnerving.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice a mixture of concern and anticipation.

“It’s starting,” you murmured, struggling to sit up.

For a moment, Minthara’s stoicism faltered. A flicker of something—perhaps excitement, perhaps fear—crossed her face before she composed herself.

“Then we’ll make this perfect,” she said firmly, rising to summon the midwives and healers. Her commanding voice echoed down the halls, cutting through the morning silence with an authority that brooked no argument.

When she returned, she was no longer the composed and calculated second of House Baenre. She was a woman driven by purpose, her every movement deliberate as she helped you settle back against the cushions.

“Are you ready for this?” she asked, her hand brushing yours in a rare gesture of tenderness.

You managed a wry smile, despite the pangs of pain beginning to intensify. “Do I have a choice?”

Minthara smirked, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of worry. “Not even Lolth herself could stop this now.”

The midwives arrived shortly thereafter, carrying armfuls of supplies and radiating calm efficiency. Yet Minthara refused to fade into the background, her presence an unyielding force as she orchestrated the room.

“You,” she barked at a midwife fumbling with a basin, “if you drop that, I’ll see to it you’re strung up by your ankles. And you—fetch more towels. Now.”

Her commanding tone was matched only by the unwavering support she offered you.

She was at your side, her hand gripping yours firmly as she leaned down to murmur words of encouragement. “You’re strong. Stronger than anyone. You can do this.”

The hours stretched on, a blur of pain and effort. Your body ached with exertion, and every fiber of your being seemed to burn. Yet Minthara remained steadfast, her presence a lifeline as the world around you faded into the singular task of bringing new life into existence.

“Breathe,” she urged, her voice cutting through the haze. “You’re doing beautifully. Soon, our child will be here. The heir of House Baenre.”

“Minthara,” you hissed through gritted teeth, “shut up about the heir.”

Her laugh was unexpected—a bright, genuine sound that momentarily eased the tension in the room.

“As you wish,” she said softly, brushing a damp strand of hair from your face. “No titles. No heirs. Just us.”

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, a sharp cry pierced the air. Relief washed over you like a wave, banishing the pain and exhaustion. One of the midwives approached, cradling a tiny, squirming bundle wrapped in soft fabric.

“She’s here,” the midwife said, her voice reverent as she placed the infant in your trembling arms.

You gazed down at the baby, her tiny features scrunched in indignation as she wailed. Tears pricked your eyes, unbidden and unstoppable.

“She’s perfect,” you whispered, your voice trembling with emotion.

Minthara knelt beside you, her hand resting gently on your shoulder as she looked down at your daughter. There was a softness in her expression one that even you had not seen before, a vulnerability that spoke of unguarded joy.

“She’s everything,” Minthara murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple.

For a moment, in that memory, the world was reduced to the three of you. The weight of House Baenre, the expectations of the Underdark, and the shadow of Lolth all faded away. It was just you, Minthara, and Lythaera—a family, untarnished by the harsh realities that awaited beyond this room.

But reality began to intrude, the warmth of the memory fracturing like a fragile pane of glass. Pain flared in your abdomen, sharp and insistent, pulling you from the comforting embrace of the past. The cries of a newborn faded into the low murmur of voices and the sterile scent of the infirmary.

Your eyes fluttered open, the dim light of the infirmary casting long shadows across the room. The faces of healers swam into view, their expressions etched with concern as they hovered around you. The pain in your abdomen was a dull, throbbing reminder of your vulnerability, a stark contrast to the strength you had felt in that memory.

“She’s awake,” one of them said, their voice cutting through the haze of confusion clouding your mind.

You tried to move, but your body felt heavy, unresponsive. The pain in your abdomen was a dull, throbbing ache, and every breath felt like an effort. Slowly, your gaze focused on the faces around you, their expressions a mix of relief and worry.

“What… what happened?” you croaked, your voice barely audible.

“Please, don’t move,” one of the healers urged, their hands gently pressing you back down as you struggled to sit up. “You’ve been through a lot. Let us take care of you.”

Your mind raced, fragments of memory and present blurring together. The warmth of the past lingered like a ghost, a bittersweet balm against the cold reality of your current state. But as exhaustion pulled you back under, one thought lingered, clear and persistent.

Lythaera.

The world swam into focus in jagged pieces—voices murmuring in the background, the sharp scent of medicinal herbs hanging heavy in the air, and an unrelenting ache deep in your abdomen that made every breath feel like a battle. Awareness came slowly, dragging with it a suffocating sense of dread that seized your chest. Something was wrong.

You tried to sit up, the movement clumsy and strained as your arms gave out beneath you. A hand pressed gently but firmly against your shoulder, guiding you back down.

“Mistress, you mustn’t move,” a healer said urgently, their voice calm but insistent. “Your body is too weak. You need rest.”

“Lythaera…” The name spilled from your lips in a broken whisper, barely audible. You tried again, your words slurred and heavy with the lingering effects of sedatives. “Lythaera… Kyorlin…”

The healer exchanged a worried glance with their colleagues. “She’s delirious,” one muttered.

But you weren’t delirious—you were desperate. The weight of Kyorlin’s betrayal pressed down on you like a stone, the memory of his blue eyes—a traitor’s eyes—seared into your mind. You struggled to form coherent words, to make them understand, but all that escaped were fragments. “Kyorlin… traitor… Lythaera…”

You clawed at the blankets covering you, trying again to push yourself upright despite the fiery pain in your abdomen. The healers moved quickly, their hands firm as they tried to restrain you without causing further harm. “Please, Mistress, you must stay still. You’re in no condition to—”

“Lythaera!” you cried, your voice cracking as tears streamed down your cheeks. The panic was overwhelming, a suffocating tide that drowned out reason and pain alike.

The door to the infirmary burst open, and Minthara stormed in, her eyes wild with alarm. She pushed past the healers, her sharp gaze locking onto your tear-streaked face.

“What is happening?” she demanded, her voice cutting through the chaos.

“Minthara…” you gasped, reaching out for her like a drowning person reaching for a lifeline. “Kyorlin… he’s Seldarine… Lythaera’s not safe!”

Minthara froze, her expression darkening as the meaning of your words sank in.

“Kyorlin?” she repeated, her voice sharp with suspicion. You nodded frantically, your movements jerky and uncoordinated.

“I saw him… his eyes… blue… he’s a traitor! Where is Lythaera?” Minthara's grip on your hand tightened, and her lips pressed into a thin line. Your voice, raw and desperate you demanded, “Bring her to me!”

Minthara hesitated for the briefest of moments before daring to answer.

“I gave her to Kyorlin,” she admitted, her voice low and measured, as if testing the weight of her own words. “He was supposed to take her to Lesaonar and Melinoe’s quarters. I thought she would be safe with him.”

Her admission hit you like a physical blow, and you shook your head violently, fresh tears streaming down your face. “No....No! No!"

The panic in your voice seemed to snap Minthara out of her momentary stillness. Her expression hardened, and she turned sharply to one of the guards stationed nearby.

“Find him,” she ordered, her voice cold and commanding. “Find Kyorlin and bring Lythaera back. Now.”

But before the guard could move, a scream ripped from your throat as a sudden contraction tore through your body, sharp and unrelenting. You doubled over in pain, clutching at your abdomen as the healers rushed back to your side.

“She’s in labor!” one of them shouted, their voice rising in urgency.

“No, no, no!” you wailed, your body trembling as another wave of pain wracked you. “It’s too soon! Please… not yet!”

Minthara was back at your side in an instant, her hands steady as they gripped yours.

“Focus on me,” she commanded, her voice fierce but laced with an edge of desperation. “You need to stay calm. We’ll find Lythaera, but you have to focus. Do you hear me?”

But her words barely penetrated the haze of agony and terror that consumed you.

“Bring her to me!” you sobbed, your voice cracking as you tried to push past the healers’ restraining hands. “I need her! Lythaera!”

Another contraction hit, and you screamed, the sound raw and primal as it echoed through the room. The healers worked frantically around you, their hands glowing with restorative magic as they tried to stabilize you.

Minthara’s jaw tightened, her usual composure cracking as she barked more orders. “Double the search! I want every corner of this compound searched. He will not leave with her!”

Your mind spiraled deeper into panic and pain, torn between the life fighting to enter the world too soon and the daughter you could feel slipping further away. Minthara’s assurances, the healers’ efforts, the guards’ movements—all of it blurred into chaos as you screamed again, your body convulsing with the force of another contraction.

Minthara had never felt anything like this before. The moment the word 'traitor' left your trembling lips and you screamed Kyorlin’s name, her world tilted. The cacophony in the infirmary—the cries of the healers, your anguished screams, the frantic orders barked to the guards—blurred and muffled, as though she had been submerged underwater.

Her chest tightened, her heart pounding an erratic, suffocating rhythm against her ribs. Her breath hitched as she stared at her own hands, watching with rising horror as they began to tremble uncontrollably.

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She wasn’t supposed to falter.

Minthara gripped the edge of the infirmary bed to steady herself, but her knees buckled, and she stumbled back. Every instinct screamed at her to act, to take control, but her body betrayed her. Her lungs refused to draw enough air, and the room seemed to shrink around her, the walls pressing in as her vision blurred at the edges.

She could still hear your cries, distorted but piercing, cutting through the haze: 'Lythaera! Bring her to me!'

Each scream from you drove a dagger of guilt and fear deeper into Minthara’s chest.

“I—” she tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat. Her voice was gone. Her legs moved of their own accord, carrying her out of the infirmary and into the corridor beyond. She stumbled against the stone wall, gasping for air, her hand clutching at her chest as though trying to still her racing heart.

The sounds of the infirmary faded behind her, but your screams lingered, haunting and relentless.

“Minthara!”

The sharp, familiar voice pulled her from the fog. Melinoe stood a few paces away, her brows knitted in concern as she took in Minthara’s disheveled state. She closed the distance quickly, her hands reaching out to steady her.

“What’s going on?” Melinoe demanded, her voice low and urgent. “What happened? Why is Y/N screaming like that?”

Minthara opened her mouth, but no words came out. Her throat tightened, her breaths shallow and ragged. She shook her head, her trembling hands clutching at Melinoe’s arms as though anchoring herself to something solid.

Lesaonar appeared in the doorway of the infirmary, his face pale as your screams echoed behind him. Without hesitation, he pushed past the healers and entered to see you.

“Minthara, look at me,” Melinoe said, her voice firm but not unkind. “Breathe. You need to focus. Tell me what’s happening.”

Minthara’s lips trembled as she finally managed to choke out, “K-Kyorlin…”

Melinoe’s eyes narrowed. “What about Kyorlin?”

Minthara swallowed hard, her voice shaky and uneven. “He’s… he’s the traitor. He’s Seldarine. And—and he has Lythaera.”

Melinoe’s eyes widened, her grip on Minthara tightening as the words sank in. “He what?”

“I gave her to him!” Minthara’s voice cracked, and her body shuddered with the force of her guilt. “I thought—he said he would take her to your quarters, Y/N was hurt. I didn’t—I didn’t trust him, but I let him take her! And now—”

Minthara’s voice broke entirely, and her knees nearly buckled again. Melinoe caught her, holding her upright as her breathing grew more erratic.

“Minthara!” Melinoe barked, her tone sharper now, cutting through the haze of panic threatening to consume her. “Stop! Breathe! You are Matron of this house, act like it.”

Minthara gasped, her chest heaving as she tried to obey. Melinoe's eyes darted around and she snapped at any nearby servants wanting to look at the Matron in this state. She leaned in to whisper in Minthara's ear.

“In through your nose,” Melinoe instructed, demonstrating. “Hold it. Now out through your mouth. Slowly. Do it with me.”

Minthara struggled, her breaths hitching and uneven, but Melinoe didn’t let go.

“For your wife,” Melinoe said firmly. “For Lythaera. For your unborn child. They need you. You can’t fall apart now.”

Those words struck something deep within Minthara. She clenched her teeth, forcing herself to focus on Melinoe’s steady presence. In through her nose. Hold. Out through her mouth. Slowly.

Her trembling began to subside, her breaths gradually evening out. The chaos inside her dulled, the suffocating weight in her chest easing just enough for her to think again.

“That’s it,” Melinoe said, her voice softer now. “Good. Keep going.”

Minthara nodded shakily, her composure not entirely restored but enough to steady herself. Her mind cleared just enough to let the severity of the situation sink in fully.

“Kyorlin has her,” Minthara repeated, her voice firmer this time, though still laced with guilt. “And Y/N's screaming because… the baby is coming, she's giving birth. Too soon.”

Melinoe’s expression hardened, her lips pressing into a grim line. “Then we need to act fast. I’ll find him. I will take a troop into Menzoberranzan, I will tear apart the city to find them, this is my promise to you Matron.”

“I—” Minthara’s voice faltered, but Melinoe interrupted her.

“You’ll stay here,” Melinoe said firmly. “Your wife needs you. Lythaera is a child of Baenre, this kidnapping is merely a right of passage for her. She will be okay."

Minthara nodded, the trembling in her hands finally ceasing as she watched Melinoe stride purposefully down the corridor, her resolve unshakable. Minthara inhaled deeply, steadying herself as she re-entered the infirmary.

The chaos within felt like a physical force pressing down on her. Healers moved quickly around you, their voices low and urgent, as they prepared for the premature birth. You lay on the bed, writhing in pain, your cries cutting through the air and stabbing at Minthara’s heart.

Her eyes flicked to Lesaonar, who stood near you, his face pale and stricken. His fists were clenched at his sides, and he looked as though he might shatter under the weight of his emotions. When he turned toward Minthara, his voice broke.

“Minthara,” he choked, his words heavy with disbelief and betrayal. “Is it true? Kyorlin… he’s the traitor?”

Minthara’s jaw tightened, her throat thick with suppressed emotion. She hated the pain in his voice, hated the betrayal she had to confirm. But she met his gaze with unwavering certainty and gave a sharp nod.

“Yes,” she said, her tone resolute despite the turmoil inside her. “It’s true.” Lesaonar’s breath hitched, his entire body trembling as he took a step back.

“No… it can’t…” He looked away, his lips pressed tightly together as if trying to hold back a scream. Minthara stepped forward, her voice cutting through his despair.

"Lesaonar.” Her tone was firm but not unkind. “I know this is hard, but right now, you need to focus. Your sister,”—she gestured toward you on the bed—“needs us to act. I need you to act. Melinoe is leading a troop into Menzoberranzan to track him down. Go. Help her.”

Lesaonar hesitated, his gaze darting back to you. His eyes glistened with unshed tears, and his jaw worked as he struggled to form words. Finally, he gave a sharp nod.

“I’ll bring her back, no mercy.” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with determination. Without another word, he turned and left, his steps hurried as he headed toward Melinoe.

Minthara’s chest heaved with a deep breath, but before she could move to your side, a healer touched her arm.

“Matron,” the healer said quietly, their expression grave.

“What?” Minthara snapped, her patience worn thin.

The healer’s voice was soft but firm. “The situation is critical. The child is far too early, and your wife is weak from her injuries. If this continues… there’s a strong possibility that only one of them will survive.”

The words hit Minthara like a dagger to the chest. Her vision blurred for a moment, but she blinked it away, her composure hardening like steel.

“Then save her,” she said instantly, her voice as sharp as a blade. “Save my wife.”

The healer hesitated, their eyes dropping to the floor. “Matron, it’s not a choice we can make. The outcome may be beyond our control.”

Minthara’s fury flared, her voice cutting through the room. “You will do everything in your power to save her. Do you understand me? I will not lose her. If she dies, all of you will be fed to the spiders.”

The healer nodded solemnly, bowing their head. “We’ll do all we can, Matron.”

As the healer moved away, Minthara strode to your bedside and dropped to her knees beside you. Her hand trembled as she reached out, brushing the sweat-soaked hair from your forehead. Your eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain and fear, and you managed a faint, tearful whisper. “Lythaera…”

Minthara gripped your hand tightly, her other hand pressing gently against your swollen abdomen.

“We’ll get her back,” she promised, her voice soft but fierce. “I swear to you, my love, we’ll get her back.”

You sobbed, your body trembling as another contraction tore through you, wrenching a cry from your lips. Minthara leaned in closer, her lips brushing against your temple.

“You’re strong,” she murmured. “Stronger than anyone I’ve ever known. You’ll get through this. Do you hear me? You’ll get through this.”

The healers moved around her, their hands deft as they prepared for the imminent birth. But Minthara stayed rooted at your side, her gaze locked on your face. For the first time in her life, the indomitable Matron of House Baenre felt helpless. And yet, she refused to let despair take hold. The pain etched on your face stabbed at her heart, and when your glassy, tear-filled eyes focused on her with a flicker of lucidity, she leaned in, desperate for any word you might manage.

“Minthara…” you rasped, your voice trembling and weak. “Go to the chapel…”

Minthara stiffened, her brows knitting together in confusion. “What are you talking about?” she demanded, her voice laced with worry. “I’m not leaving you.”

You tightened your grip on her hand with surprising strength, and the look in your eyes burned with a determination that shook her.

“I know,” you whispered, your voice cracking, “what the healers are saying. I know what’s happening.” A tear slid down your cheek, and Minthara instinctively wiped it away. “Please… go to the chapel. Pray to Lolth.”

Minthara’s expression hardened. “No,” she said firmly. “I won’t leave you. Not now.”

“Minthara.” Your voice was weak, but the command in it was unmistakable. You met her gaze, and she could see the plea there, but also something else—something you weren’t saying aloud. “You have to go. You have to pray to her. Please.”

Minthara hesitated, her heart twisting in her chest. She could sense the unspoken intent behind your words, but she didn’t question it. With a reluctant nod, she stood.

“I’ll go,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “But you hold on, do you hear me? You hold on.”

Without waiting for a reply, Minthara spun on her heel and sprinted from the infirmary, her boots echoing loudly against the stone floors. The corridors blurred past her as she made her way to the chapel. Her thoughts raced, panic clawing at the edges of her resolve, but she focused on her purpose. By the time she reached the ornate doors of the chapel, her chest was heaving with exertion.

Minthara pushed the heavy doors open and stepped inside. The air was thick with incense, the silken webs draping the walls shimmering in the faint light of faerie fire. She fell to her knees before the grand statue of Lolth, the Spider Queen’s many eyes seeming to pierce through her.

For a moment, she hesitated. Prayer had never been her strength. That was always you—your faith unwavering, your devotion inspiring. But now, Minthara drew upon your resolve, channeling the strength you had shown her time and again.

“Mother of Chaos,” Minthara began, her voice shaking but growing steadier with each word. “Lolth, my Queen, I come before you not in doubt, but in fury.”

She bowed her head low, her hands clutching the edge of the dais as she continued.

“Eilistraee has dared to lay her hand upon your chosen house. She has sown discord, stolen your loyal descendants, and struck at the heart of your dominion.”

Minthara’s voice grew louder, her words laced with venom.

“She has struck my wife, your child, the Mistress of House Baenre, with this treachery. She has taken Lythaera, one of your own, to mock you. To mock us. And now she seeks to undo us!”

Her voice cracked, but she pressed on, her words flowing like a tide.

“Show her your wrath, great Lolth! Let her and all who would defy you know the cost of crossing the Spider Queen! Bring your chaos, your vengeance, down upon them! Show them why we kneel only to you!”

When her words ceased, the chapel fell into an oppressive silence. Minthara’s heart raced as she knelt there, her forehead pressed against the cool stone. For a moment, dread crept in. Had Lolth ignored her? Was her prayer insufficient? Was Lolth simply relishing in their agony?

Then the ground beneath her hands trembled. A faint, almost imperceptible vibration at first, growing into a distinct rumble. The air seemed to shift, the incense swirling unnaturally. Minthara lifted her head, her breath catching as the eyes of the Spider Queen’s statue glowed faintly red, as if alive.

A voice—not spoken but felt—reverberated through the chamber, cold and commanding. It was not words, but Minthara understood the message nonetheless: You have been heard.

Tears pricked at Minthara’s eyes, though whether they were from relief, awe, or fear, she couldn’t tell. She bowed her head once more.

“Thank you, my Queen,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

As the vibrations subsided, Minthara rose to her feet, steadied by the knowledge that Lolth had listened. She turned and sprinted back toward the infirmary, her determination renewed. Whatever mania would follow, she would face it. You needed her, and she would not fail.

The chaos she expected upon her return was conspicuously absent. The once-noisy infirmary was eerily quiet, save for the occasional murmur of the healers. Minthara’s eyes scanned the room frantically, expecting the worst.

And then she saw you.

You lay on the bed, still gasping, still in the throes of labor, but the air around you had shifted. Your half-lidded eyes glowed with an intense, demonic red—a light so fierce it cast faint shadows across your face. The healers stood back, murmuring prayers under their breath as they watched you, their expressions a mix of awe and fear. Lolth was with you.

Minthara approached cautiously, her gaze fixed on you. She reached your side and dropped to her knees, taking your hand in hers.

“My love,” she whispered, her voice trembling.

Your lips moved faintly, forming her name, but no sound came out. Yet the glow in your eyes seemed to burn brighter as if in response to her presence. Minthara clenched your hand tightly, her chest heaving with relief and fear.

The air in the infirmary grew heavier as your cries of pain tore through the room, each one reverberating with a pulse of raw, unrestrained magic. Minthara held your hand tightly, her knuckles white as she murmured reassurances, though her voice was nearly drowned out by your screams. The Spider Queen’s influence had clearly taken hold, and the atmosphere was charged with something far beyond mortal comprehension.

As you cried out again, the pulse of magic surged through the room like an invisible shockwave. It sent the healers staggering back, their instruments clattering to the floor. For a moment, it seemed harmless—a simple burst of power—but then the true horror began.

One of the healers, a middle-aged drow woman, froze mid-step. Her body convulsed violently, and she collapsed to the ground, her mouth open in a silent scream. From her nose, her ears, and her mouth, tiny black spiders poured forth, their legs glistening with ichor as they scuttled across the floor.

Gasps and cries of alarm filled the room as more healers dropped to the ground, their bodies writhing in agony. Spiders erupted from their orifices in a grotesque cascade, the arachnids skittering across the infirmary as chaos erupted.

Minthara’s instincts took over, and she rushed to the nearest fallen healer. She knelt beside the body, her sharp eyes narrowing as she examined them. The drow’s lifeless face stared up at her, and Minthara saw it: their eyes, now clouded in death, were not the deep crimson of Lolth’s own but an abhorrent blue.

Her stomach twisted in disgust and fury.

“Seldarine,” she hissed, her voice like venom. She stood up quickly, her gaze sweeping over the room as more bodies hit the floor, spiders spilling from their mouths and scattering into the shadows.

“Keep working!” she barked at the surviving healers and midwives, her voice cutting through the chaos like a blade. “Do not stop, no matter what happens. Focus on your Mistress!”

The remaining healers—those untouched by the magic—snapped to attention, their fear overridden by years of discipline. They returned to your side, their hands steady as they examined you and worked to manage the labor.

The midwives stepped forward, their expressions grim but resolute. One of them, an older drow with deep lines etched into her face, leaned over you, her hands gently pressing against your abdomen.

“The contractions are increasing,” she announced, her voice calm despite the carnage around her. “The baby is coming.”

Minthara stayed close, her gaze darting between you and the remaining healers. The culling, it seemed, had done its work—those who had writhed and died in agony were all revealed as Seldarine infiltrators, their light eyes betraying their treachery. The survivors, loyal to Lolth, worked with renewed fervor, ignoring the corpses of their false comrades scattered across the floor.

You let out another piercing cry, your body arching with the force of a contraction. Magic pulsed again, but this time it seemed to settle, its destructive wave dissipating as if satisfied with its gruesome work. The midwife met Minthara’s eyes and nodded.

“It’s time,” she said firmly. Minthara leaned over you, her hand still clutching yours.

"You’re almost there,” she whispered, her voice steady but filled with emotion. “You’re going to make it. Both of you will.”

Despite your exhaustion and the haze of pain, there was a flicker of determination in your glowing red eyes. The Spider Queen’s presence loomed over you both, her will entwining with your fates.

The room seemed to warp and fade around you as you strained, your cries of agony reaching a crescendo. Then, at last, the moment came. You felt the final, unbearable contraction ripple through you, and with a wet, shuddering release, the child entered the world. You gasped, your body trembling as you collapsed back onto the blood-soaked bed.

There was no crying.

The silence was suffocating.

Your head lolled to the side, and your glowing eyes dulled as the edges of your vision darkened. You tried to reach for the child, to demand to see them, but the overwhelming exhaustion swept you under, and consciousness slipped away like sand through your fingers.

The healers moved swiftly, immediately cutting the umbillical cord, their faces pale but determined as they whisked the small, limp form of the newborn away. Minthara stood frozen for a moment, torn between you and the child. Then, as if propelled by a force greater than herself, she followed the healers, her heart pounding in her chest.

The voices of the healers were hushed but frantic as they carried the babe to a side chamber. Minthara's sharp ears caught snippets of their conversation:

“The skin… too pale…” “…not breathing…” “…too weak to survive…”

Her heart lurched in her chest as she pushed past the small group, desperate for a glimpse of the child. She caught sight of them—a small, frail body, pale as moonlight and smeared with blood. Her breath hitched, and for a moment, her confidence faltered. The child looked so fragile, almost ethereal, like they belonged to another world entirely.

Suddenly, a healer turned and stepped directly into Minthara’s path. Before she could react, the healer’s hand darted out, and with a swift, practiced motion, they tore open her tunic with a scalpel.

“Explain yourself!” Minthara snapped, her voice a venomous growl as she glared at the healer. Her hand instinctively reached for the hilt of her blade, but the healer raised their hands in a placating gesture.

“Matron, please, trust us,” the healer said quickly, their tone desperate but firm. “This is the only way.”

Before Minthara could argue further, the healer pressed the tiny, bloodied babe against her bare chest. Minthara stiffened, bewildered, but the warmth of the fragile body against her skin rooted her in place.

The healers began to chant, their voices weaving an ancient incantation that filled the room with an eerie, otherworldly resonance. The babe, still silent and still, seemed to respond to the chant. Thin, shimmering strands of silk began to manifest, wrapping around the child like a cocoon.

Minthara stared in awe as the silk wove itself tighter, forming a protective sling that clung to her chest. The babe’s chest rose slightly, then fell again. A tiny sound—a whimper, then a gasp—escaped the child’s lips.

Then came the cry.

A wail, high and sharp, pierced the air, and Minthara’s heart swelled with relief and joy. Tears pricked her eyes as she looked down at the cocooned babe, their cries growing stronger with each breath.

Her hands instinctively cradled the child, her healing magic from her oath flowing from her palms into the tiny body. The crimson light of Lolth’s blessing surrounded them both, and Minthara felt an unshakable sense of purpose. She was their lifeline, their protector.

The healers collapsed one by one, their energy drained from the ritual. One of them, barely able to sit upright, looked up at Minthara and spoke in a hoarse whisper.

“This… was a miracle,” they said. “The Spider Queen willed it. Without her blessing, this would have failed.”

Minthara nodded, her lips curving into a small, fierce smile. “Lolth’s will is absolute,” she murmured.

The babe was secure, cocooned in silk that clung to Minthara like an egg sac to a mother spider. She stood tall, her chest rising and falling with determination.

The thought of you suddenly snapped her back to the warning—the dire prediction that only one of you might survive this ordeal. She turned, her heart heavy, expecting the worst.

But there you were.

You stood at the other side of the room, your silhouette framed by the flickering torchlight. Blood trickled down your legs, pooling at your feet in a stark testament to the ordeal you had endured. Your body swayed, breath labored, yet your glowing red eyes burned with an unearthly intensity. The sight was both horrifying and mesmerizing, your form transformed into something almost eldritch, radiating Lolth’s dark power.

Minthara’s breath caught in her throat. “By the Spider Queen…” she whispered, her voice trembling.

You met her gaze, your voice hoarse but steady. “She heard you,” you said, each word laced with pain and resolve.

Minthara moved toward you, cradling the cocooned babe close to her chest. She didn’t need to speak; the look in her eyes, a mixture of reverence, love, and fear, said everything.

You stagger forward, each step unsteady, yet propelled by an indomitable force within you. Blood stains your legs and robes, trailing behind you as if marking the path of a warrior returning from battle. Minthara, clutching the silken cocoon to her chest, moves to meet you halfway, her movements cautious yet desperate.

When you reach her, you raise a trembling hand and gently place it on the silk sling. The cocoon pulses faintly under your touch, warm and alive. Tears blur your vision as you lean forward, pressing your lips to the cocoon with a reverence so profound it silences the room. The faint cries of the babe within are muffled by the layers of silk, but they are there—a testament to survival, to Lolth’s will.

You draw back, your blood-red eyes turning to the healers who are still frozen in shock.

“The child,” you rasp, your voice raw but filled with authority. “Is it a boy or a girl?”

The lead healer stammers, her hands wringing nervously. “A… a girl, Mistress. Another daughter.”

The words wash over you like a balm. Another daughter. Another blessing from Lolth. You close your eyes and nod, a faint, exhausted smile gracing your lips.

“Of course,” you whisper, more to yourself than to anyone else.

With a deep, shuddering breath, you turn on your heel, your movements purposeful despite your condition. Minthara’s brow furrows, and she calls after you, her voice edged with worry. “Where are you going?”

“To get Lythaera,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “She needs to meet her sister, after all.”

The room stills at your words, the sheer determination in your tone stopping everyone in their tracks. Minthara’s eyes widen, and she steps toward you.

“They haven’t retrieved her yet,” she says carefully, her voice strained. “Kyorlin still has her.”

You stop in your tracks and slowly turn to face her, a small, enigmatic smile tugging at your lips. Your glowing eyes lock onto hers, and you repeat, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world, “I’m going to get my daughter.”

Minthara takes a step back, momentarily thrown by your confidence.

“You’re bleeding still,” she protests, gesturing to the blood soaking your robes. “The healers need to check you over, ensure your body is fine—”

Her words stop you cold, as if grounding you back to the reality of your body. Your hand instinctively rests on your abdomen, and for the first time, you acknowledge the lingering pain and the necessity of the healer’s work. Your shoulders sag slightly, and you nod, allowing yourself to be led back to a clean bed.

The healers, though terrified of you in your current state, rush to your side. They work quickly, their hands practiced despite the lingering tension in the room. Minthara stays close, the silken cocoon still strapped securely to her chest. The babe stirs occasionally, the faint pulse of the silk reassuring her that the child is alive and stable.

As they work, one of the healers speaks hesitantly to Minthara. “The silk cocoon… it is unique. Sacred. When the child has stabilized enough to survive, she will break through it on her own. It could take hours, days… perhaps even weeks. But she will emerge when she is ready.”

Minthara listens, her eyes never leaving you as you lie there, your breaths labored yet steady. She nods solemnly. “Then I will protect her until that moment comes.”

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Lythaera lay unconscious on a narrow, uneven bench within the dimly lit confines of a safehouse on the outskirts of Menzoberranzan. The air was stale, filled with the acrid scent of moss and mildew, and the faint trickle of water echoed from somewhere in the distance. Her small form was swaddled in a simple cloak, her delicate features slack in an unnatural stillness. Around her, the extremists bickered, their voices low but tense, their heated debate punctuated by the occasional sharp hiss of frustration.

“This is madness,” one of them muttered, pacing back and forth. His hand rested nervously on the hilt of his blade, his eyes darting to the dark entrance of the safehouse as if expecting pursuit at any moment. “We can’t stay here long. The matron and her brood will come for her. For all of us.”

“The surface is the only way,” another snapped, her tone insistent. She leaned over a rough-hewn table, her long, slender fingers tracing a crude map. “The quicker we get there, the safer we’ll be. They wouldn’t dare follow us into Eilistraee’s domain.”

A younger extremist, a woman with wide, uncertain eyes, glanced toward Lythaera. “But… she’s just a child. She’s never seen the sun. The surface… it’ll burn her skin, blind her. She’ll suffer.”

Kyorlin, standing in a shadowed corner, stepped forward, his presence commanding silence. His eyes—tinged with the same unsettling blue that betrayed his allegiance—gleamed in the dim light.

“Eilistraee will protect her,” he said firmly, his voice steady with conviction. “I will protect her. This child is our future, a symbol of what we fight for.”

His words carried weight, but the room remained tense, the undercurrent of doubt unspoken yet palpable. The extremists returned to their argument, their voices rising in intensity as they debated their next steps.

In the midst of the chaos, no one noticed the small crystalline spider that skittered silently into the safehouse. Its translucent body caught faint glimmers of light, each delicate limb moving with eerie precision. It crept closer to Lythaera, its many eyes glinting with an otherworldly intelligence. It paused briefly at the foot of the bench, its mandibles clicking softly, a sound too faint for the distracted extremists to hear.

The spider climbed deftly onto Lythaera’s robes, weaving its way into the folds of the fabric. Once nestled within, it settled itself against her chest, as if anchoring itself to her. The faint chittering ceased, and the spider remained utterly still, blending seamlessly into her clothing.

The crystalline spider was more than just a creature; it was a message, a harbinger. These spiders, sacred to Lolth, had once been your salvation when you were young and alone. This spider’s presence was not random. It was a sign, a declaration: Lolth is watching. Lolth is coming. And worse than that, so were you.

As the extremists’ argument grew louder, the spider’s presence went unnoticed, its role quietly solidifying. It pulsed faintly with magic, a silent promise to its matron: her child was not alone.

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

Woweee, this was intense hence why it took me so long to write aha. I am not an expert on giving birth or labor so it may not be entirely accurate but i really tried my best. Also poor minthy, she's going through it - you on the other hand, goddamn. This was partially inspired by that scene in HOTD where Rhaenyra just firms walking those steps after giving birth bcs spite.

Let me know what you thought of this down below, every like, comment and reblog is cherished and I love you all. Happy Holidays! -Seluney xox

If you want to support me in other ways | Help keep this moonmaiden caffeinated x

Taglist: @longjohnsilverfish @alicelufenia @m-for-musings @h-doodles @spacezombiez @les-bee @chlondykebar @coratheninth @wineredsea @gaysindistress @trappedinafantasy37 @i-must-say-thats-quite-gay @damnsupercorp @lunar-monster @cinkenn17 @surrfix @iprobneedabeard @spicyshadows

[artficlly]

smog & spirits: the rat king (mini-series)

Marvel 1920s Gangster/Peaky Blinders Inspired Fantasy AU

gangsterboss!bucky x witch!reader

Bucky Barnes, the leader of Sootstone's Smog Boys, needs a favour. A nasty curse has been cast on him, and he needs a witch to help him break it.

Warnings: 18+ content minors dni, fem reader, physical violence, angst, wound description, threats, some fluff, protective bucky, bucky barnes had issues, cults and religion mentioned, criminals & crime, 1920s street gangs, witchcraft, vaguely british setting??, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 6.2k

A/N: hi!! just wanted to say thank you all so much for the love on the last chapter and sticking with me!! i know i hadn't posted in forever with being busy with uni and all so it really made me happy that people still remembered this fic. this chapter (once again) was supposed to cover a lot more but i got carried away lol, so instead i'm posting this half and then the next half soon once i have it properly written up. anyway!! please enjoy!! sorry for any typos - not proof read.

taglist: @nash-dara @sebastians-love

main masterlist | series masterlist

Gertrude Crowley was a nervous woman.

It was the first thing you noticed about her; her movements were hesitant, as though she feared drawing too much attention. In the dim light, you noticed her face—worn, yes, but not aged beyond her years. Lines of worry etched her brow and framed her mouth. Her greying hair, streaked with darker remnants of its original chestnut hue, was hastily pinned beneath a weathered black scarf, frazzled tufts poking through the holes strewn throughout the fabric.

“Tea, Ms. Crowley?” You asked the woman. Despite your soft tone, the woman jumped in her seat, hand raising to her bosom as she took in a sharp breath.

“I suppose, Dear.” She squeaked in reply

You gave the older woman a reassuring smile, hoping to calm her fears. Her pale blue eyes darted away quickly, revealing a haunted expression. They glanced at you briefly, then withdrew as if frightened by what they might find. She fidgeted with her hands, the frayed edges of her gloves exposing trembling fingers.

“Tea is good for the soul, don’t you think?” You hummed to her softly, your upper half bent over your kitchen table, and you poured the steaming liquid into two cups. You hoped the woman wouldn’t comment on how the ceramic was chipped; the painted flowers faded from years of use. “Always so cold in The Warrens, it warms you up from the inside.”

Ms Crowley nodded stiffly, teacup rattling against its matching plate as she held it in trembling hands. You took a brief moment to observe her, eyes searching her appearance. Her clothing was plain but serviceable—a dark woollen cloak that hung unevenly over her frame, its hem damp and muddied from the streets. Beneath it, a simple grey dress fitted her modestly, cinched at the waist with a cracked but sturdy belt. A brass locket hung around her neck, glinting faintly when she shifted. Though practical and well-worn, her boots carried scuffs deep enough that you questioned if the dark fabric was her socks beneath.

She took a hesitant sip from her cup and looked up at you with a smile that didn’t quite meet her eyes. “Thank you, dear.”

You settled into your seat, dragging your cup across the table's woodgrain. “How can I be of assistance?”

Ms Crowley hesitated, her lips thinning into a line as she contemplated a response. You wisely decided to allow her some space, and the steaming liquid cupped in your palm suddenly became the most fascinating thing in the world. 

The older woman stumbled over her words, once, twice, thrice before finally settling on a simple, “I..I have never met a witch before.”

You smiled down into your cup, elbows resting on the table as you slowly looked up at her through a strand of loose hair that had fallen across your forehead. “I think you will find witches are alike most people you would meet—just like any stranger you would pass on the street.”

She peered across the table—as if testing your own words against you. Her tired, pale blue eyes squinting as she examined you from head to toe. “I suppose… I suppose you’re right. And I suppose I should trust you. I ‘ave been told most witches are trustworthy.”

“We are.” You state simply, only pausing to take a sip from your cup. The warm liquid fills your belly, a soft hum escaping your throat as you tilt you head in thought. “We’re salesmen, in a way, sellin’ our wares. There will always be scam artists, a few among the many, but most of us are just makin’ ends meet.”

The older woman contemplates your words. She takes a sip, a long one, then nods in affirmation. “You’re right. I should have some faith.”

“Now, Ms. Crowley, how can I help you?” You query once again.

“Well… I don’t know how this all works…”

“Just tell me what troubles you. From the start, if possible.”

Before she could speak, the door creaked open behind you, breaking the fragile quiet that had settled over the room. The sound was faint, yet it resonated through the stillness like the tolling of a distant church bell. Your breath hitched, fingers tightening around the chipped teacup as a wave of unease swept through you. The air seemed heavier, colder—an unspoken warning curling down your spine.

“Spirit-raiser.”

That voice. Gravelly, familiar. Unwelcome. You sucked in a sharp breath, though it felt as though your ribcage had suddenly shrunk two sizes too small for your organs. The bruises still present across your abdomen ached as every muscle in your body tensed, a tangled knot of shock electrifying your nerves. But beyond that, beyond the anger and disbelief, there was a feeling far more treacherous: relief.

He returned.

Your head whipped around, posture immediately straightening as though your spine was a pole made of steel. There he was—Bucky Barnes, leaning in the doorway like he owned the place, his sharp, stormy eyes swept over you, then flicked briefly to Ms. Crowley, whose face drained of colour. The woman looked ready to bolt, her hands clutching the table's edge as if it might anchor her in place. You couldn’t blame her. A woman already so anxious over the idea of magic she had positively turned green the moment she entered your flat. Now she was face to face with the dreaded Bucky Barnes, the fucking menace of the Sootstone? Many in The Warrens likely hadn’t seen the man in person, maybe at a distance, or knew him through whispered tales. You certainly hadn’t encountered the man until he came crashing into your life, smog and all. 

“Bucky,” you said, his name slipping out before you could catch it. A string of curses nearly left your tongue along with it. How bittersweet could it be that despite all the hurt you felt, you still called him by a name so familiar? Too familiar. The taste of it burned on your tongue. Your heart slammed into a furious rhythm as what could only be described as a smirk graced his lips. How could he act like he hadn’t vanished from your life without so much as a goodbye? 

How could he turn up here and act like all was well and normal?

It had hurt when he had left; yes, that was to be expected. But these past few days, he had avoided you. At least, it felt like avoidance. You hadn’t heard a word from the Smog Boys since your beating at the hand of the Iron Rats, not even a whisper on the sharp winds that rolled in from the dock. Natasha would have told him. In what world would she not have told Bucky that his pet witch had missed the summons because she was trembling, bloodied and bruised on her own floor? 

You had convinced yourself that maybe it was for the better, an escape from Becca’s wrath and escape from the Smog Boys…

“I’m busy.” The words escaped you before you could think.

He raised his brows in disbelief. Your toes curled in their boots, cringing at your own blunt tone. But then again, had he just expected everything to return to normal?

“I need’a favour.” He stepped further into the room, his boots thudding against the floorboards as he surveyed the space with casual indifference. His gait was smooth, gaze unbothered. A morbid part of you wished you could inspect his back and see the damage you caused. It didn’t seem to bother him or impede his movements.

Ms. Crowley made a small, frightened noise, her trembling hands going to her locket as though it might ward off his presence. “I—perhaps I should come back later…”

“What’re you doin’ here?” you demanded, the words sharper than you intended, cutting over Ms. Crowley’s muttering. 

“As I said, I need’a favour.”

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides, nails biting into your palms as you fought to keep your composure. 

“A favour?” you repeated, the words dripping with scepticism. “After everythin’, you show up here and ask for a favour?”

Ms. Crowley flinched at the tone of your voice, but you couldn’t stop now. Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly, the faintest crack in his facade of nonchalance.

“Watch it,” he warned, his voice low and dangerous. “You don’t want to push me.”

“And you don’t want to push me neither, Barnes,” You shot back, planting your hands on the table. “You don’t get to leave without so much as a ‘thank you’ and then show up here, actin’ like I owe you somethin’?”

“You say that, spirit-raiser, but…” He sucked on his teeth, a muscle in his jaw ticking as he looked down at you, hands casually tucked into his jacket pockets as he sighed through his nose. “I just spent the last four days cleanin’ up your mess.”

Your brows drew inward, confusion slipping through. The entire time you had spent in misery, licking your wounds and nursing your broken heart, he had been out there defending you? 

A devilish expression crossed his face. “You really thought you could, what? Walk on over to Grimrow unnoticed while under my protection? Do you realise how long it has taken me to talk the Rat King down from marching over the Sootline and wagin’ war ‘cause of you?”

“They crossed the Sootline. They pursued me.” You rebutted, though even your voice wavered, unsure.

“Yeah.” His head tilted, eyes squinting. “You better be praisin’ whatever fuckin’ witch god you follow, 'cause that little fuck up on their end is the only reason why you’re still here playin’ good little spirit-raiser.”

You swallowed. Hard. 

“They hurt me.” You confessed, voice steadying.

“Yeah, I know. Nat told me. Good thing your pretty little face has all healed up. That’s your only fuckin’ worth to me right now after all the trouble you’ve caused.” His words stung; maybe you would’ve believed them true. But you got the sense he was being harsh for the sake of venting frustrations. He wouldn’t even catch your eye as the insults rolled off his tongue. 

For a moment, silence filled the room, thick with tension. You could feel Ms. Crowley’s gaze on you. Bucky’s jaw tightened, his posture stiffening as his eyes finally lifted and bore into yours. His expression was unreadable, a carefully laid mask to cover whatever real emotion raged behind his stormy blue eyes.

Then, to your surprise, Ms. Crowley’s feeble voice cut through the silence. 

“I-I-I should go now—”

You whirled around.

“No,” you snapped, cutting her off before she could rise. Ms. Crowley froze, wide-eyed and trembling, her teacup rattling slightly in her unsteady hands. For a brief moment, you thought Bucky might let her stay, that he’d simply loom in the corner, his presence a warning but nothing more.

But then Bucky huffed a sharp breath, irritation flashing across his face as he shrugged out of his jacket. 

“Get the fuck out,” he said bluntly, his tone leaving no room for argument, his eyes sliding to meet the older woman's as you made a noise close to a whimper. “And keep your fuckin’ mouth shut about all this.”

Her mouth opened and closed like a fish gasping for air, her gaze darting between the two of you. With a frightened nod, she scrambled to her feet, clutching her bag and locket close to her chest.

“Apologies. I ain’t sayin’ a thing. Not a word. I swear.” she stammered, her voice a whisper as she made a beeline for the door.

The moment the door clicked shut behind her, you turned to Bucky, a glare sharp enough to cut steel fixed on your face.

“You didn’t have to scare her off like that!” you snapped, grabbing the teacups and stalking toward the sink.

“A waste of fuckin’ time is what she was,” Bucky replied casually, his voice dripping with indifference.

“She was a client,” you shot back, setting the cups into the sink with more force than necessary. “A payin’ client. I need clients, Barnes.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms folded, watching you. “You’re actin’ like I don’t pay you triple what they’re offerin’.”

You dipped your hands further into the soapy water, pressing your palms flat against the metal bottom as you sighed, momentarily closing your eyes in exasperation. “You don’t get to decide who’s worth my time. This is my place. My work. You can’t just—”

“I thought Nat was exaggeratin’,” Bucky cut over you, his voice low but carrying an edge that made your stomach churn.

You stiffened, your grip on the cup tightening. “Exaggeratin’ about what?”

“About this.”

Your eyes flew open as his hand caught your chin, tilting your face toward him with an infuriating gentleness. His thumb brushed over your jaw, skimming the faint bruise that lingered there, and his eyes narrowed as they traced the fading split in your lip. A shiver raced down your spine, and you jerked your head away, pulling free of his grasp.

“It’s nothin’,” you muttered, returning to the sink.

“Don’t look like nothin’,” he countered, his tone sharp. “Let me see the rest.”

You froze, your hands hovering over the sink. “No.”

“Don’t be stubborn,” he snapped, moving closer. His voice dropped, carrying a dangerous edge. “I need to see what they did to you.”

You shook your head, your pulse roaring in your ears. “It doesn’t matter. I’m fine.”

Bucky let out a low growl of frustration, and before you could react, his hand was on your shoulder, spinning you around to face him. His other hand went to your waist, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

“Bucky, stop,” you protested, grabbing at his wrists. The soapy water made your hands slick, his skin slipping from your grasp. “This isn’t—”

“Quit fightin’ me,” he said sharply, his eyes flashing with something raw and unyielding. “I need to know.”

His words silenced you, leaving you to stare up at him in stunned disbelief. The fight drained out of you, replaced by a reluctant acceptance as you lifted your hands, a trail of water rolling down to your elbows. Your head dipped, staring down at his shoes as droplets dripped onto his boots. With a defeated sigh, you rested your palms on his chest, pressing the wet skin into his buttoned shirt until you could feel the warmth of his body. With a grunt, he tugged your blouse from where it was tucked into your shirt, ripping the fabric upward until it exposed your belly.

The air seemed to leave the room as his gaze fell on the mottled bruises that painted your abdomen, the angry purples and blues. His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking as his hand hovered over the worst of the damage, his fingers brushing against your side with an uncharacteristic hesitance.

You heard him swallow audibly, adam’s apple bobbing. A shiver ran down your spine as his thumb carefully ran up to your sternum, then across the band of your brassiere. 

“How many ribs did you break?” he asked, his voice low and rough.

You sucked in a sharp breath as the hair across your body rose on end. Tingles blossomed across your skull as his hand swept down to the waistband of your skirt, tugging it down to inspect the damage still hidden. 

“Three.”

His grunt of acknowledgement was quiet, but the tension dominating his frame was unmistakable. He stepped back abruptly, running a hand through his hair, tongue running over his bottom lip.

“Why didn’t you fight back?” The question gave you near vertigo. 

“I did.” You lie through your teeth

The gangster shook his head, hands resting on his hips as he looked down at you. 

“Bullshit. I’ve seen what you’re capable of. I’ve felt it, doll.” Your gut clenched as he half motioned towards his back. “If you wanted to fight back, they would’ve been dead long before they touched you.”

You pause. He was right. He was entirely right. You hadn’t fought back because you were what? Dejected and defeated? Too swept up in your own pity? Living in your mother's shadow? Or was it just the shadow you had created for yourself?

“You’re punishin’ yourself, aren’t ya? Hm?”

“I’m not lyin’ Barnes—” You begin to speak, voice raising as hysteria begins to bubble within you. Why was he asking you these things? Why was he pretending to care?

“Why?” He cuts over you, 

You turned away, refusing to respond. “I think you should leave now.”

He was silent for a beat. Then you heard the shuffle of clothing as he picked up his coat and swept it over his muscled shoulders. “I still need that favour.”

You sigh, an exaggerated noise as you spin to face him with a scowl. “What now? Can’t it wait?”

“You’re expected. At a meetin’.” 

“Meetin’?” You echoed.

“About what happened. With the Iron Rats.” 

“I thought you said you dealt with it—” You bite back, irritation flaring. 

“Would you just shut your fuckin’ mouth for a second and listen?” Bucky cut over you, voice raised. You clamp your mouth shut in surprise.

“It’s the Rat King.” Bucky meets your gaze. “He wants to meet you.”

—

You would have never described Bucky Barnes as nervous, but the walk to the Sootline almost had you questioning that assumption. Bucky kept his pace steady, though you noticed the subtle clench of his jaw and the occasional twitch of his hand at his side. It wasn’t the demeanour of a nervous man—no, Bucky Barnes didn’t do nervous—but something unexplainable was simmering beneath the surface.

The streets of the Warrens were quieter than usual, the normal hum of life dampened. The sun had grown low in the sky, the usual grey fog warming to a diffused orange and pink glow. The cobblestones were slick beneath your boots, liquids you wouldn’t dare identify, leaving a sheen across the ground that reflected the faint glow of lanterns. You adjusted your coat, tucking it closer against the chill, and cast a sidelong glance at Bucky. 

"Barnes, you alright?" you asked cautiously, breaking the silence. You weren’t one to pry, but the energy engulfing the gangster was strange.

“We’re late,” he muttered, his voice clipped.

You frowned, the sharpness of his tone needling at you. “Well, if you’d told me sooner than five minutes ago that I was needed—”

“And you would have come?.” His words were abrupt, cutting through your protest like a blade. “You do ‘ave a habit of ignorin’ my summons.”

Your jaw clamped shut, a heavy silence falling over the both of you. Further down the twisting, wonky street, you could see streetgoers dashing into nearby stores and homes. Above in the stacked homes that towered above the streets, faces cautiously peeked out, watching as Bucky and you marched past. You observed a group of three children ushered away by their mother, her tightly shutting the rickety window with a grim expression.

“It would be best if you kept your mouth shut during this. Only speak when spoken to. Just agree unless I say otherwise.” Bucky finally spoke, voice gruff.

“Why?” You pry, voice unsure.

“‘Cause I can’t help you if you say somethin’ stupid ‘n end up gettin’ yourself in more trouble.”

Your steps faltered, confusion flashing across your face. “Why do you suddenly care?”

His lip twitched, but he continued with his persistent gait. “You ask a lot of questions.”

“You’re scarin’ me—”

“I have a reputation to uphold, spirit-raiser. Can’t have these rats thinkin’ I’ve gone weak ’cause of some bird.”

The words landed heavily, and you bit back the sting of their dismissal. “What does your reputation got to do with me?”

His stride didn’t falter, but his gaze flicked toward you, brittle and intense. “If I can’t protect you, then what’s to say I can protect the whole of The Warrens, huh? What’s to stop them from marchin’ over the Sootline?”

“So, what’s this, then? You strikin’ a deal, handin’ me over to them, actin’ like you don’t care so they don’t think you’re weak ‘cause of some bird?”

“If I wanted you dead, you’d have been dead a long time ago.” He huffed out in an empty laugh. He stopped abruptly, turning to face you. The weight of his stare rooted you in place. “No, doll, those rats… they fucked up.”

Your breath hitched in your throat as he continued, his voice low and deliberate, every word laced with venom. “I’m gonna get them to bend the fuckin’ knee. Show them whose the real fuckin’ King around here.”

—

The Sootline River separated the two territories like a jagged scar, its sluggish current carrying the city’s filth toward the sea. On either bank, the Smog Boys and Iron Rats assembled in tense lines, a mix of swagger and unease flickering across their faces. The lanterns they carried swayed, casting fragmented shadows on the water as the sun finally slipped beyond the horizon, coating the land in creeping darkness, its coffin-like suffocation only exaggerated by the smoke and ash from the Smokestacks.

Bucky stood at the river’s edge, his posture deceptively relaxed, his hands buried in his coat pockets. His gaze locked onto the figure across the river: Varlan Crey—The Rat King. Varlan was everything Bucky wasn’t—brash, loud, and lumbering, his bulk swathed in a tattered black coat with yellow stitching. His grin was wide, but his teeth were uneven, lending him the air of a predator more accustomed to snapping than scheming. His gang flanked him, a pack of diseased rats, restless and waiting for a signal.

“Barnes,” Varlan called, his voice carrying easily across the water, gravelly and full of mock cheer. “Shame we ain’t meetin’ unda different circumstances.”

“Varlan,” Bucky replied, his tone steady, almost clipped. He didn’t move a muscle, his stance radiating a nearly unbearable calm.

Varlan cocked his head, his smirk widening. “I’m guessin’ this is the bird in question?” He nodded towards you.

You froze under his scrutiny, your skin prickling under the weight of his gaze. The air seemed colder now, and your chest tightened as though the river’s chill had seeped into your bones. 

Bucky gave a single, deliberate nod. “Yes.”

Varlan snorted softly. “A bird from The Warrens, crossing inta my territories ‘n causing a ruckus amongst my boys… you undastand how this looks bad, Barnes?”

Bucky didn’t flinch. His smooth and unhurried tone carried across the water like a blade. “I can. But it weren’t her that was causing the ruckus now, was it? I’m guessin’ these lies you’re tellin’ yourself are why you so recklessly declared war before examinin’ the facts.”

Varlan chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that made the hairs on the back of your neck rise. “Facts,” he repeated, shaking his head as though the word itself amused him. “You’re soundin’ more and more like them fancy wankers up in The Flower Districts, Barnes. Especially in those fine tailored suits a yours.”

A chorus of low laughter rumbled from the Iron Rats side of the bridge, the lines of men with their yellow handkerchiefs grinning amongst themselves. 

“Oh, I can recommend you a tailor, Crey,” Bucky said lightly, his voice laced with faint amusement. “I know one who gives discounts for friends.” 

It was now time for the Smog Boys to stir behind Bucky, muffled chuckles rippling through the crowd. A flicker of a smile ghosted across Bucky’s lips, though his gaze remained fixed on Varlan. With the subtle jab landed, Varlan bristled. His shoulders stiffened, and his smirk turned brittle. He barked a short laugh, more bark than humour.

“Well,” he said, his voice sharper now. “Let’s get to the heart of the matter, shall we?”

“Go ahead,” Bucky replied.

You glanced at him, searching for some clue about his thinking, but his expression gave away nothing. Beside you, the Smog Boys settled, hands tucked into their pockets and chests puffed out as they eyed the Iron Rats across the river. Their stillness wasn’t as practised as Bucky's. He held the type of quiet that preceded violence, the kind that made your stomach churn. As you scanned their faces, you noted how young some men were, barely out of boyhood. It might have been a cause for concern, but you knew many sought out Bucky’s leadership out of desperation. Their energy was much better placed under the guidance of someone like Bucky instead of them turning to the streets where their violence and frustration would run rampant. Regardless of their age or status, you had noticed one common theme among the Smog Boys—none were left unfed, and their clothes were always without holes. The same could not be said for other less fortunate souls who braved The Warrens alone. 

“I admit,” Varlan began, dragging out the word with a performative sigh. “That I may ‘ave been… hasty. But ya can’t blame me, not with the information I was told.”

“I guess so,” Bucky replied simply. 

Bucky’s lack of reaction agitated the larger man, a cross expression forming on his greasy face. Then his smirk returned, sly and serpentine. “Well, I am impressed by ya…little investigation. Touched a nerve, did it?”

A ripple of unease passed through you as Varlan Crey lifted his brows, head tilted to match his devious, wide-eyed expression. A subtle dig at Bucky’s involvement—or worse, his attachment to you? You swallowed hard, feeling the weight of both their gazes shift momentarily to you. 

By some miracle, Bucky didn’t react to the provocation. Instead, his voice came low and steady. “I take it you spoke with the witch?”

You felt your face react before you could steel yourself, face scrunching in confusion. Witch? What witch was Bucky referring to? He certainly wasn’t referring to you—you had never met the Rat King before, let alone spoke with him about your misdeeds of crossing into his territories. In retrospect, with the gravity of the situation weighing upon you, it was a foolish assumption to make thinking you could walk into Grimrow unimpeded or unidentified. In recent months, it seemed everyone and anyone knew who you were before you knew them. It was as if you walked your life with a ginormous red hot brand across your forehead that simply said: Bucky Barnes!

“Spoke? Yes,” Varlan said, his voice emerging in a drawl. “Come ‘ere, girl.” 

He turned slightly, and a figure emerged from the Iron Rats’ crowd.

Wanda.

Wanda.

Your chest tightened, bruising squeezing painfully. She walked forward with her usual unnerving grace, her head high, her eyes sweeping the scene before her. Her auburn locks bounced across her white dress, sheepskin draped over her shoulders to protect her from the chill. Coven garb. She was calm. Too calm. The shock of seeing her in the Church of Light clothing almost made you physically recoil. You had never seen the attire in the flesh, but you remembered how your mother had described it—white to symbolise the light and the chosen babe, the Light-bringer. Diviner. 

The voices of the past echoed those names in your mind.

Light-bringer…

Your mother had always been short in her tales, too afflicted by the trauma and illness that had ruled most of her life away from the Coven. She had only spoken of the cruelty and sickness in those temple walls. The white was purity, the end of times, the rapture… but also a symbol of their devotion. The crimson blood of their self-inflicted or sometimes forced punishments showed up best on a fresh canvas. 

How had Wanda inserted herself in your life so quickly? How long had Leofric and his coven of fucking madness been tailing you? And how had Bucky known to bring her? You glanced at him, desperate for a flicker of understanding, but his face remained devoid of emotion.

“It seems my friend, Barnes ‘ere, is obsessed with facts.” The Rat King spoke, pulling you from your confused daze. He wheezed out a laugh, a phlegm-filled cough quickly following as he spat the glob into the filthy churning Sootline.

“Go on then, girl. State the facts.” Varlan instructed with a bark.

Wanda folded her hands in front of her, her voice level and composed. “I invited her to Grimrow.”

A surprised murmur swept over the crowd.

“The Church of Light has been expanding its temple across the Sootline. I was honoured to become the Head Priestess for our new build—”

“Yeah, yeah, cut to the facts, girl.” Varlan cut over Wanda. 

The auburn woman's eyes sparked with something that could only be described as irritation, but it was only a flicker as she expertly composed herself. “I invited her over to celebrate with me, as we have been friends since childhood.”

The word friends felt like a slap. Or even better, a well-placed stab to the abdomen. Your throat tightened as you stared at her, horrified by her ease in lying. How could she say it so smoothly? So convincingly? You tried to form words, but they caught in your throat, leaving you in silence.

“You agree,” Varlan pressed, his voice breaking through your haze, “that you were invited?”

Your lips parted, but no sound came, head spinning. Finally, you forced yourself to speak. “Yes.”

Varlan’s sly eyes narrowed, assessing you. “You say you are both friends but… the bartender and my men witnessed a fight between ya both,” he said, his tone deceptively casual. “Why?”

Wanda quickly stepped in, her voice carrying a faint trace of sorrow. “I had expressed my concern. I wished she would stop workin’ for the Smog Boys out of fear for her safety.”

Varlan’s amusement flickered across his face, but you caught the subtle way his eyes darted toward Bucky. It was a jab meant to provoke. Bucky didn’t bite. He remained as unmoving as stone.

“And what do you say?” Varlan asked, turning his attention back to you.

Wanda’s eyes burned into your own, her chin lifting. You could’ve sworn you saw the ghost of a smirk across her lips as she watched you squirm. You couldn’t claim she was lying, or this elaborate fabrication would fall apart. You couldn’t gauge her motive. Was it to make you feel you owed her and the Church of Light? Was it to protect you? Plant seeds of doubt within Bucky, and make it seem like you had hidden parts of your life from him?

“She’s tellin’ the truth,” you surrender, the lie tasting bitter on your tongue.

“And do you have evidence? Of this letter sent to you to invite you?”

Your stomach dropped further, quickly scrambling to come up with a believable lie. “No… No, I burn all my old mail. I use it as kindlin’.”

“Convenient,” Varlan spat out with a slow shake of his head. “Very convenient.”

“I have evidence,” Wanda interjected smoothly, producing a rolled parchment from somewhere on her person. “It is the reply she sent me, confirmin’ the date.”

Bucky’s shoulders subtly relaxed beside you. Had he known about the lie, or was he being strung along by her games, too? Had the two spoken as well? What lies had she told him? Worst of all was the flare of jealousy in your gut—the thought of him talking with that woman, the idea of him trusting her over you—the weight of betrayal was suffocating. Wanda had gone to unimaginable lengths, forging a note in your handwriting to solidify this ruse.

“You wrote this reply?” Varlan asked, holding the parchment aloft.

“Yes.” Your tongue felt thick in your mouth.

Varlan examined the note for a long moment before nodding. “Well, seems you’re right, Barnes. My men were in the wrong. “

“So, we have an understanding now, Crey?” Bucky asked, his voice steady.

“Believe we do, Barnes,” Varlan replied. “Your woman can walk free.”

Bucky’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, his hand flexing at his side. For a moment, he didn’t respond; his cold blue eyes locked on Varlan like a wolf sizing up its prey.

“That’s it?” Bucky asked, his voice low, dangerously calm. “She walks free, and we’re supposed to call it even?”

Varlan spread his hands in a gesture of mock generosity. “What more do you want, Barnes? She crossed into my territory. I’ve agreed to let her go, no harm done. This should be the end of it.”

Bucky let out a quiet laugh, shaking his head. He glanced down at you briefly, his expression unreadable, before looking back at Varlan. “No harm done? Is that what ya think?”

“She’s standin’ here, ain’t she?” Varlan said, his tone oily, his confidence growing in the face of no immediate retaliation. “No blood spilt, no lastin’ damage. Consider this a…generous gesture from me.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening. Without another word, he stalked toward the bridge.

The movement drew startled murmurs from both sides.

“What’s he doin’?” one of the Iron Rats hissed, his hand twitching toward his weapon.

“Hold!” Varlan snapped. “Let him come if he wants.” There was a cool confidence to his tone, a confidence that was likely misplaced. 

“Barnes,” Varlan said, his voice rising as Bucky drew closer with deliberate, measured steps. “There ain’t no need for this. I’ve said the matter is settled.”

Bucky said nothing as he reached the other side. His hand slid into his coat, and when it emerged, he held a knife. The blade gleamed in the lantern light, its sharp edge catching the flickering flames.

The Iron Rats stiffened as if momentarily stunned and unable to make a move.

“Let’s be clear,” Bucky said quietly, his voice cutting through the tension like the edge of his blade. “You think you can cross me, threaten a woman under my protection, and walk away with a few pretty words? Is that what ya think, Crey?”

Varlan stepped back instinctively, his misplaced confidence crumbling as Bucky loomed over him. “Barnes, this is unnecessary—”

Bucky moved faster than anyone expected. His boot struck Varlan’s chest in a brutal kick, sending the Rat King sprawling onto his back. Gasps erupted from the Iron Rats, a few finally thawing out enough to jerk forward, but were quickly off-put their heroism by the crowd of Smog Boys inching across the bridge, blades drawn and faces like jackals.

At some point in the chaos, you had lost sight of Wanda, the witch disappearing into the shadows and fog like a ghost in the night.

Varlan scrambled backwards, his hands raised in a panicked gesture of surrender. “Wait! Barnes, wait!”

Bucky crouched over him, the knife hovering dangerously close to Varlan’s throat. “Ya think this is a game, Crey? Well, let’s fuckin’ play then, huh?” he spat. 

“I—I didn’t mean for any of this!” Varlan stammered, his voice high with panic. “I swear, Barnes. Please!”

“Beg,” Bucky said, his voice cold and unrelenting.

Varlan’s face twisted with humiliation, but the knife at his throat left no room for pride. Slowly, he rose to his knees, his hands still outstretched in surrender but his entire form trembling.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I was wrong. Please.”

“Louder,” Bucky demanded.

“I’m sorry!” Varlan cried, his voice cracking. “You can ‘ave the men, do what ya want with ‘em. Is that what you want? Please… just—”

Bucky gripped his balding head with a firm grip, directing Varlan’s watery, terrified eyes to look across the Sootline at you. You had a sudden epiphany, an understanding that Bucky had never been nervous. No. That strange energy, that twitchiness… it had been pure, unfiltered rage.

“Now, say sorry to her.” Bucky instructed, his voice near seething.

“I am sorry! I’m sorry for me actions. And my mens.” The Rat King cried out. Your gaze lifted to meet Bucky’s as he stared back across the Sootline at you. His grip on the man’s head tightened. “Please!”

“Bucky.” You finally spoke up, your voice soft as the breeze as it carried across the river.

As if your brief speech had broken a spell cast across the gangster, Bucky immediately straightened, his expression calm as he sheathed the knife. He reached out and patted Varlan’s head mockingly.

“Good little rat,” he murmured. “You know, I’m hostin’ a party soon. Maybe I’ll invite you, and you can dance and entertain me like the fuckin’ jester you are.”

Varlan’s humiliation was evident, his men exchanging uneasy glances. Bucky grinned wide, showing all his teeth.

“As for the men,” He said, his tone sharp as he turned to face the crowd of Iron Rats head-on. “The ones who crossed the border. Hand them over.”

Varlan hesitated for a moment, his pride still clinging stubbornly. But the weight of Bucky’s gaze, the threat of what he might do, was too much to bear. He nodded quickly, motioning to his men.

As if not wanting to anger the gangster further, the Iron Rats were quick to locate the three culprits and push them ahead, their expressions ashen with terror. Smog Boys emerged from the mist like spectres, grasping the men and dragging them across the bridge before they could escape and bolt back into the depths of Grimrow.

“Take them,” Varlan said hoarsely, his body sunken in defeat. “They’re yours.”

Bucky didn’t even look at them. He turned and crossed the bridge, hand grasping your forearm as he tugged you along. You frantically looked back, watching through the filthy haze as Varlan Crey stumbled back to his feet, cheeks burning, forehead slick with sweat. His men around him looked dejected, their beady eyes following you as you disappeared into the smog.

“Come,” Bucky uttered to you. “We have business to attend to.”

[scarletwinterxx]

my ins and my means, with you there's no in between I'm all in - kwon soonyoung imagine

helloooo ~ here's a short cute fic, saw a tiktok the other day, that's what inspired this🤭hope you like it!

for my other svt fics, check them here

if you want, u can buy me coffee(totally optional but any donation is very much appreciated!) thank you🥺💛

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2024 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

The night before had been nothing short of a storm. The kind where voices were raised, words were said that didn’t need to be, and feelings were hurt. But here you were, the morning after, standing in front of the mirror, staring at yourself as you carefully dabbed on foundation, the still-slightly-raw emotions of last night lingering in the air between you and Soonyoung.

He was sitting on the bed, his legs stretched out in front of him, eyes glued to the screen of his phone, but his attention kept drifting back to you. You could feel his gaze on the back of your head, the warmth of his stare prickling your neck like a soft breeze.

You didn’t turn around. You couldn’t. Not yet.

“Do you really have to stare at me like that?” you asked, your voice not quite as sharp as you wanted it to be, but still carrying a slight edge.

“I’m not staring,” Soonyoung said, shifting his position but not moving his eyes from you. “Just admiring.”

You caught his reflection in the mirror. His lips were pulled into a grin, eyes crinkled with the smallest hint of mischief. He was trying. You could tell.

He was trying to make it right, but you were still holding on to the grudge from last night. The argument, though now over, still simmered beneath the surface.

As you reached for your blush, you paused for a moment, taking in the sight of him. his eyes still glued to you like he couldn’t look away, his entire posture slouched and resigned, like a puppy who'd been scolded and was waiting for forgiveness. The mental image made your lips twitch, and you couldn’t help but smile.

You applied the blush with delicate strokes, the brush sweeping across your cheeks. The mirror caught the movement of your lips, and that’s when you let it slip—a soft smile that reached your eyes, despite yourself. The act of applying makeup was almost like a ritual, and that smile, however small, was a part of it.

But just as you did, Soonyoung’s grin widened. He leaned forward a little, his chin now resting on his hand, his face full of expectation, like he’d won some sort of silent victory.

It was too much.

You turned toward him and gave him a playful but pointed look. “I’m not smiling at you,” you said, your tone as deadpan as you could manage, but the twinkle in your eye gave you away. “This is how I put my blush.”

His face fell slightly, the corners of his mouth sagging just a little, but you could see the effort he was putting into holding back a chuckle.

“I’m still mad at you, you know,” you added, holding his gaze in the mirror. “Don’t get any ideas.”

Soonyoung blinked at you, his eyebrows lifting in mock surprise. “You’re still mad at me?” he said, sounding almost hurt, but there was a soft grin on his lips that betrayed his true feelings. “But I thought we were over it.”

You hummed noncommittally as you finished applying the blush.

“We’re over it,” you said, “but I’m not just going to forget everything”

The way you said it made him sit up straighter. “Wait, are you really still mad at me?” He stood up now, moving toward you, taking slow, tentative steps like he was afraid you'd snap at him if he came any closer

You smirked, not responding immediately. Instead, you picked up your mascara wand and started applying it with exaggerated slowness, dragging it out just to tease him a little. Your eyes flicked back to the mirror to find Soonyoung standing in your reflection, his head cocked to the side, his expression unreadable but his posture full of gentle desperation.

“Can you hurry up with that?” he asked, his voice soft and pleading. “I just—uh—I need to know if you’re really still mad at me. I mean, if you’re mad, that’s okay, but you don’t have to stay mad forever.”

You sighed dramatically, leaning back in the chair as if giving up. “Fine,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I’m not mad at you anymore, okay?”

Soonyoung brightened immediately, and just when you thought he might burst into song or do something equally ridiculous, he simply stepped closer, his expression softening. “Really?” he asked, his voice quieter now, like he was asking permission to be forgiven.

“Yeah,” you sighed again, looking up at him through the mirror. “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

“I am cute,” he confirmed with an exaggerated nod. “So, we’re good now?”

“Yeah, we’re good,” you said, finally finishing with your mascara and setting it down. “But that doesn’t mean I’m going to let you off easy. You have to at least follow me around today like you’re trying to make up for your mistakes.”

Soonyoung’s eyes brightened, and his face lit up in a way that made your heart do a little flip. “I’m already on it,” he said, with all the seriousness he could muster, which, truth be told, wasn’t much. “You need anything? I’m at your service. I’ll be your personal assistant for the day.”

You raised an eyebrow, eyeing him carefully. “You’re just going to follow me around like a lost puppy?”

He nodded eagerly. “Exactly! A cute, loyal puppy who’s sorry for whatever it was I did last night. Actually make it a cute baby tiger. Anything you need, I’m there. I’ll even carry your purse if you want.”

“I’ll pass on the purse carrying, thank you,” you said, shaking your head as you grabbed your jacket. “But you can carry the coffee. You owe me that much.”

“I’m on it,” he said, practically skipping toward the door to get his shoes. “I’ll get it extra hot. Extra sweet. Just the way you like it.”

As you stepped into the living room, you could hear him rummaging through the kitchen, asking questions about where you kept the cups and what kind of sugar you liked. He was a whirlwind of energy, buzzing around you like he couldn’t help himself.

For the rest of the day, Soonyoung stuck to you like glue, hovering around you with that same puppy-eyed expression that made it hard to stay mad at him for long. Whether it was getting your coat for you or holding open doors, he did it all with a little extra enthusiasm, as though he thought that maybe, just maybe, if he was extra attentive, it would make up for last night.

By the end of the day, when you were both sitting together, sharing a quiet moment, you realized you couldn’t remember what you were so upset about in the first place. Maybe it was the way he grinned at you, or how he offered you the last bite of his sandwich without a second thought. Whatever it was, Soonyoung had a way of making everything right again, even when things felt wrong.

And, as you leaned into him, letting him rest his head on your shoulder, you found yourself smiling—this time, for real.

[greattigerssimp]

Disco Kid headcannons for Disco week!

🕺🪩🕺🪩🕺🪩🕺🪩

- Grew up on disco... LITERALLY. The first song he ever heard wasn't some nursery rhyme or whatever... it "Let's Groove."

- His first date preference would be skating at a roller rank with his ideal lover (Aran Ryan)

- Although his favorite kind of music is disco, he likes music of all genres and time periods! As long as it's catchy

- Has a huuuuge tiktok following. He even created a few dance trends of his own; he's naturally a cool, fun-loving, unproblematic guy to be around. The most problematic thing about his is that he's friends with Ar*n Ryan

- Is friends with Mac, but sometimes Mac gets annoyed that Disco Kid never tries to be better... but that's kinda the point? He boxes for fun, not for fame.

- Loves to host parties with the other boxers at his house. His folks don't mind, and his home is big and ritzy enough to hold all of them

- Most of the trophies he owns are from the variety of sports and physical competitions he's entered into as a teen and young adult. He's got a whole cabinet full of them at his home

- Has the nicest car ever, but also the loudest car ever. The city be damned if he ever attempts to go carpooling with Ar*n Ryan at night. Also he's not a great driver

- Don Flamenco has a small rivalry with Disco Kid. He's jealous that he can dance so well, and that he's so naturally likable. Disco Kid is oblivious to this rivalry tho

- Made a cameo in one of Great Tigers' last rap albums and even provided the background vocals to said album.

- Most social of all the boxers by far. If you're a new guy, Disco Kid will most likely be the first guy to talk to you

- Him and Heike Kagero are great friends, mainly because Heike is his boxercise instructor. They're both the most agile and lively boxers to ever be at the WVBA

[crowlex23]

New Destiel fanfiction alert!

This time it's University!AU

Dean Winchester, a friendly and laid-back student with a love for classic rock and pie, meets Castiel, a reserved and brilliant academic who turns out to be his roommate. Despite their differences, they find themselves drawn to each other, building a love that neither anticipated but both can’t deny.

[m0rang0z]

Finally finished what i promised

I had no damn creative idea for the background :(

Header used on the end of this post was found here

The traditional sketch has been posted a few days ago before i actually started the digital one, so here's the link

2 hours and 41 minutes

38 layers including the PNG's i have done in different canvas and even the watermark

Jester (undercircus papyrus) is a character that belongs to me! :D

I suppose trying new things does make my artwork looks better-

I'm too lazy to post it on Instagram rn UGHHHH

[tojicide]

OBSESSED. ☆ SYLUS QIN.

📰 extra, extra! why is your bodyguard so obsessed with you? girl, you wanna know...

warnings. nsfw, smut, mdni. porn with plot. fem!reader, popstar!reader, bodyguard!sylus. established romantic history (very brief). pet names. semi-public. fingering, oral (fem!receiving), cowgirl, unprotected p in v. wc. 4.6k

an. reused the header and a bit of the plot from an aaron hotchner fanfic i wrote on wattpad in like… 2021??? tweaked most of the details obvs but ig i was born as a bodyguard au lover

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

Your bodyguard was such a buzzkill.

Dragging you out of every party you make an appearance at, replacing your shots with water once he believes you’ve had one too many, watching you like a hawk no matter where you are or who you’re with...

You despise those who have an inability to have fun, so as far as you’re concerned, Sylus is the devil reincarnated. You aren’t exactly shy about your opinions on him either, and perhaps in hindsight, that is exactly why he was currently pacing through the party you’re in attendance of to try and ruin your night yet again.

(Ruin your night or… do his job? Hell if you care about the logistics of it all. Two sides of the same coin, you think.)

His protective nature only grew more intense ever since the two of you shared a kiss before a concert of yours that left your lipstick smeared over your face like there was no tomorrow…

And what did that asshole do? Nothing. It was in his nature to make your life miserable after all. Sylus let you walk out in front of your thousands of fans, makeup messy and appearance disheveled all from his mouth on yours alone.

And boy, did the tabloids have a time with that one… Who was the culprit? A new fling of yours? Fiancé? Possible baby daddy? Each and every news outlet had some uniquely wrong to say. Can’t a girl have a makeout session with her bodyguard in peace?

Unfortunately for you, the paparazzi have been hounding you ever since that day, itching to get the 4-1-1 on your love life.

And ever since, you haven’t given many people the time of day—including Sylus. Tonight, you’ve managed to stay two steps ahead of your dear bodyguard and evade eventual capture for just a bit longer. You’re currently surrounded by a few of your friends, socialites and actors alike.

Your lips seem to flap freely when you have a few drinks in you, but tonight, you’re sober but even more talkative than ever. Your chosen topic of conversation? Your overbearing and stupidly handsome bodyguard, of course.

Too lost in your story, waving your arms around to your theatrical pleasure, you hardly noticed the way your friends’ faces paled to a ghostly shade of white, their eyes nearly bulging out of their heads and their lips parted as if they had something to say but… couldn’t.

All the while, you were too busy blowing off the  steam that you’d acquired from your last encounter with the forsaken bodyguard. “…And I was like, why are you so obsessed with me?”

As fate would have it, you hear a throat clear behind you followed by an annoyed huff that you’ve grown to know like the back of your hand. You spin around, already wearing a scowl.

“Obsessed with you, hm?” Sylus says, his voice low and seemingly dangerous, though your utter distaste for the man rids him of his intimidation. “You’re quite self important. I could never live in a world where I’d fall at the feet of an egotistical popstar.”

You roll your eyes at that. Who does he think he is? Everyone loves you—all except for the disgustingly handsome man standing in front of you.

“Mm… well, you can always die an untimely death and never have to work for me again,” you reply, giving him the most passive aggressive smile known to man. “Hopefully that gives you an ounce of hope.”

“It does,” he replies, returning the same expression that you gave him.

It’s borderline infuriating how undisturbed Sylus was. No, it is infuriating. No matter how many insults you chucked his way, he never cracked. (And the one time he did, it led to the two of you playing tonsil tennis in your dressing room...)

You shake your head, huffing in utter annoyance. You then hold your wrists up for display, cocking your head to the side as you give him a mock puppy dog expression. “Sooo… are you here to take me away, Officer Buzzkill?”

Sylus merely blinks in response to your taunting, taking a firm grasp on one of your wrists before he tugs you through the sea of partygoers. He laces your fingers together, squeezing tight as to not lose hold of you.

“Must you always make things so difficult?” he asks, keeping his eyes ahead.

You shrug your shoulders. “More or less.”

“More or less?” he echoes, glancing over his shoulder to properly look at you. “I suggest you try a different style of communication, sweetness. Your clipped attitude will get you nowhere.”

“Oh? But it’s gotten me so far already…” you trail off, glancing at his lips for a few agonizingly long seconds before a smirk tugs on the corner of your mouth. “In fact, I think it can get me even further.”

Sylus’s jaw tenses, his eyes slipping shut as he tears his gaze away from you. He can’t handle the way you’re looking at him—so unbelievably beautiful with those siren eyes of yours, the mere sight of you already stirring something unwanted within him.

He turns around to continue leading you through the crowd without a reply. You begin to glance around yourself, attempting to plot your brilliant escape.

“Don’t,” he flatly states, his iron grip tightening on your hand.

“Why not?” you ask, your voice holding a strong tone of defiance.

Sylus gives your hand one solid tug before you’re standing in front of him, his free hand pressing onto the small of your back as he keeps you pressed to his chest. “If you haven’t noticed, you brat, I will always chase you. I’ll find you just the same.”

You almost deflate under his intense gaze, his deep red eyes piercing through your own. It wasn’t often that Sylus manhandled you, but when he did, it made you feel… different. Intrigued, maybe.

“How touching,” you deadpan, “but you still get on my nerves.”

Sylus clicks his tongue. “Tch. Oh, I’m sorry… when have I ever cared about what you think?”

“Never,” you say with a dramatic sigh. “You know… if you hate me so much, you should just quit on me.”

Sylus rolls his eyes, his red irises drawing you in like no other. “I don’t… hate you. You should be rather thankful that I don’t, because I’m doubtful that anyone else would want this job of mine—you’re quite the handful.”

“Mm, I’m only saying,” you murmur with a shrug, giving his hand a harsh squeeze as if the roughness of your grasp would make him let go, but he, of course, does not. “You don’t need this job, and yet, here you are.”

He raises a brow. “What do you mean by that?”

You smile, the same shit-eating grin that he has grown to be all too familiar with. “Give me your wallet.”

Sylus huffs, his broad shoulders deflating as he fishes his black leather wallet from his back pocket and hands it over to you. You take it with ease, slipping your hand from his as you crack it open.

You slip his Black Card from the sleeve, proving that he truly didn’t need the job for any monetary gain. And then, a triumphant smile graces your lips as you pull out none other than a Polaroid photo taken of you—backstage at your concert just before the kiss you two shared.

“Ooh… what’s this?” you ask, raising your eyebrows.

Sylus reaches forward to try and snatch the tiny photo from you, but you are far too quick. “What are you revealing exactly? That you were secretly snooping in my wallet prior to now?”

“Yes,” you admit without hesitation, “and that you’re secretly rich and in love with me. Does that make us even?”

His jaw sets, his piercing gaze set on yours. He works to snatch the photo from you, tucking his belongings back into his wallet before he slips it into his pocket. “No. Maybe if you were less of a pain, we could be even.”

You wiggle your eyebrows in suggestion. “You’re not denying being in love with me, dear bodyguard of mine.”

Sylus gives you a deadpan expression. “Must you always be so self righteous? God forbid I am proud of you and your success.”

The genuine nature of his words set you back a step, your brows knitting together and your lips parting. If Sylus noticed the shift of your expression, he didn’t mention it. Thankfully. His cold fingers lace with yours once more, continuing the stride towards the exit of the party.

“Rather than putting on this show of yours, you truly should be thanking me for saving your reputation,” he quietly adds, his hand now curled around your waist as you approach the exit. “There is a swarm of paparazzi outside who are desperate to get their grimy hands on a picture of their beloved popstar doing something remotely scandalous.”

(And if Sylus knows anything about you, it’s that you love scandals. According to you, they ‘make life worth living’. Tch. Diva.)

You chuckle. “Aww, you care!”

“Do I care, or is it my job to look after you?” he asks, plucking his sunglasses from his pocket to place them on your face, shielding your eyes from the rapid camera flashes of the paparazzi. “Public intoxication numerous times a week is not a very good look for you, sweetie. Incredibly frowned upon.”

Your jaw sets as you listen to his words. While they are undeniably true, you don’t have any plans for admitting that—not now or in the near future.

“Making out with my bodyguard is frowned upon as well, but you didn’t seem to be complaining about that bit,” you say under your breath.

Your voice was low enough that your weighted words were almost drowned out by the booming music of the party and by the chatter of the photographers you’re about to be engulfed in. Almost. 

Sylus flashes you a glare. “You shouldn’t mumble. I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“You heard me,” you state.

He did hear you, that was exactly the problem. It was no coincidence that the two of you haven’t spoken much since your very intense lip lock. You’ve been avoiding each other, evading the invisible string that connects the two of you like both an electric current and a noose.

The tension between the two of you was tangible, palpable even—you could practically taste it just as well as you could still taste his lips on your own. It was intoxicating, imprinting, searing.

It managed to distract you from the flashing lights of the cameramen who were swarming you, capturing flick after flick of you being led through the crowd.

You chew on the inside of your cheek. “You know, you can help me out with all of this,” you murmur, gesturing towards the paparazzi. “My publicist came up with an idea that will get them off my back for a while. Give them the answers they need and… whatnot.”

“Yeah?” he asks, glancing your way. “Do tell.”

You swallow the lump in your throat, tuning out all of the chattering paparazzi who are currently surrounding you. “Be my impromptu mystery man for the cameras. I’ll give you anything you want in return, I swear it.”

Sylus hums, the sound omitting a deep rumble into the air. “Anything I want? My, my, sweets, you’ve made me an offer I cannot refuse.”

You huff, grasping onto the collar of his jacket as you pull him into you. “Just go with it.”

“Just go with wh— mmph!” Sylus’s words were muffled by your lips slotting against his in a searing kiss, his hands instinctively finding their home on the curve of your hips.

The kiss was… tame. It was supposed to be, after all. It was merely for the cameras, a way for you to put an answer to the questions that have been flooding your inbox and left your name circulating in the news for days on end.

But when Sylus’s tongue brushes against your bottom lip, you slightly pull away, muttering a faint, “Sylus, what’re you…” before he pulls you right back in, his large hand now resting on your cheek.

“If you’re going to use me like a whore at your disposal, I’d suggest you let me enjoy myself and taste you properly,” he says into your mouth, his hand shifting to tangle in your hair as he tilts you to his liking, your tongues meeting in with gentle swipes. “See? I knew you could do better than that.”

True to his suggestion, you kissed him like there was no tomorrow, your hands fisting his shirt in your palms as your lips moved in tandem with his. Lipstick and paparazzi long forgotten, you find yourself getting lost in the moment, a soft whimper leaving your mouth as his hands give your hips a firm squeeze.

The moment he hears that sweet, impossibly faint sound of your pleasure, he knows that he’s in for it now. That’ll do it for him.

He abruptly pulls away, clasping his hand onto yours as he continues pulling you through the now stunned crowd of paparazzi. Sporting an erection and your lipstick smeared on his lips makes no difference to Sylus—if anything, he enjoys the world knowing that he has the hots for the woman who he has sworn to protect.

Sylus helps you into the passenger seat of your black SUV, closing the door behind you before making his way to the driver’s seat. He peels off, driving with intention through the streets of the city.

It was now evident to you that he was driving the SUV in pursuit of his favorite lookout spot, one that overlooks the bustling city from a distance. Sylus had taken you there once before as per your request to ‘stay out a bit later’. Nothing happened then, but you have an inclination that your luck has changed.

“I know what I want from you,” he states, placing a hand on your thigh.

How did he already manage to figure out what he wants in return for helping you? A raise? A car? The blood of his enemies? You’re intrigued, raising a brow. “You do?”

“I do,” he confirms without missing a beat. “Get into the backseat.”

A gasp leaves your kiss swollen lips as you mull over the utter implications of his words. It didn’t take a genius to understand them, but you were… surprised to say the least. “I think you’re overstepping your boundaries, Mr. Qin.”

In a literal sense, sure he was. But if the two of you were going to judge based on what you two want, he absolutely wasn’t—you both knew that.

He chuckles, the sound low yet infuriatingly sexy. His hand slips beneath your skirt, his middle finger brushing along the damp spot of your panties. “Your body seems to disagree with you, ma��am.”

And if you weren’t already wet before, hearing him call you ma’am was more than enough to do it for you. “Shut up,” you grumble.

“You can make me,” he suggests, setting the vehicle into park before giving your thigh a few pats. He nods his head towards the backseat. “Go on.”

Without hesitation, you kick your heels off and crawl into the back of the vehicle, thumping down on the seat with a sharp sigh. Sylus follows you within the blink of an eye, his knees settling on the spacious floor of the car.

“What’re you…” you ask, though your eyebrows raise as the pieces of the puzzle click together in your mind. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he repeats, his warm hands rubbing your knees as he spreads your legs apart, his lips finding the tender skin of your inner thigh. “You know… you truly should be resting for your show tomorrow evening.”

“Should I?” You bite on your bottom lip as he leans forward, nosing at your clothed pussy with a muffled moan of his own. He inhales deeply, the scent of your arousal driving him to the brink of insanity.

“You should,” he answers, pressing an open mouthed kiss on your cunt through the fabric of your panties. “You should stop talking too. You need to rest your voice just as much.”

You swallow hard, whimpering ever so softly as his fingers hook beneath the waistband of your panties, pulling them down your legs to give himself access to your glistening core.

His eyes are set on your heat, his cool hands hiking your thighs over his shoulders. He rests his cheek on the warmth of your inner thigh, glancing up at you. “Because believe me, sweetie, the things that I want to do to you will not be in favor of that beautiful voice of yours.”

“Oh?” you ask, titling your head. “What will they be in favor of?”

He grins, wicked and devilishly handsome. “I’m glad you asked, because there’s someone else I’ve been wanting to hear from.”

Before you have the chance to reply, he’s already got his face delving deep between your legs, the filthy sounds of squelches and slurping filling the otherwise silent car.

“Oh, I— mmh, you didn’t answer my… my question,” you stammer out between breathy moans, your head tilting back on the headrest as your eyes flutter shut.

Sylus smiles into your pussy, pointing his tongue to accentuate the squelching noises that your heat was making, entirely wet and dripping for him.

“Can you not hear her?”

Never in your life did you think that having a man on his knees talking to your cunt would be this arousing, but… you’re fucking soaked.

“I-I can,” you gasp, cracking your eyes open to look down at him. “Fuck, you can talk to her in fifty languages for all I care, holy shit.”

He quietly chuckles, the sound sending a spark of vibrations onto your already sensitive clit. Your thighs tense, aching to close on him, but he keeps them spread with his strong hands on your thighs.

Your lips part as a string of breathy sounds leave you, beautiful moans and needy whimpers alike—all of which play as music to Sylus’s ears. It was nice to know that your mouth was good for more than just singing and bickering at him…

Teeth nibbling into your bottom lip, you glance down at him, only to be met with the most crazed eyes known to mankind. So disheveled, your slick leaking down his chin while his tongue delves into your heat like a man starved. He looks like he’s in his own pussy drunk heaven.

When you feel his pointed tongue begin to curve and lick in ways it hadn’t before, you do your best to follow his movements.

S-Y-L-U-S he spells on your puffy cunt with his writing tool of choice—none other than his stupidly talented tongue.

“You’re so—”

“Shh,” he cuts you off, his voice more like a husky whisper now. His pupils were dilated to the size of saucers, sucking on your clit before releasing it with a harsh pop.

Filthy sounds fill the air, your own breathy moans spilling from your swollen lips in tandem with the messy sucks of Sylus’s lips on your cunt. Not to mention, your girl truly was loud.

“Singing so beautifully for me,” he rasps, his eyes flitting up to watch your blissful expression. Lidded eyes, parted lips, flushed skin—an absolute wet dream of his come to life.

You bite your lip, hardly focused on the words coming out of his mouth. “Mmh, what…?”

“Quiet, sweets,” he repeats, hooking his hands even tighter around your thighs as he gives your heat a few more harsh licks. “I told you I was talking to her, didn’t I?”

It doesn’t take much longer for your legs to begin to tremble, your body writhing in his grasp as he sets you any way but loose. Your hips buck up, your core grinding against his wet muscle as you chase your release.

Sylus was more than eager to give it to you, redoubling his efforts while locking his hands over your legs to keep you steady enough for him to pleasure you effectively. The warmth pooling in your belly was far too much, far more intense than anything you had ever experienced before.

“Mmh, I… I’m coming,” you warn through an airy whine.

And when you do, Sylus swoops in even more greedily than before, his flat tongue lapping at your honeyed release. There was no way he would ever be able to go without tasting you like this now that he has. Fuck, he’s such a goner.

As you come down from your high, you grin with a few pants. “Look at you, falling at the feet of your ‘egotistical popstar’—mmph!”

Sylus plunges two fingers into your mouth to shut you up, rising to plant himself onto the seat beside you. “That’s hardly an insult to me anymore, my dear. I know what I am.”

He pulls his spit slick fingers from your mouth, bringing them to your pussy as he gently circles your sensitive clit. His free hand guides you through the motion of straddling his lap. With a simple nod of his head, he gestures for you to lift your shirt up, and you do.

“And what’s that?” you ask, watching as he leans forward to mouth at your breasts through the fabric of your bra.

“I’ve already told you,” he murmurs, bringing his free hand to his belt to free his cock from the confines of his pants. “A whore at your disposal.”

“I knew it,” you chuckle, though the sweet sound is interrupted by a breathy moan that he coaxes out of you once he slides his fat cockhead along your folds.

He clicks his tongue, tilting his head to the side. “Are you not going to reciprocate my affection?” he teases, grasping tightly onto your hips. “Or do I have to work a bit harder for it, ma’am?”

Your knees would have certainly buckled if they weren’t firmly planted on the leather seats of the SUV. Who would have thought that you had a thing for white-haired bodyguards who call you ‘ma’am’?

Sylus raises a brow, a cocky smirk tugging on his lips. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?”

You feel your face heating up more and more the longer you look him in the eyes, shifting your hips so that the tip of his cock finally meets your entrance. “Just… shut up and put it in.”

“How demanding,” he hums, smirking ever so slightly as he uses his grasp on you to make one sharp snap of his hips, burying balls deep inside of your heat. “But as you wish, pretty.”

You cry out immediately, the burn of the stretch fading into unfolding pleasure. Eyes locked on each other’s, breaths mingling with ease, skin slicked with sweat, it was…

“Perfect,” he whispers, smoothing his hands along your hips before one reaches up to cup your cheek. He pulls you into a deep, searing kiss. “So, so perfect.”

Your movements are timid at first, you were merely testing the waters that had yet to be explored. His cock stuffed you full, his tip kissing your deepest points with ease, earning a muffled whimper from your mouth that his lips swallowed up eagerly.

Sylus begins to help you move a bit quicker, rocking your hips forward in smooth rolls, earning moans from the both of you that seemed to come straight from your guts.

“Give it to me how you like it, baby,” he encourages, both of his hands planting firmly on your waist. “Use my cock however you need it, sweets, it’s yours.”

His words have your clit pulsating around his thick shaft, teeth sinking into your bottom lip as you begin to work up a pace of your own that has your heart beating wildly.

“I always… fuck—I always knew you were obsessed with me,” you jest, your grin stretching wide.

Sylus hums, the sound low and deep, his iron grip on your hips helping you maintain the intensity of your movements whenever your muscles beg for a break. “Yeah? Needed me to be buried inside of you to have that bit of confirmation?”

You nod with a smile, hands wrapping around his neck as you plant your forehead against his. He smiles too, a breathy moan leaving his mouth as you circle your hips in a way that has him seeing stars.

“Fuck yeah, I’m obsessed with you,” he admits without a semblance of shame, tilting his head back on the headrest.

Already feeling your second orgasm approaching, you bury your face in his neck, inhaling the scent of his cologne and sweat that made a musk that was so beautifully Sylus. His hands smooth over your backside, giving your ass a squeeze.

“Tch, let me see that pretty face,” he demands, nudging you with his shoulder so that you were sitting up once more. “You look so beautiful like this.”

You struggle to form a sentence, bouncing unabashedly on his cock, skin slapping together in an erratic pattern that spurred you even further. A string of whimpers and whines leave your puffy lips. Though your reply lacked words, it perfectly communicated what you wanted to say.

“Oh, I know it, baby,” he rasps, tilting his head back again as his eyes slip shut. “Pussy’s addictive—shit, I’m obsessed with her too.”

You begin to lose yourself all together, reduced to nothing more than a blissed out woman riding her bodyguard’s cock. “Sylus, I… mmh, I’m gonna cum.”

He nods in understanding, smoothing his hand through your hair as he brings you in for another kiss. It’s all teeth and tongue, messy and drooling in the most beautiful way possible.

“Gonna come inside you if you keep riding me like this, baby,” he warns, pulling back to look you in the eyes.

You feel his cock twitch inside of you, as if it were confirming his words. You don’t do this often, contrary to popular belief, but you are on the pill. Luckily. “Please do.”

Sylus pants through a smile, licking his lips as he guides you through a few more fleshed out grinds on his lap. “Huh… you really are something special.”

A deep groan leaves his mouth as he dips his head, grip tightening on your waist as you ride him through your shared orgasm. You aren’t sure where yours ended and his began, or if you had gotten the order wrong entirely. All you know is that in that moment, the two of you became one.

Panting, your hand plants on the fogged up window of the vehicle, leaving your handprint in its wake. Sylus lets out a breathy chuckle, raising his own shaking hand to the window.

You watch through lidded eyes as he draws a tiny heart, writing his and your first initials inside of it with a little + in the middle. How cute.

Sylus then turns to face you again, bringing his hand to your cheek. You nuzzle into his palm, placing a kiss on his skin. “I have something to admit.”

He nods his head a single time, beckoning you to continue. “What is it?”

You give him a wry smile. “My publicist never gave me the idea for that publicity stunt.”

“…I figured that much, sweetie.”

note. bodyguard!sylus, my glorious king… ok i lowkey hate this but it holds no purpose saving up space in my drafts so :D pls interact if you enjoyed, rbs are greatly appreciated <3 thank you for readingggg !!!

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ ⠀ ✧ masterlist | request

[bluebellowl]

Hell yeah animation!! I got little experience doing 2D animation already but 3D is a whole other beast oh my! Hell yeah animation!! No coat yet bc cloth simulation isn't looking very good and just keeping it a cone gives me a lot of awkward clipping, so I'll be using bones to animate that by hand.

I only started rigging the face afterwards which then resulted in some amazing expressions I never thought possible with such a limited face.

Look at that sassy mf! I love him so much!!

Part 4 - Part 6

[marril96]

Agathario AU | Agatha is late to her therapy session with Dr. Vidal. Inspired by this gifset by @riovidalharkness

[orion-archives]

MORE DOODLES OF "From Prime to Papa" AU

(But it's just baby Optimus and Megatron)

I headcanon newborn hatchlings that are still very underdeveloped (can't walk, eat on their own or see) are like this before they learn how to run and try to bite everything and everyone:

Baby Megatron and Optimus be upon ye

Also look at this gif of Sentinel running/driving away:

He reminds me of a cat escaping after breaking something.

He is trying to escape his new responsibilities.

[bilosan]

buddie + cowboy au

(9-1-1 // gif prompts)

[redd-byrd]

Channeling my stress into doing things I’ve been meaning to do so here’s Mouthwashing Actor AU bc I’m obsessed with those

Curly’s first introduction to his prop counterpart

At least Daisuke’s having fun