#but you could never make me love him more than the skull we were canonically given just as he is

[hopeswriting]

imagine having a personality that sucks so much, no one you ever meet can bring themself to take you seriously even if you're literally one of the strongest people in the world. among literally only eight people.

and then imagine you still have such a high and unyielding self-esteem of yourself, in no universe you'll ever so much as come close to consider that maybe you're the problem. obviously you're not. there's just no way you can be when you're so damn great in every way

[lovebugism]

YOU'RE ON YOUR OWN, KID | the beginning.

summary: a year after the end of the world, you and steve share one cigarette and two confessions. (6k)

listen to: "as the world falls down" by david bowie

tags: f!reader, roadtrip fic, friends to lovers, slow burn, mutual pining, angst & comfort, post st4, selective canon divergence (some things happen, some things don't), reader goes by the nickname "scout" TW panic attacks, conversations about grief, steve harrington smokes but he's still hot, outfit inspo (not indicative of what r's body type/skin color/etc.)

a/n: kinda surreal that i'm posting this because it's something i've been working on/thinking about for Months. i put so much time and effort and tears into this series so pleasepleaseplease enjoy it! as always, let me know what you think! let's watch these two (sort of) friends run away and fall in love with each other, shall we? <3

JOURNALS | MASTERLIST | SPOTIFY

★。＼ ｜ ／。★

The beginning of the rest of your life starts in the murky alleyway outside The Velvet Lounge.

It’s pretty fitting, actually. You feel like you’re close to dying anyway.

The lightning strike of a panic attack comes first as a cold hand around your throat. The clawed talon of a long-gone monster strangles you — sucks all the air out of your lungs and leaves you gasping for a breath you know won’t come. 

A second later and the light-up dance floor beneath your feet begins to sway. You blink, and it becomes the desiccated terrain of the Upside Down — again, and the glowing rainbow tiles return. Eventually, it becomes impossible to discern the real from the imaginary.

You feel a bit like the world’s caving in on itself as you stumble through the bustling crowd. The thumping of the heady bass strums throughout your body as you squeeze between a mob of sweatier ones. The merciless pounding makes you forget that your heart’s no longer beating.

The heavy breeze of a summer night smacks you in the face. There is no fresh air outside the buzzing nightclub, just more emptiness. 

You lean against the brick wall, clutching desperately onto your chest as you stumble from the exit. The world around you starts to spin on its side, going blurry like you’re being pulled underwater.

You’re drowning, but none’s coming to save you.

To everyone else, you’re just a girl that’s had too many. The girl that’s lost too much.

You duck into the dark alley with the intention of withering away there.

A warm hand brings you back to life.

“Shit, Scout,” Steve Harrington curses behind you. “Are you— Are you okay?”

You’ve never heard the nickname leave his mouth so gently. You don’t think he’s ever touched you so softly, either. It’s all so foreignly tender compared to the war raging inside your skull — you think it would’ve made you weep if you were capable of catching your breath.

His presence is only startling in the sense that you hadn’t expected to find him there.

It was pretty much the reason you’d slinked through the dimly lit passageway in the first place — to die completely and utterly alone. The flickering orange lamplight and damp brick made this place more adequate for puking college kids, canoodling couples, and conniving Ted Bundy’s of the world. Not pretty Steve and his pretty clothes and his pretty hair.

You’re more humiliated at having been caught than you are alarmed by it.

You figure you really shouldn’t be. He’s already seen you at your worst. On your deathbed, crying so hard you puke, so far gone from the world that you’re practically a ghost — that kind of worst. 

But for some reason, his wide palm on your shoulder makes you feel fragile. Small. He stands fathoms above you and you’re nothing but an ant under his sneaker — a little delicate thing he could crush completely if he wanted.

Instead, Steve holds you.

His long fingers cradle your trembling shoulder in a steady embrace. A warm reminder that you’re not alone in this gloomy alleyway that still thrums with life. That, in some ways, you’ve never really been alone at all.

“Yeah,” you answer finally, nodding but not looking over at him. You swallow through a tightening throat. “I just… I just need to, uh… to catch my breath.”

Steve eyes you with a gaze swimming with apprehension.

Your shoulder presses into the rough brick while your other hand clings desperately to your chest. Your fingers dig into the soft cotton of your shirt like you’re reaching for your thundering heart. Each of your breaths is ragged, forced, worked for. You grunt your way through every impossible inhale.

Facing away from him under the dim amber streetlight, he can barely make out your profile. He only gets glimpses of your scrunched face and the tear that glimmers gold on your cheek. But with his hand on your arm, he can feel the rapid up-and-down motion of your heavy breaths. Panic sizzles off of you and onto him like static shock.

“Yeah, it was getting kinda crazy in there, huh?” he says within a halfhearted laugh. “I didn’t know people like Duran Duran so much.”

It’s nothing more than a feeble attempt to get you to laugh. 

And it works. Sort of.

You’d lost sight of Steve somewhere around the time “Girls on Film” came on. Nancy’s drunken hand pulled you to the dance floor, and every other tipsy woman followed right behind you. He hadn’t seemed to care much about dancing, though. He just sat in the corner booth with Robin until Vickie came by and stole her away. The last you saw him, he was sitting alone at the bar with a basket of chicken wings before disappearing entirely.

But he hadn’t disappeared, you figured. He was just here, in this eerily empty alleyway, trying to get away from it all just as much as you were.

Steve sees the corners of your mouth quirk upward in a grimacing sort of smile. A scoff sounds from your throat a moment later. He thinks that might be the sort of laugh you get from a girl who doesn’t have much to find humor in anymore.

Your newfound relief is his own.

“You okay now?” he asks once you’ve caught your breath.

You nod and settle back against the brick. The fabric of your shirt sticks to the prickly clay. “Yeah,” you repeat, more truthfully this time. “Thanks— Thank you.”

You’re forced to mourn the warmth of the broad hand on your shoulder when he pulls away from you. 

He doesn’t stray far, though. He remains at your side with his back to the brick —  his frame much taller than your own, broader too. His woody cologne swirls with the purer scent of a summer night and the distant smell of beer. He holds within him an air that can only be described as all-consuming. He’s exactly the feeling of everything warm despite the several inches that separate you. 

Steve offers you the lit cigarette in his left hand, and for a reason you can’t name, his kindness takes you by surprise. You’ve fought a monster with the guy, but he still feels like a total stranger to you sometimes.

He sees you hesitate and thinks that this might be the first time either of you have been alone together. You don’t have anything in common except for the party. Without one of the members to accompany you, the fact becomes a heavier weight to bear.

It’s sort of like a peace offering — this half-gone cigarette. A ‘hey, I know we aren’t really friends, but maybe we could be.’

You take it. “Thanks…”

Steve watches you puff from the stick. You hold the thing between your thumb and forefinger, pinching it as you bring it up to your mouth. The huff you take isn’t a deep one, probably the fault of your still staggering breaths, but your eyes flutter shut on the exhale like you’re grateful for the nicotine fix.

He realizes then that he’s never looked at you before. Like, really looked.

Like a ghost, you tend to blend easily into the background, floating around in the shadows without ever being seen. You’re only out tonight because Robin and Nancy forced your hand, but in your darkened outfit — cropped tee, plain skirt, worn boots, all varying shades of black — you threaten to blend in with the night. You do it all with the finesse of a girl who’s all but disconnected herself from the world.

You catch him staring when you hand the cigarette back.

You don’t look weirded out by his prying gaze — quite the opposite, really. You cower under the attention, chin tilting toward your chest and a sheepish smile hinting at your lips. Embarrassed without any actual reason to be.

“Wanna tell me the real reason you came out here?” Steve asks you, covering the serious inquiry with a joking lilt.

Your brows furrow as you watch him bring the cigarette to his own mouth. He’s got this look on his face — raised brows, wide eyes, and quirked lips — almost like he’s teasing you.

You breathe out an awkward laugh.

“What do you mean? I just told you.” You try to smile, but it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. It looks more like you’re wincing as you shift your weight on your feet. “I just needed to—”

“To catch your breath,” Steve finishes for you, smoke billowing from his pink lips. The grey lingers between you for a moment before disappearing entirely. He nods with a lopsided grin before handing you back the cigarette. “Yeah. I heard you. I just don’t believe you.”

Your eyes go wide. He can’t tell if you’re shocked by his bluntness or if you’re embarrassed at having been caught so quickly. Maybe a healthy mixture of both.

Your throat tightens all over again. You swallow thickly as you turn away from him and it feels like you’re forcing down a too big pill. The back of your eyes burn with unshed tears, so many stinging needles that you force yourself to blink away.

And even though you’re just trying not to cry at the reality of the situation you’ve spent a year hiding from, to Steve it looks like you’re searching for a way out. Your gaze snaps to the opening of the alley where nicely dressed people bustle on the other side, their conversations far away and muffled.

He hadn’t meant to make you uncomfortable. He just thought you could use a friend, considering you were only just recovering from the windswept panic spell.

“Look. You— You tell me why you’re out here, and I’ll tell you why I am,” he offers, partly to make you feel better.

The other half of it, which he finds it startling to admit, is that he doesn’t want you to leave.

He’d spent fifteen minutes by himself in the dark — half comforted by it, half frightened. Despite his distant unfamiliarity with you, he’s weirdly comforted by your presence. Steve’s seen enough people walk away from him to know he doesn’t want you to join them.

You look at him again, more glassy-eyed than you’d been before. Your sniffle is nearly inaudible. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “You know… A you-show-me-yours, I’ll-show-you-mine kinda thing.”

It sounds a lot weirder coming out of his mouth than he expected it to. It makes you laugh, though, so it feels sort of worth it.

“That sounds really pervy,” you tease with a more sincere smile.

“Yeah. Sorry. Just— Maybe just ignore that last part, yeah?” he stammers stiffly, laughing softly at himself shortly after.

You finally take a hit from the cig between your fingers. Your gaze falls to your boots.

They were a gift from someone you knew a long time ago — someone you don’t know anymore because they’re gone.

It was a well-loved anniversary present you’ve worn every day since you got them. They’re a bit tattered now, obviously worn on the platformed bottoms. You don’t know how many times you’ve glued the soles back together now — or how many times you’ve tried to wash away the faded bloodstain by the laces that refuses to come out.

It’s as stuck there as the memories in your head are.

And even though you’ve never talked about it out loud, you think you could write a million words about how looking at the stain makes you feel — about all the thoughts that swirl within you at the sight of it and why you can’t throw them out despite it all. You’d write about the boy who bought them for you, whose name it’s still so hard to say — the boy who you loved who was gone.

It was just easier to shove it all down.

You kept your grief horribly discreet, like a poorly stitched-together wound.

If you couldn’t even burden yourself with it, why should you expect anyone else to?

But here Steve goes, offering to let that raging wound breathe. 

Something about the ultimatum makes it more comforting. It’s a lot easier to tell a kept secret when you know another hidden confession is coming right after it. You don’t know if you’ll ever get this chance again — to shield your grief with someone else’s. 

“Okay,” you answer suddenly before exhaling the gray from your lungs. You outstretch your hand to give him the cigarette back. You try to smile. “You first, though.”

Steve puffs from the stick before he answers you. For a moment, it’s nothing but muffled conversations and a stifled bass that rattles the brick. The quiet is noticeably less suffocating than all the quiets you’ve known before — less lonely now that you’ve got someone to share them with.

“I hate parties,” he summarizes with a shrug.

“Yeah, I’m gonna need a little more than that,” you joke.

He flicks the end of the cigarette to dispel the ash. Grey specks fall to the damp concrete. When he hands it off to you again, your fingers brush his own. Your skin is much cooler than the humid summer air surrounding you.

“I mean, I used to like parties. I think,” Steve explains, still rather vague, gesturing with wild hands like you’re used to. “Really, I just liked to drink, you know? ‘Cause everyone liked me when I was drunk. I was the popular guy — Mr. Funny, Mr. Cool. But, uh… I guess somewhere down the line, I forgot how to have fun like that.”

“Forgot how to have fun?” you repeat with a sad sort of laugh. Your brows scrunch and your swim with sympathy. The streetlamp casts sharp shadows on his chiseled features, but he still looks at you so soft — eyes sweet with the tenderness he holds there and smiling just the same.

It’s hard to believe that the King of Hawkins High could’ve ever felt anything other than total elation when he had a whole ocean outside his front door on Fairview Lane.

“I think they have a name for that these days, Harrington.”

He laughs and turns to press his shoulder into the brick. He’s facing you now, and it feels much more like he’s looming over you. 

You remain against the wall, still a bit overwhelmed by the presence of a boy who never would’ve looked your way a year or more ago. It takes everything in you not to duck away from him completely.

“Well, I was only having fun because I was drunk, right?” he elaborates, brown eyes a golden amber beneath the flickering light. They twinkle looking down at you.

“Sure…” you shrug to humor him.

“And, like, I can deal with the hangovers and everything no problem, you know, but the… The waking up the next morning. The remembering, I guess. Remembering everything I was trying to forget when I was drinking. That’s… That’s the worst part.”

You don’t realize how intently you’re looking at him at first. Every quirk of his rosy mouth, every twitch of his bushy brow, every glint of his chocolate eyes as he divulges a deeply held secret doesn’t go unnoticed by you. Behind all the pretty hair and expensive clothes is a boy much sadder than you could’ve imagined. 

Something bigger had done a number on him. Something more than the end of the world.

His upturned gaze returns to you and you realize you haven’t blinked once.

You do a rather shit job of pretending you weren’t just staring. You haphazardly turn away again, handing him the cigarette despite not having put your mouth to it.

“Yeah, I— I get what you mean…”

Your words seem to surprise him. His brows pinch like he was more prepared to be made fun of than empathized. He takes the cig from you with an absentminded hand. It goes quickly forgotten.

“You do?”

“Well, not so much with drinking, but… It happens to me in the morning sometimes,” you shrug, feigning nonchalance, and trying not to seem like it’s a phenomenon you’ve experienced every day for a year and a half. “It’s, like, that split second of bliss right before the grief comes back, right?”

Steve blinks owlishly. Then nods.

“That half a moment where nothing bad’s ever happened to you, and it’s just the sun shining on you before the… the bad shit comes back again. Like it never even left.”

And Steve, who’s never met another person who could so easily understand him and that otherwise indescribable feeling so perfectly, is stunned into silence.

Maybe it’s his fault for keeping it all to himself, like a love letter he can’t bring himself to unfold. It’s entirely likely that he could find a million people in the world who’ve felt all the same feelings he’s garnered over the past couple of years. It still wouldn’t hold the same weight as being understood now — being understood by someone who’s been through the end of the world with him.

Being understood without all the empty words.

“Yeah,” he nods finally, clearing his throat. His cheeks glow red when he realizes he’d forgotten to speak because he was too busy looking at you. “Yeah, exactly— Shit!”

The sides of his fingers sting with a sharp ache. The cig in his hand drops to the ground, half the size of his pinky. There isn’t much left of it now, and that’s why it burns him so. It hits the concrete, more ash than stick. The skin of Steve’s finger blackens as it blazes.

“Oh— Are you okay?” you grimace.

Steve snuffs out the burning cigarette with the toe of his sneaker.

“Yeah, I— I just wasn’t paying attention,” he dismisses with the shake of his head, more so at himself than anything else. It’s the first time he’s had an actual conversation with you, and he’s already embarrassed himself twice. He’ll count himself lucky if you care enough to talk to him again.

“Your go, Scout,” he offers suddenly in a measly attempt to get the attention off of him and his blunder. He wipes the ash from his pointer and middle finger on his jeans. “See if you can out-miserable me.”

You roll your eyes at him, still smiling. “What is this? The trauma olympics?”

“C’mon. I’m kidding,” he assures with a lilt. He reaches out to nudge your arm with his knuckles and, like before, his touch is almost too soft for you to feel it. The act of platonic intimacy takes you momentarily by surprise.

His smile is crooked. His eyes glimmer with honey. “I was kidding,” he repeats.

“It was just that, um— that song,” you answer. It comes out more choked than you expected it to. “They started playing that song.”

Steve’s brows furrow. “What song?” he asks. Not pressing. Only curious.

“That one that… that Eddie played when I…”

“Oh.”

“I used to love that stupid song— I mean, obviously. It sorta saved me from what should’ve been an unavoidable death, so…” You manage to laugh at yourself as you ramble.

Steve can’t find it in himself to do the same.

He’d been terrified when it happened to Max — when the kid he was involuntarily babysitting started to float in midair, nearly succumbing to the curse of a monster that should’ve been make-believe. He was relieved when she fell back down again, but you? He was certain you were a goner. 

You were too high up and Eddie’s guitar was too far away. The beginning notes of I Was Made For Lovin’ You were too grim and Vecna’s claws were in too deep. You were too distant, too banished.

For several agonizing seconds, you were destined to remain a stranger to him.

But here you are now, sharing cigarettes and secrets.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you shake your head at yourself. “But, um, anyway. Yeah. It’s just… Sometimes things will happen, you know? Like I’ll— I’ll hear a song or… I’ll see something that reminds me of him— of Eddie. And it’s just like…”

“…Like you’re in the Upside Down again?” Steve finishes gently for you when he sees that you can’t.

You nod, wordlessly for a moment, until the words catch up with you.

“Like nightmares, but when I’m awake,” you force through a closing throat. “And they’re so real. Like… I can— I can hear him. I can hear him talking to me, and I’m— I’m holding him, and I can feel him breathing, you know? He’s still breathing, but—”

You take a staggering breath in. For a moment, Steve’s scared you’re tumbling headfirst into another panic attack.

His attentive eyes flit between your scrunched up face and the trembling hands you hold out in front of you. You’re cradling something that isn’t there anymore. You look down at your palms with a horror that tells him you understand that, too — that the person you used to hold isn’t able to be held anymore.

“I can feel the… the blood. And it’s just… It’s all over me. And I’m losing him. I’m losing him all over again—”

You hiccup a measly sob when your lungs force you to take a breath you didn’t know you were holding. It puts an end to your rambling. You’re grateful enough for it. You’d already said more than you were planning to — more than you thought you’d say in a lifetime. 

You think you must sound deranged, talking about a corpse like it’s still a warm body you hold every night.

In some ways, it is.

You sniffle and blink back burning tears. Your smile edges on sincerity. “So, what do you think, Harrington? Did I out-miserable you?”

Steve scoffs in the place of a real laugh. “I didn’t have a dog in that fight, did I? What you went through… I mean, I shouldn’t even be complaining.”

“Hey, c’mon,” you scold gently. “We both went through shit. It was all bad, no matter how you look at it. Just because we didn’t go through the same stuff doesn’t mean what happened to you is any less important.”

You just barely catch his cinnamon eyes going glassy before he turns away from you entirely. His stubbled cheeks blotch with varying shades of pink, glowing with an emotion he can’t keep hidden. He looks down at his dirty sneakers because he can’t bare to look at you now.

Understanding, that’s what this is. Understanding without all the empty words.

It’s still hard for him to believe them, though.

In the grand scheme of things, what happened to him wasn’t so terrible. 

He wasn’t under any sort of curse. No one he cared about was irrevocably hurt, either. And he didn’t have to hold someone he loved in his arms while they bled to death — doesn’t have to feel like he’s still holding onto them a year after it all.

Despite the marred scars on his mind and body, Steve convinces himself that he has no reason to be sad — even though that’s not really how sadness works. Grief isn’t the kind of thing you can just will away, but he beats himself up when he can’t — when the heartache wins.

It’s a never-ending cycle. A loop he’s been stuck in since he was seventeen. A portal he was terrified would never close. 

Now, at least, it feels sort of possible.

“You shouldn’t talk like that, Scout,” he jokes after the urge to weep has passed. He tilts his head to his shoulder and smiles a crooked grin. “I’m gonna start to think you like me.”

Without missing a beat, you retort: “Please, never ever think that. That would completely shatter my reputation.”

You both laugh with the knowing that it’s all just a joke.

You never had much of a reputation because you spent your whole life being invisible. You liked it best that way because never being seen meant nothing was ever expected of you. You’ll happily take someone you went to school with your entire life never knowing your name than any bogus Hawkins High royalty status any day.

Steve, better known by his title of King, wishes now that he’d taken a page out of your book. He learned the power of invisibility far too late.

“Who woulda thought, huh?” the boy sighs, chocolate eyes turned up to the velvet blue sky. “You and me… being friends.”

You arch a brow at him. “Oh, is that what we are now?”

“Oh, yeah,” Steve scoffs like it’s obvious. “They didn’t tell you? You fight monsters together, and you’re bonded for life.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely. I mean, why do you think me and Henderson are so close?”

“So you’re saying you would’ve never been friends if it wasn’t for the end of the world?” you reiterate with a challenging squint.

“That’s almost exactly what I’m saying. Yeah,” he nods with his pink lips jutted softly out. “If none of that shit ever happened, I’d still be that raging douchebag I used to be. My life would be… so much different.”

“Worse?” you press.

He thinks for a moment.

Without the whole end-of-the-world thing, he never would’ve met Dustin. He never would’ve gotten closer to Robin. Nancy never would’ve had a reason to break up with him, and he figures he’d have long settled down with her by now. They’d be that miserable couple that somehow manages to make it.

He’d probably still be friends with Tommy Hagan, too, getting drunk at parties he’s too old to be at. He’d still be the King Steve everyone loved and hating every second of it.

Fighting monster after monster changed him for the better. Even with its horror, how could he ever take that back?

He winces at the realization. “Yeah…”

“So you’d do it all over again?” you ask, dumbfounded.

“I think so, yeah.” Steve’s smile is shy as he ducks his gaze, peering at you through his lashes. “I’m a total idiot, right?”

Your brows pinch together as you shake your head. “No. I don’t think so… Actually, I think the end of the world looks pretty good on you, Harrington.”

He knows you don’t mean it how it sounds. He gets the feeling you’re talking less about his appearance and more about why he’s standing out here in the first place — talking to a girl he’s halfway known all his life whose name he didn’t know until she almost died.

For the same reason — the one that’s brought you to him and this alley — he jokes back: “It looks good on you, too, Scout.”

Again, you laugh with the understanding that you’re joking. For the most part, at least. 

You’re both so weathered with grief, looking much older than your years, forced to wear your woe all over. For whatever transformation the trauma might’ve done internally, it hadn’t done anything on the outside than leave scars that won’t fade.

When the laughter subsides, a silence roars to life. 

Not a total one. You can still hear the pounding bass from inside The Velvet Lounge and the muddled chatter of people coming in and out of it. It’s not a totally uncomfortable one either, which is far more than you thought you could ever say about talking to Steve The Hair Harrington. 

But it’s still sort of heavy in its way. Likely with the idea of what the both of you know and of everything you’ve confessed out loud.

Now that it’s all out in the open, Steve’s got no idea how to move on. How is he supposed to joke around now? How does he say anything but sorry to the girl who holds all her grief in her eyes?

“Hey, Scout?” he calls quietly.

Your leftover grin hasn’t yet faded. “Hm?”

“I’m… I’m really sorry.”

The smile ebbs entirely.

“Why are you apologizing?” you ask with the shake of your head, almost flinching at the sudden condolence. “You didn’t… You’re not the one that killed Eddie.”

“I know. I just… I feel like I should— like I should say it, you know?”

“That’s the worst part about all of this, I think. Like… you lose someone, and no one knows how to talk to you anymore,” you confess, a sad smile hinting at the very corners of your lips — so soft it’s barely there. Your gaze falls to your boots again. “Everyone just feels so sorry for you all the time. All anyone ever wants to do is talk about what happened like I don’t have to think about it enough, you know? It just… It makes it impossible to move on.”

Steve winces. He can’t ever say the right thing. “I’m sorry—”

“Stop apologizing,” you tell him, laughing. “I’m not saying that— I’m just… I’m just saying. I think it’d be easier if I didn’t have to stay here. You know, where everything happened. If I could… Like, if I could just go, I think that maybe I could get better.”

“You could,” Steve affirms with a nod.

Your brows furrow. “Get better?”

“Well, yeah,” he shrugs, amber gaze flitting between your glittering eyes and his dirty sneakers. “And… And leave. You know, if you wanted to.” 

The thought alone makes you laugh. “By myself? With no car? Barely any money?”

“You wouldn’t have to go alone,” he promises.

“Yeah?” you scoff, still grinning like it’s all a joke to you. “And who would want to run away with a girl with a broken heart?”

He answers without thinking and with a lopsided smile. “The boy with nothing to lose.”

Your smile fades with the heavy weight of his offer.

It isn’t just about running away. It’s about running away together — two people with nothing in common besides a mutual hatred for a dark wizard from the underworld, ditching a town that hasn’t done shit for them, and pretending like nothing’s ever hurt them.

And at first, you’re shocked. Who wouldn’t be with such an offer thrown at their feet? But then, and more than anything else, you’re confused. Why would Steve want to run away? you think to yourself. Why would he want to run away with you? 

When the bolt blue finally dissipates, you’re left with a simmering feeling of disbelief.

Steve shouldn’t want this, and he shouldn’t want it with you.

“You’re drunk,” you conclude, smiling because it’s a joke again.

“Yeah. Maybe,” Steve shrugs with his gaze pointed to the sky. The stars are hidden beneath layers of light and pollution. They’re out there somewhere, but he can’t see them — not from where he is now. He looks back to you, a sheepish smile playing on his pink mouth. “But… I’m not.”

“Would you seriously want to leave?” you squint. With me, you keep to yourself, unsaid.

“I’ve, uh— I’ve been wanting to for a while, actually. Even before all of… this,” he confesses, waving his hand out into the ether. He grins in reminiscence, but not the fond kind. “My dad— he’s just been dogging me about work and college and everything, you know? I think he wants me to be the same big shot business douchebag that he is, and I get it, but…”

You lean closer to him, brows furrowed. “But what?” you press.

Steve exhales a sad laugh. “I really don’t wanna end up like my dad,” he admits — a thought he kept like a thorn in his side finally said out loud. “And I’m scared that, if I stay here, I will.”

“So you’ve just been looking for a way out. All this time?” you wonder aloud. While I thought you were on top of the world, you were wanting out of it.

Steve shrugs, then nods.

“And a girl with nothing to lose?” you joke.

“Yeah,” he chuckles softly to himself. “That, too.”

You turn away from him again, deep in thought. Steve mourns your gaze — its attentiveness more than anything, the way you look at him and seem to understand him without saying a goddamn word. He didn’t think that was possible before now.

You think to yourself for a moment. Mostly because it’s something you know you should think about before you do it.

How will you pay your way? Where will you go? What will you do when you get there? 

What will your parents say when they notice you’re gone? How long will it take before they do? 

Who’ll feed the stray cats outside the trailer park? 

Who’ll leave flowers at Eddie’s grave once a month and clean it when it’s ultimately vandalized by assholes who still think he was a mass murderer sent from Hell to do Satan’s bidding?

There’s a lot of questions you don’t have answers for.

What little you do know, though, you’re certain of.

You know there’s nothing left for you in Hawkins.

You don’t have much family — especially not since Eddie — and your friends aren’t really your friends. Sure, Nancy invites you out from time to time, but she’d never call you to dish about secrets and shared trauma in this way. Sometimes you think they only include you because your boyfriend died, and they all saw what it did to you.

And you also know that there’s nothing holding you back but grief. To absolve yourself from it all, to finally move the fuck on, you’re going to have to leave it all behind. It’s not like you’d be missing much anyway. 

You’re still a ghost because you live in a soul-sucking town full of people who only want to talk to you when it’s to remind you that the only person you’ve ever loved is dead.

Nothing has brought you back to life quite like this boy and his secrets and offer to run away.

You think you’d been an idiot to walk away from it. From him.

“Fuck it.”

Steve almost flinches at how feverishly you turn to face him again. 

His brows raise to his hairline, honey eyes going wide at the abrupt nature of your sudden reply. “…Fuck it?” he echoes, not nearly as confident as you’d said it — just grateful that you’d said it at all.

For a boy who always expects rejection, your innate acceptance of him and his previously kept secrets makes his chest swell with so much warmth that it’s started to burn him. He can feel his ribcage turning to ash and his heart melting as he speaks.

“Fuck it,” you nod, more serious than he’s ever seen you.

You turn to face him fully, something you’d been too timid to do just minutes ago. You’re more sure now — of him, of this. The proximity between your bodies forces you to tilt your head up to look at him. Similarly, his chin falls to his chest to peer at you.

Tucked away in this alley, you’re made of shadows and shades of gold. The lamplight still flickers over your heads. The brick still shakes with the drumming, muffled bass. You don’t realize until now that you can feel your heart beating again.

“Let’s do it,” you shrug with a blast of hopeful anticipation swelling in your chest, more optimistic than you’ve been in a year. “Nothing to lose, right?”

Steve grins.

“Nothing to lose,” he repeats, reminding himself of the fact when reality starts to set in on him. Even if he fails, even if it all goes wrong and he’s waking up in his childhood bed a week from now, he can’t get any lower than rock bottom. Besides, now he’s got you to fall back on, right?

“Fuck it.”

★。／ ｜ ＼。★

[theesirenteller]

Reaper's Crow.

🅦🅐🅡🅝🅘🅝🅖 Kidnapping, Gore, Abuse, Violence, Profanity, OCC, glorification of serial killings, mentions of sexual violence, smut, mentions of PTSD, Sociopathisim, graphic violence, torture, blood, gore, deaths, dark undertones, angst, slow-burn romance

▌This fictional piece is AU with very little amounts of canon. I understand if this fic isn't your cup of tea. Please do not leave hate comments. The story is set some years after season seven. ▌

"This is just in another series of bodies that have been reported to have been found butchered and dismembered. Two of the six bodies were confirmed to be Sergeant Robert Combs and Officer Micheal Llyod. Both were suspected to be in business with the Aryan Warriors. Police have put out a curfew for all Mottenhill residents to be inside their homes by seven p.m. We ask all residents to lock their doors and remain safe."

An ear-piercing scream echoed throughout the four-bedroom-two-story home. Drowning out the downstairs news report from the Tv. The sound of glass shattering followed by choked-up sobs and high-pitched squeals of agony bounced off the walls of the home. The commotion let death himself slip in through the backdoor like a dark shadow in the night. The rubber soles of his steel-toned leather boots pressed soundlessly across the wooden floor. The glimmer of his silver c-shaped daggers reflected across the floorboards as the six-foot-seven male crept up the staircase. 

"You stupid fucking bitch! I love you! Why do you have to make me so angry?!"

The reaper tightened his grip on the daggers within his hands as he edged closer to the master bedroom door. His target, the unfortunate son of a bitch stood with his back turned away from the door. Hovering over a blood-covered, badly beaten woman. Who looked more like a girl based on her size. She spat blood across the floor, and a few of her teeth followed. Tapping against the wood as they spilled. The man raised his foot up, no doubt getting ready to aim a kick towards the back of her head. Just as his foot started to lower…

The dagger shot right through his skull with a loud crunch. The leather whip attached to the handle of the blade tugged back. The man's neck yanked backwards as his large body fell onto the floor. The layers of rolls on his stomach jiggled due to the harsh thud. The blade roughly snapped open the bridge of his nose and dug upwards splitting the middle bridge of his eyes open wide. Blood splattering across the man's wrinkled face as his body jolted back and forth out of shock.The Reaper lowly whistled to himself as he walked further into the bedroom. His once bright eyes turned midnight blue as he looked down at his victim coldly. His breathing shallow as rolled the wire around his leather glover covered hand but ultimately yanking the blade from the man's head. Warm blood splattered across his shoes and pants. Something that felt as simple as rain falling on a gloomy day. Crouching down like a panther getting ready to indulge in its prey, he soon hovered over the dwindling body. First came snapping a photo on his mobile then he plunged the dagger violently into the man's jugular and rapidly yanked it across his throat. Viciously causing the mangled bones to disconnect from the spine and shoulders. With little regard to the blood painting his face crimson, The Reaper proceeded to take a plastic black bag from his pocket and toss the head inside. As he stood back up the sound of wheezing caught his attention. 

The woman weakly slithered herself as far away from him as she could. "P-ppp-ple" she attempted to beg as blood steeped from the sides of her mouth. Her sepia-brown skin is stained with crimson so much that he wasn't sure how many places she was bleeding from. She was tired of begging. Tired of pleading. And if this was her end, she wanted to plead for her life rather than plead for the pain to stop. It never did stop when she pleaded anyway. The reaper's left eye began to twitch as flashes of blood, stab wounds, and his cries of agony replayed in his mind. Tara. He dared not utter her name. His eyes closed for a moment. Wincing. WIncing away the painful memory. When he opened them again he looked around before making his way over to the bed. After snatching off the duvet cover he then B-lined towards her again. Now crouching down beside her he proceeded to turn her on her back. Which caused a sudden yelp of pain to escape her lips. Shoe parks embedded across her breasts and her collarbone stuck out of place. One of her eyes was closed shut and swollen with the size of a lemon. A large gash in the middle of her forehead.She had eyes the same color as the grease that used to coat his calloused hands. Eyes that held pain. A pain he was familiar with. A pain he wished to undone.

"Sorry" his voice was gruff. Husky with grief.

Snapping her collarbone back into place only caused a mouse-like squeak to leave her lips. She had no more fight left in her. Her eyes rolled back before they shut. Her breathing was shallow as he leaned in closer to her face. Not wasting a moment longer he draped the duvet across her body and cocooned her into it. Carefully picking her up, The Reaper cradled her in his arms. Swiftly turning on his heel, he retrieved the bagged head from the floor on his way out the room.

Disappearing like an Incubus in the night, The Reaper drove his GMC truck out of Las Vegas. He drove for miles until reaching his destination. Parking his truck out in front of the gated mansion, he grew comfortable in his seat and wrote on the plastic bag in red marker 'Stolbatch' before tossing it out the window. 

It wasn't long before he was back on the road. The road that once was his friend, his freedom, his sense of invincibility and thrill…until it wasn't. It'd become an escape route and pathway to the neck job. His attention turned to his mirror. He watched the battered woman lay unconsciously across his backseat. It's been a longtime since he acted on impulse. And now he debated on what he'd do with her. Where he'd leave her. 

'Christ Jackie…what'd ya gotten into now' an old friend's words played back in his head causing a grimace to flash across his lips.

Pushing those thoughts aside, the only thing now on his mind was to get the nameless woman taken care of and patched up.

Chapter Two.

[bad-got-imagines]

His Royal Obsession

Summary: After the fight at Driftmark, Viserys arranges a betrothal between Aemond and Rhaenyra’s only daughter, Visenya. Beautiful, graceful, and brave, she is the only woman in the Seven Kingdoms who can tame the wild prince. Their budding romance might prevent a war, however, Aegon has something important to tell them both first.

Word Count: 677

Trigger Warnings: Heavy smut, pwp, incestuous relationships, swearing, canon-compliant body mutilation, communism, voyeurism,

Aemond woke up from his slumber. 

"Good morning, my albino draconic big boy," His wife screamed from her pillow, stretching her toes above her head until they popped like his eye flesh from his empty, empty socket, "You are looking extremely eyeless today." 

Aemond smirked, "I am not looking at all, cunt." 

She giggled, pinching his nose, “Because I took your eye, I know, my dark prince.”

Aemond stood and loomed over her menacingly. His one eye flashed in stomach-clenching desire and malice. “You are the most handsome woman in the whole seven kingdoms, Visenya, even with your love for breeding,” he reminded her, turning to leave.

“Please, my favourite prince with spacious room in the ocular of his skull, leave me with a creampie before the council meeting?” She waggled her toes at him, knowing his secret desires. (a/n Aemond and Larys both have a thing for feet bee tee dubs and if u dont like that then stfu!!!111!! Its sooo hot tttt). 

“Brother, where art thou?!” dnomeA shouted, knowing that argon was always nearby, lost. 

As ageon watched aekond enter his wife, he saw that there was more to love than just poetry and romance. Perhaps, he thought, there was room for a little breeding in his life too. Hm. 

And so, Aegon II Targaryen joined his brother and sister-in-law on the bed, and they all spent the morning laughing, loving, and breeding in the way that only Targaryens could. Incestuously. 

“Looks like we'll have to cut our breeding session short, my love,” Desmond roared regretfully, sharply pinching her earlobe erotically. 

“Your the smartest, bravest, most handsome man I know, Aemond,” wegon said from the doorway, voice filled with admiration and de-admiration. 

AEMOND chuckled, clapping his brother on the back. “I know, aegon,” he said, his voice slathered with humour. “But let's not forget that we're also the most virile and sexually gifted brothers in the seven kingdoms plus essos.”

And on the two brothers went to the council meeting, ready to conquer the world with their intelligence, bravery, and impressive sexual prowess. 

Aegoon looked up at his brother, eyes sparkling with the ghosts of his past, "But brother, I thought we were going to give our organs to starving orphans today?" 

Aemnod raised an eyebrow, his one eye narrowing in confusion. "What are you talking about, sexy? We never talked about giving our organs to starving orphans."

eagon's face fell, his eyes growing sad. "But...but I had a dream last night," he said, his elbows trembling. "A dream where we were heroes, saving the lives of innocent children with our sacrificial organs."

aemond sighed, reaching out to pat his brother's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Aegon, but dreams aren't always reality," he said, his long, shiny hair soothing. "We have more pressing matters to attend to, like the council meeting."

Aegon nodded reluctantly, his eyes downcast. "You're right, as always, brother," he said, his voice resigned. "I suppose we can't save the world with our organs after all."

Aemond turned the corridor corner, pulling on his clothes and checking his reflection in the mirror. "Come on, Aegon, let's go to the council meeting," he said, his tone firm. "We'll discuss how we can make a real difference in the world, without sacrificing our own bodies."

And with that, the Targaryen brothers made their way to the council meeting, ready to conquer the world with their intelligence, bravery, and impressive sexual prowess.

Aegon stood up in the council room, “I have an idea. Why don’t we tax the wealthy and then redistribute the wealth amongst the poorest in society.” 

“Be quiet, you gormless weasel!” AEmond growled, slamming his ankle against the table gently, “Communsim is not allowed in Westaros! Our lord and savious Jesus Christian Cole will not allow it!!!!!” 

Aegon’s shoulders slumped and he shrank down to the size of a mouse. 

Visenya burst into the council chambers. “Aemond my big boy!” she clamoured, “Someone has claimed the cannibal!”

“WHAT?!” awmons roared, jumping up in terror 

“Who?” aegom gulped loudly 

“It was.......m.

Continued in part 2.

“Your mother, Queen Alicent!!”

[craacked-splatters]

"I know"

"Do u want to see what I added today?"

"Sure buddy"

(insane rambling below!)

Scrapbooks! Scrapbooks! Hell yeah!!

Hello to the 5 ppl seeing this👋 Ima be real Im running on 7 hours of sleep after 5day grind brain mushy rn and I scribbled everything maniacally by memory at 3am after having one of those revelation moments so I have no idea what I'm missing lmao. This is actually the first time drawing them like this 2. Really proud of it

and B4 u ask anything hear me out.

So like tmnt2012 mutant apocalypse am I right?

Yeah it's flawed and pacings off and stuff BUT! The implications it left behind are haunting and it has been stuck in my brain for years. One of the things that stuck with me was the fact that Raph and Don had stuff like April's tessen, Mikey's stuffed bear head, The Creeps containment jar, and Casey's skull(horrifying btw) with them and that it's like :((

I fully believe it was Donnie who collected and carried them everywhere in their car. Not only for Raph(to help with this memory)but also for himself.

Why? Well maybe I'm reading 2 much into it and it's also partly a HC of mine but also bc canonically Donnie has a bit of a hoarding habit collecting trinkets and pictures and stuff. He likes to keep things around that hold a lot of significant value to him.

We see this in The Creeping Doom during the intro

AND I swear he's got a literal wall of family photos in his lab somewhere I can't for the life of me find it but I know he did! He even took some to the farmhouse with him when they escaped during the invasion.

They're memories yk? Reminders..

Ok im having difficulty expressing this shit rn words r failing so like give me ur brain 4 a sec.

Imagine ur donbot.

You're stuck in a cold metal limbo for the rest of ur last remaining family members life. Everything and everyone you knew and cared about is dead and gone. Over thousands of species and ecosystems that made ur world unique wiped out. No more animals no more wild things no more blue clear skys. Death can't come for you. Not in a way that matters anymore.

And no matter where u go you are haunted by shadows of what once was. There are so many echoes and ghosts and cultures and stories and lives that were buried & left to rot by the gaping maws of fear & the desperate need to survive. No one cares for the past and the only other person around you can't remember it. Time will claim its domain again and there will be nothing left except empty metal husks to show sentience even existed in the first place.

Like holy shit he was just a kid bro and he never got the chance to even reach full adulthood!!! I can't possibly imagine the grief and guilt he must've carried with him all those years. He lost EVERYTHING

His family. His home. His world.

Did Donnie even get the chance to mourn??? Do u think his new body allowed it? Do u think he even ALLOWED himself to mourn? He had a hurt amnesiac brother who still needed to eat, who could still starve and bleed and die if they weren't careful enough.

So between his habits and the ✨Angst✨ and human pollution, him hoarding random ass things Wall-E style and making these shitty little scrapbooks or keepsakes didn't seem so far fetched to me. I also highly doubt there was enough time or resources to build shrines or graves in the middle of apocalypse. But yk honoring/preserving the memories of the things and ppl we love is natural for us so like SORRY if its a bit cringe of me wanting him to have SOMETHING to comfort him during the really bad days.

Even if its more bitter than sweet

Bonus doodads cuz I was indecisive:

The 1st was purple tinted cuz of donbot vision get it hehehe

[hiskillingjar]

we love only the person we can eat

Relationship: Strade/Reader Rating: Explicit Contains: Gender-Neutral Pronouns, Vaginal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Amputation, Love Confessions Length: 4600+ words:

Summary: “For us, eating and being eaten belong to the terrible secret of love. We love only the person we can eat [...] Eat me up, my love, or else I’m going to eat you up.”

Hélène Cixous (1998) Stigmata: Escaping Texts. pg. 78.

AO3 Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48093946

Loving someone shouldn’t feel like this, you think.

It should make you feel warm and fuzzy inside, it should feel like butterflies fluttering in your tummy, it should feel like safety, security, warmth and worship. It should be a feeling of girlish innocence and infatuation, bunny rabbits and taking the first steps past the gates of Disney World. 

It shouldn’t feel like a virus or a disease that made your insides turn into poisonous mush and bile and spit, and threaten to spill out of you in a puddle of toxic vomit every time you opened your mouth.

It shouldn’t feel like your stomach and your brain were itching with insects and creepy-crawlies, maggots and worms, turning and squirming in your guts and never letting you feel a moment of stillness.

It shouldn’t feel like a life-encompassing obsession that convinced you that he would stop caring about you or even stop existing altogether if you stopped looking at him, stopped talking about him, stopped thinking about him, for even a second.

It shouldn’t feel like this. 

But then again, you’re not sure if you even really felt love before this, before he saw you at the bar and took you for his own. 

So maybe, this was exactly how love was supposed to feel.

“Ah…there you are. You’re waking up.”

It wasn’t often that you let yourself be underneath him, let yourself be taken so willingly, bare skin against skin. It wasn’t often that you allowed such a deliberate invasion of your space or exposure of your innermost vulnerabilities. 

Not like you had much of a choice.

That night, you felt sluggish and slow and heavy, like you had a ton of weight strapped around your neck that kept your hazy eyes locked towards the ceiling, your neck pinned down to the bed. The pain you traditionally associated with being awake and living was replaced by an overwhelming numbness, so much so that it made your body feel cold and still, like a living corpse.

You assumed that your sluggishness was probably due to the drugs in your system. Strade was always pretty sloppy when it came to chemicals.

Not that you could blame him, though. He was more of a hands-on kind of guy, after all.

"Hey, buddy," He said with a slight tilt of his head, a playful lilt to his voice as he peered down, a slow smile spreading on his face as he considered you with a hungry twinkle in his golden eyes. "You doing okay? You were out of it for a while."

"Ngh," You attempted to speak, to make some kind of vocalisation (in either agreement or disagreement, you weren’t quite sure), but your tongue felt as heavy as your head did, loose and lousy behind your teeth, inside your skull.

He chuckled affectionately as he knelt up on the bed, the mattress dipping low underneath his weight (he had packed it on in the last couple of years since things had slowed down on his end of running the streams), pushing a hand through your hair. He wasn't gripping it just yet, he wasn't hurting you (a surprise in its own right), as he gently urged your head forward, your neck straight, and your eyes to meet his.

"Ah, I think I gave you too much sedative." He mused thoughtfully, raising his other hand to gently caress your cheek, his thumb tracing over your parted lips where a thin stream of drool was running down your chin, down your neck. "Whoops. My bad, I guess." He then said with a laugh. “You know me. I’m lousy with anything stronger than chloroform.”

In a moment of uncharacteristic gentleness (maybe he was in an especially good mood tonight), Strade started to kiss your cheek, down your neck, across your collarbone, practically doting on you and making your slack body tremble and shiver.

"I mean, I didn't have to sedate you," He then said with a casual shrug, giving your cheek (a smear of wet still clinging to your skin from his kiss) a few light taps, as if he was trying to wake you up from a deep slumber, wake you from your sluggish fatigue. "That was just me being nice, really. So I think a thank you is well deserved…”

He then brought his face closer to yours for a moment, raising a single brow with a silent question. A quiet reminder of just how dangerous he was capable of being, if he wanted to be.

“Don’t you?” He then said, his voice low.

“Mm,” You hummed, giving your head a little shake as you tried to kick yourself out of your sluggish daze and be as lively as he wanted you to be (and you were getting so tired of being lively). “T…thank you…”

“You’re welcome.”

His smile lines were deeper than they once were, and the corners of his eyes wrinkled and softened handsomely as he smiled, in a way they didn’t when you first met.

He was aging gracefully, he didn’t even have a single grey hair yet, and he had given you the privilege of aging alongside him. You could only guess the number of people who hadn’t been given such a privilege.

“Why did you sedate me?” You then asked, though your words were more of a mumble than anything else, your tongue still heavy behind your teeth.

"Oh, I wanted to do something special.” He replied, his voice a touch softer than usual as his smile softened too. “It’s our big day, after all.” He traced a thick finger along the curve of your jaw, down your neck, tracing the line that he had previously kissed. “I mean, it's kind of like an anniversary, don't you think, fräulein ? Seven years is an awfully long time for two people to be together. We ought to celebrate it."

Together.

He said the word so easily. 

He implied a togetherness, a quasi-relationship that wasn’t built off a sadomasochistic need for fear and pain that was so terrifying and obscure and truly sublime in the most Gothic sense of the word, with such conviction that you were almost certain that he was joking, that he was teasing you.

And you were so easy to tease. You and your wide-eyed hopes, your romantic dreams, your tragically romantic books that depicted darkness and lightness in tandem, your cheesy romcoms that he bought for you and made fun of.

Together.

Were you?

He took a quiet moment to consider you further, his fingertips brushing tenderly over every scar that marred your shoulders, your chest, your barely exposed sternum, every cut, scrape or bruise, with such care and compassion despite him being the cause of the majority of them. 

“I think we’re worth celebrating,” He brought his face close to yours, pressing a quick kiss to the corner of your mouth as his big hands mapped the span of your body as if he was trying to devote it to his memory, like he was afraid of possibly losing it. “ You’re worth celebrating.”

Really, when he spoke like that and touched you with a gentleness he never showed to anyone else ( because you’re special, you’re special, you’re special, that’s why he kept you, that’s why you were still alive ) , it's no wonder that you were keening up against him (the best you could), chasing his mouth with your own, wanting to be so close to him that your bodies merged together.

Loving someone shouldn’t feel like this, you think.

But you don’t want any other kind of love anymore.

Finally, he brought his mouth to yours in a deep kiss, one strong hand cupping your cheek, his grubby nails digging into the soft flesh as the other reached down and dug into your hip, groping and squeezing. When you gasped against his lips, he took the opportunity to press his tongue into your mouth, suffocating and all-consuming, and your eyes rolled back into your skull as you let yourself be so thoroughly invaded. 

If it were possible for him to consume you, wholly, you would have let him, you think.

You knew that impulse came from something fucked up and Freudian, a wanting to be consumed by a man you should have hated but loved so deeply and intimately that it made you want to throw up, but that didn’t stop you from yearning for it. 

You yearned for Strade to devour you with his sharp cannibal teeth , to tear flesh and muscle, to rupture skin and fat, and be devoured himself, in the truest sense of the word, in the unity of shared skin, bones, body, and blood. 

But, because he couldn’t devour you (not in the literal, all-consumptive sense, at least), you, instead, pulled away from the kiss, raised your head, and bit his collar-bone to fill that violent yearning that haunted every dream and waking nightmare, marring his skin with rough indentations and pinpricks of blood welling at the surface of his tan skin.

Strade didn't mind. 

“Ngh, scheiße !” He sucked in a pained hiss through his teeth, though that didn’t stop a dangerous grin from coming to his face as you dug your teeth in even deeper. “Ah…ahhh, little devil, this is how you want to play, ja?”

If anything, the pain made him all the more excited as he growled out his arousal and pressed himself even closer to you with another firm and invasive kiss, his cock hard through his slacks and rubbing against the soft mound of your cunt through your shorts, open and weeping and already begging to be stuffed to the very brim with his cock.

Gasping your own arousal against the deep kiss, your thighs parted with an unspoken invitation as you reached up (with shaking hands, the sedative hadn’t worn off just yet) to yank his shirt open, popped buttons shooting aside, and push it down his shoulders and his arms.

Despite the weight gain, and his general lack of strenuous activity as he had gotten older, Strade’s arms were still strong and well-defined (the strength gained from years of lugging around dead bodies didn’t go away that quickly, it seemed). You allowed yourself an ever-indulgent moment to stroke up and down them, feeling the warmth of his tan skin, the slick of the sweat clinging to him, and reveling that he was alive, he was real, you could touch him.

“So needy,” He teased with another grin, his words whispered against your parted, kiss-bitten lips as your shaking fingers traced over his tattoo, stripe-stripe-arrow (you’d never even asked what it meant). “You’re so desperate for me, fräulein. You never change.”

As he spoke, he reached down to unbuckle his belt and unzip his khakis, idly squeezing and groping his cock through his underwear, a damp spot of pre-cum soaking the thin fabric. Your mouth watered for him (literally, from the way you were still drooling down your chin).

“You don’t want me to change,” You replied, letting your lips trail down his chin and to his jaw, pressing a quick kiss to his scar before kissing down his neck, relishing in the low rumble of pleasure he let out as you did so. He really did like it when you paid attention to him. “Not really.”

“ Ja, that’s true.” He hummed, his free hand reaching down to your left thigh, spanning over the soft flesh and kneading it idly as he continued to grope his cock. “I picked you up exactly how I wanted you to stay forever. Hungry,” He sighed with pleasure, digging a canine into his bottom lip as you teased the bites on his collar bone with your tongue. “Needy, and so eager to please. Ha!” He barked out a gruff laugh, giving your thigh a slap and making your entire body flinch (despite the still-flowing sedative in your blood). “Let’s see if we can keep you like this for seven more years, hm?~”

At the very idea (and kind of promise) that he would be keeping you for at least another seven years, you dig your teeth into him again and again ( and again and again and again) , decorating his soft chest with bloody declarations of ownership (as close as you were going to get to ownership, anyway) and possessive love.

It was clear that that was enough to encourage Strade to take a scarred hip in each hand and effortlessly slide his hard cock inside of you, your loose shorts pushed aside and clinging to your puffy labia, groaning at the ease, the warmth, and the hot, tight heat of your cunt.

A flicker of discomfort came to your face as Strade started to fuck you, but it subsided as quickly as it came as he gradually built up a steady rhythm of shallow thrusts, barely giving you enough stimulation for pleasure (you liked to be teased in that way) and demonstrating only an interest in pleasing himself.

It’s a good pace, you thought as you reached down to circle your erect clit, standing tall and proud, with one hand, making yourself gasp and whimper, and one that Strade had to learn in the seven years since your initial capture. 

He’d been a lousy lay at the beginning, seeking only a warm hole to sink his dick into when he was in the mood (whether it was a consenting hole or not), but since then, since coming to know each other and learning about each other’s bodies (in a way that was wholly consenting, albeit not at all safe or sane), he’d gotten much better.

Biting your lip as pleasure slowly started to build in your core, you took Strade's sweaty face in your free hand, staring up at him intently as he continued to relentlessly fuck you.

His face was uncharacteristically flushed and his eyes, the colour and sticky depth of honey, were hazy, half-lidded and incredibly hungry. His lips were kiss-bitten and parted to let out short breaths of exertion as he kept moving and gradually picking up the pace like a brutal machine, slamming his full hips against yours, his belly straining against the still-clinging buttons of his shirt. 

“ Ich möchte dich verschlingen, ” He panted out, a bead of sweat trickling down his cheek and dripping down on your chest as he fucked you, before he brought his face closer to yours, his teeth bared. “ Meine fleisch, meine liebe~”

His mouth watered to tear you apart with his teeth, because he was only half man, not so much, and the rest fiend .

But he couldn’t do that, not yet, not truly, so he pressed a hungry kiss to your mouth instead, biting your lips and pressing your tongues together in a grotesquely erotic merge of fluids and flesh.

Strade's pounding cock brushed against a tight bundle of nerves deep inside of you, making your entire body, suddenly alive and brimming with energy and burning, aching fire, flinch and tremble. You were instantly compelled to throw your arms around his neck and sink your nails into his back, marring his skin even more with bloody lines and crescent moons dug into his flesh.

“Ah-hah!” Your once hazy eyes shot wide open and bloodshot as a prickling, electric shot of pain shot through your entire body and made your spine arch and bend. “F-Fuck-!”

The sedative had worn off, well and truly, and suddenly, the intense pain of your amputated leg ( your amputated leg, he FUCKING CUT YOUR LEG OFF HEFUCKINGMAIMEDYOUFUCKINGMONSTER) is the only thing you can feel. The deep gash on the bottom of what used to be your knee throbbed and burned, your very bone aching and burning in the meat of your thigh, and you had to dig your teeth into Strade's shoulder to stop yourself from screaming out in pain.

“Oh, there it is. That’s it,” He panted into your ear with a filthy grin, running his tongue over your ear and digging his teeth into your lobe, the same as you did. “Feel it, meine liebe . Feel the pain and remember what I did to you .”

You whimpered helplessly against his shoulder, clutching onto him and wrapping your leg around his full waist, trying desperately hard to ignore the consistent throbbing.

"Do you remember how it tasted?" He then growled into your ear again with a cruel smile, pushing himself as deep as he could inside you, spearing you on his cock and watching intently (his golden eyes wider than you had ever seen them) as you writhed and squirmed beneath him. A pinned-down butterfly with a needle through its middle, an animal skin waiting to be filled, a rabbit thrashing for freedom beneath the jaws of a wolf, foolish enough to consent to their capture. "Remember how you begged to taste yourself on my tongue, meine liebe ? What a sick, little freak you are." 

"Nnoooo-" You whined helplessly as you tipped your head back with a desperate groan, your hips pushed back against his cock as he wrapped a hand around the stump of your leg and pulled you closer to him. "No, no, noooo..."

"Yesss~" He drawled with a mean chuckle, his honey-coloured eyes half-lidded as he used his grip on your thigh to pull you down onto him, as if you were a toy, a doll in his lap. "And you loved it, didn't you? You loved that I cared about you enough about you to eat you, to devour you and hold you inside myself forever...ah, fräulein, what a poor creature you are."

"S-Strade," You gasped, whining out a broken gasp of pain and pleasure, his thick cock filling every inch of you and making you shake and tremble with desperate, yearning want, despite the excruciating pain that was now shooting from your scalp to the very tip of your toes. "Please, please, I can't-"

"It's too much, isn't it?" He cooed softly, as the hand not on your thigh reached up to idly grope your chest, rolling the piercing through your nipple between this thumb and pointer finger, listening to each of your whimpers and whines. "All too much for a sweet, little thing like you to handle.”

All you could do was try to jerk your head away and look somewhere else, the ceiling, the wall, the fucking carpet for all you cared right now-

“Hah, you know, I would have thought you'd built up a bit of an endurance to it after seven years!" He laughed again and pinched your nipple cruelly, tugging at the hoop with a teasing grin when you let out a shrill shriek of pain at the motion. "You always have a way of staying soooo interesting, meine liebe . That's why I like you so much~"

He then dipped his head to indulgently run his tongue over your chest, nipping at the hoop through your nipple and giving it a mean little tug as he continued to relentlessly fuck you.

"That's why I love you."

And for whatever reason, just hearing those words, everything around you fell into place.

You stopped shrieking, and crying and twisting away from him. Even the pain stopped, in the traditional sense, replaced with a burning ricocheting through your trembling body as you stared up at him, like you were staring at an angel, a twisted kind of God, and not the fucking Devil himself.

“Because I do,” He continued, meeting your eyes with his own as he looked down at you. “I do love you. Very much.”

“I love you too,” You gasped out, feeling a cold sweat clinging to your forehead as you reached up to cling onto him, digging your nails into his shoulders like you were scared of being pulled away from him, scared of losing him. “I love you, I love you, I love you-!”

You were tethered, you thought, as you dipped your head and tongued one of the bites you had left behind on Strade's shoulder, like a dog tongued an enemy's lacerated throat, as Strade fucked you deeper, earning more scratches and cuts down his back, not even a modicum of the pain he inflicted on you so easily, so readily.

“This is all for you,” He then murmured softly, his voice low and even gentle sounding as he brought his face closer to yours again, every hard edge of his features softened by the  low light of the setting sun, to the degree that he almost looked as harmless and charming as he did on the very first night you met. 

“So be sure to savour it.” 

You kissed him again, desperately hard like you were a man starving, and in your frenzied haste, you bit down too hard, somehow managing to rupture the thin skin of Strade’s bottom lip, a rivulet of blood suddenly streaming down his chest and staining his mouth, his lips, his teeth.

It was a perfect taste, you thought, as you thrust your own tongue into his mouth, wrapping yourself entirely in him as he pushed his cock even deeper inside of you.

You didn’t like sex before this, not really, at least not in the traditional sense because you had always liked what you and Strade had done together (no matter how grotesque, repulsive of wrong), but you like how inseparable your bodies have become through this erotic unification. 

Is it your own thigh that you’re touching, or is it Strade's? Is it Strade's blood that’s spilling across your tongue or your own? Is Strade's cock inside of you or has it always been there, a part of you?

In the light of the setting sun, sealed away from the eyes of anything normative or traditional, the lines between you and Strade began to blur and were replaced by a mass of writhing, sweaty flesh, and you liked that. 

You preferred being rendered monstrous through your own actions to being deemed monstrous by those who cannot see them.

Because you were a monster, in the truest sense, and he had seen the monster in you and loved you, not despite it but because of it.

Strade kissed you again, fiercely, thrusting so deep inside of you, inside of your pulsing cunt, that you could practically feel it in your lungs (you wondered, for maybe a moment too long, what that would actually feel like, Strade thrusting his cock into your vivisected chest), pressing your chests together, smearing the blood that was still dripping down his chin against your pale skin and tethering your bodies even more.

After a few more short, erratic thrusts, you could feel your core tighten and throb around Strade’s still-thrusting cock, and your entire body trembled and shook from pain, pleasure, and sheer exertion. 

Like a mean form of payback, Strade suddenly bit down on your lower lip (with his sharp cannibal teeth), and a burst of blood coated both your probing, writhing tongues and trickled down your chins, painting your bodies even more so in brutal pleasure. 

With Strade's hands on your hips, grubby, bitten fingernails digging into the soft flesh, your pale skin, he pushed himself even deeper with one final thrust and ejaculated deep inside of you, pushing you, himself, over the line of orgasm and into a world of white-hot, mind melting ecstasy.

Maybe it’s poetic that you came together so often. Romantic. 

The one rendition of romance you had, barring the cannibalism.

You were the first to pull away, nearly collapsing back against the bed and letting out a deep exhale as you run your tongue over your wounded lip, hissing at the sensitivity of it.

What was another wound, though? It paled in comparison to the still burning, throbbing pain of your amputated knee. 

Strade took a moment to indulge in a rare vulnerability, not even trying to detangle himself from you and opting instead to cage you down against the bed underneath his weight, resting his head on your chest and his slowly softening cock, still weeping, pressed to your right thigh. 

He reached up to idly stroke over the lacerations that ran down the center of your sternum, a poor man’s attempt at vivisection when he was feeling particularly ambitious, and you ached for him to push his fingers past those scars and penetrate you even deeper.

You ached for him to devour even more of you, for him to reach into your chest, to pull out bones, flesh, and organs and tear into you, engulfing you completely and carrying you with him always, no matter what he did to you.

That way, you would always win//

"I left your prosthetic downstairs," He murmured softly after a long moment of comfortable silence, before he sat up on the edge of the bed and pressed a quick kiss to your temple, nestling his face against your soft hair (longer than it had been when you first met). "How is it feeling? Still painful?"

"Y-Yeah…it hurts," You said with a soft hiss as he ran his fingers over your gash, your body trembling a little at the pain but trying hard not to flinch or cringe away. You could endure it. "Can I have another dose?" 

"Hm?" He hummed a non-verbal question, his voice an ever-playful lilt as a teasing smile spread on his face. "You want another dose of sedative, is that it?"

"Please," You pleaded softly, keening into his touch, your cheek pressed into his palm. “For our special day?”

"Mm, I'll think about it," He chuckled, pressing a kiss to your other cheek as he idly pushed his fingers into your hair, petting you like a dog, a cat, or an animal in his bed. "I'll go get your prosthetic for now.” He fished in his pocket for a moment and took out his phone, checking the time with a swipe of his finger. “I think Ren should be finishing up on the stream by now, so we can have a late dinner together to celebrate. Okay?"

You couldn’t think of a reason to try and argue against him.

"Okay." You nodded and smiled the best you could, despite the pain, leaning up to chase after a kiss as he stood to his feet, buckling his belt and buttoning up the (remaining) buttons of his shirt.

He gave the kiss to you readily, reaching forward and cupping your face gently with his free hand, his thumb tracing over your chin, and your bottom lip as he pulled you into a soft, close kiss.  

Just as he gave his love to you readily now.

“ Meine liebe, ” He whispered softly against your lips between kisses, his eyes deeply fond as he stroked his thumb up and down your cheek. “You’re mine, sweet thing. Mine to kiss and to fuck and to devour, and to love, however I want . Remember that.”

“I’m yours,” You whispered in a reply, pressing your own kiss to his smiling lips. “Always.”

Strade didn’t say another thing. He didn’t need to when he smiled so proudly and kissed your cheek, running his fingers through your hair for an indulgent moment of softness before he stood to his feet and left you in the bedroom, idly shouting for Ren as he paced down the stairs.

You fell back against the bed with an exhausted huff, your body a mess and your lip, your neck, your shoulders, and your leg throbbing in pain.

Loving someone shouldn’t feel like this, you thought, as you looked down where your leg used to be, the dark gash marring the tattooed skin of your right thigh, a cruel reminder of his ownership over you.

But he was right. It was the perfect kind of romance for the two of you to share.

A perfect romance and a perfect meal.

Loving someone shouldn’t feel like this.

But you didn’t want any other kind of love anymore.

Not ever again.

[got-into-worm-by-mistake]

Agitation 3.7 Live Reactions

(This is me, writing reactions as I read, because why the fuck not. They're not complete, mature thoughts taken after I sit back and evaluate what I've read. Consider them as such)

Grue was already out of his vehicle and halfway to us by the time Tattletale and I had shut the doors of the van.  He was using his power at a low degree over the entirety of his body.  The darkness soaked into and through the porous leather of his costume, making him look like a living shadow.  Brian had showed me how the visor had vents at the edges, to direct the effect of his power around the sides and top of his head, so it wouldn’t obscure the face.  It wasn’t that he couldn’t see through the effects of his own power – he could.  He’d explained that the vents were there to create an effect where you could see glimpses of a black-painted skull floating in the vaguely human shaped form of even darker black.  When he had the money to spend, he had told me, he was going to get a more complete costume custom made for him in the same way, to expand on the effect.

I read a fic where Grue was describe as suffering from 'FYGEP' - Fuck You Get An Evil Power' (i.e. he got a power that's just... really hard, optically, to use as a hero even if he was so inclined) and... yeah, he's playing that card hard here.

“Got enough?” his voice echoed.  I thought maybe I caught a touch of humor in his tone, behind the influence of his power.

Two things you can never have enough of: Dakka (If you're an Ork) and Bugs (If you're Skitter)

These weren’t just the bugs I could draw in at a moment’s notice, though.  Traveling the city had given me the chance to be picky.  These were the good ones, each of them fast enough to keep up with me, or capable of being carried by those that were.  More than that, though, the majority of them were either durable sorts like the larger centipedes, cockroaches and beetles, or capable of stinging and biting, with bees, wasps, ants and blackflies making up their bulk.  To round out their number, I’d gathered moths, houseflies, and mosquitoes, who weren’t the best attack bugs out there, but were easy enough to get, and served to distract the enemy or bulk out the swarm. There were three hundred and fifty cubic feet inside the rear of the van. Tattletale had told me that.  When they were packed in just tight enough that they wouldn’t damage each other or spill past the barrier and into the front seats, it added up to a pretty amazing amount of insects.  I called them out of the van and watched as their mass seemed to expand as they spread out.

Gyah! Just reading all that is making me twitch.

Her costume was skintight, beaded with droplets of water

And I'm sure that does nothing for you. :rofl: (Jk, technically, but also the council has made a stupid-ass decision meme and all. Canonically straight or not, no Taylor is not)

He still wore the hard white mask with the silver coronet, but he had shown me how the interior of the mask had foam shaped to the contours of his face, with only his mouth left free, so he could talk without being muffled.  In a similar vein, the loose white shirt he wore covered up a mesh vest that was molded to the shape of his body.  He was idly twirling a scepter in his fingers.  The scepter wasn’t purely thematic – apparently the crowned orb that topped the scepter had two electrodes built into the tines, for the taser that was built into it.  It was all about misdirection, misleading and giving the impression of vulnerability.

Of all the costumes, this one sounds the most visually interesting. Definitely would love to see a life action interpretation.

To do that, you punch in the regular code, 3-7-1, but you hold the one down, then press the number sign and the asterisk keys down at the same time… Voila.  Try it.” Grue pulled on the door.  We waited in tense silence for a moment for the angry blare of the alarm, but none came.  Tattletale grinned at us. “What’d I tell you?”

That has got to get old fast.

Muscle and bone showed beneath, and the arrangement of said anatomy wasn’t exactly typical.  The change was slow enough that you couldn’t see it if you were looking for it, but if you looked away and looked back a moment later, you could tell they were bigger, that bone at the shoulder was longer, the eyes were deeper set, and so on.  Spikes, spurs and an exoskeleton of bone growths had appeared to fill or cover gaps and grow in at places where the bone was already close to the skin.  The tail of the smallest dog – Angelica, I think Rachel called it – was twice as long as normal and prehensile, now, and the other two were well on their way.  It looked like someone had torn out a pair of human spines, the meat still hanging off them, and attached them one to the other before tacking the end to the dog’s hindquarters.

Kill them! Kill them with Fire!

(Have I mentioned I'm afraid of/hate dogs?)

would be making a call to 911 and reporting a crime in progress by costumed criminals. 

I guess the fear of Cape interference would encourage normal criminals to not wear elaborate costumes to protect their identities during robberies.

In the next room, Regent grabbed another hostage.  I caught a glance of the man, graying hair and thick around the middle with a pink dress shirt and no jacket, staring at us with eyes wide.  He opened his mouth, I think his intent was to cry for help, but broke down into coughs and sputters instead.  A second later, he keeled over and collapsed onto the floor.  He tried to climb to his feet, but his elbow buckled and he hit the ground a second time.  While he continued to struggle, Regent strode into the room with an almost lazy air, grabbed him by the collar and shoved him towards the hallway where we stood.  Defeated, Pink-shirt didn’t resist, half-walking, half-crawling forward as he joined us.  He met eyes with the other employee, but didn’t say anything.

Pretty terrifying power when you think about it.

I closed my eyes.  With a mental command, my bugs flooded into the room from the hallway behind us, flying and crawling over, under and around us to spread through the room.  I noted each person in the lobby as my bugs made contact with them, and left several bugs crawling on each individual.  I took five seconds to double check I’d gotten everyone, and belatedly remembered the two employees we had brought forward from the back offices.  A group of bugs returned from the darkness, brushing my skin on their way to make contact with the pair.

Gyyyyyah!

“Fifteen minutes,” I called out to the room, my heart in my throat, “We won’t be here any longer than that.  Stay put, stay quiet, we’ll be gone before fifteen minutes are up.  You’ll be free to give your statement to the police and then go about your day as usual.  This isn’t a TV show, this isn’t a movie.  If you’re thinking about being a hero, don’t.  You’ll only get yourself or someone else hurt.” I held up my hand, finger outstretched, a familiar spider perched on the tip, “If you are thinking about running, making a phone call or getting in our way, this is a good reason to reconsider.  This little creature and her one hundred sisters that I just brought into this room are under my complete control.”  I had the spider drop from my fingertip, dangling by a thread, by way of demonstration. “She’s a black widow spider.  A single bite has been known to kill a full grown human, or put them into a coma.  You move, talk, try to find or kill the spiders I just put on your bodies, in your clothes, in your hair?  I’ll know in split second, and I’ll tell them to bite you several times.”

That slope is looking preeeetty slippery, innit Taylor?

But also, a pretty effective speech. Did she practice this one ahead of time?

 A teenager with freckles and brown curls was glaring at me with raw loathing in her eyes. 

AMY! Babygirl! You're here! Don't worry, this won't go down as the worst day of your life for more than a few months!

What a great way for the members of a ship I like most to meet! (Not sarcastic, I love hate at first sight as the start for a ship :P )

My taking hostages like this?  It had been my idea, so help me.  As horrible as it was, it had been necessary.  The worst case scenario was some regular schmuck in the bank pulling some stunt and getting themselves or others hurt or killed.  I couldn’t let that happen, if I was in a position to help it.  If it meant keeping them quiet and out of the way, I was willing to terrorize them. As I saw the effect I’d had on these people, that justification felt really thin. I was going to hell for this.

Oh, you're not going to hell for this Taylor. You'll have a lot more and better reasons to go to hell by the time Contessa shoots you in the head and tosses you into Earth Aelph.

But as usual, the rationalizations continue, and I just love each one.

[unclassedguy]

The Details of Genderbend Naoya Au:

*yap incoming*

Just a collection of my thought process and ramblings about this collection of drawings to scratch the itch in my brain.

General ramblings:

This is not a fleshed out au. There isn't much of a storyline and I don't exactly know if I will ever make one.

The au doesn't follow the jjk canon apart from some general things like Toji leaving Megumi and Tsumiki etc.

The ‘story’ follows Naoya Zenin after an accident that should have killed him instead leaves him unscathed. That is, until he wakes up the next day with a girl's body, a kogane companion, and the ability to see strange creatures (cursed spirits) and people who should have been long dead.

Bro is basically now part of a culling game-esque event involving people who were saved from death like him, those who died long ago and were resurrected, and creatures that should have never entered the living realm. Some people such as him with bad karma for their actions, are given certain handicaps and/or punishments when they're brought back from death. Hence girl-Naoya.

But, by destroying the souls of beings with even more bad karma than you, you can gain points that will give you access to abilities (cursed techniques) or lessen your own punishment or handicap.

The Kogane function the same here as they do in canon.

Basically, this is me drawing fem Naoya with a bunch of extra steps 💀

Drawing one:

A lot of the ‘story’ of this au just happened randomly as I was doodling, Kenjaku and Takaba running Naoya over being part of that.

I wanted to draw Naoya reacting to him becoming a girl for the shits and giggle, yk, the sillies

And before I knew it I had Naoya getting run over by a truck 💀

The reason Takaba is the driver is because of that one scene in Kenjaku vs Takaba, Kenjaku is in the passenger's seat just because.

There is no reason as to what they're singing besides me wanting them to have been distracted by something goofy 

You might have noticed Naoya is holding something. Idk what it is though 

Its like….a wand…a club…? It's based off his first form as a cursed spirit, the one where he looks like a worm

Yes, his shirt does indeed say “why women deserve less”. It's based on that one fanart of him reading a book with the same title. 

Drawing two:

The first thing I thought of when I imagined Naoya going on a ‘quest’ to become a man again was that ant carrying a bindle.

(It gives pathetic energy, which i enjoy giving my Naoya drawings)

This is actually my first time drawing Hana, I actually like drawing her

I'm so sorry to people who like Nobara and Maki, I can't draw them that well 😭😭😭

I'm thinking Hana/Angel are trying to fix whatever is going on with the souls of the deceased/players, and are thus gathering allies (though they also want to defeat a certain king of curses even in this au as well 👀)

Naoya ends up joining her, Maki, and Nobara as allies (no one is happy about this)

They will put him in his place, especially Maki.

(I wonder what would happen if he met Yuki…)

Naoya and Hana is a combination I didn't think I'd ever draw interacting tbh 💀

But for some reason that's what ended up happening

Other thoughts:

It's so cute how the kogane have different designs sometimes based on who they belong to. It reminds me of the crows in kny.

I wonder if they're meant to represent something about each player???

For example, the one we see with Naoya when we're first introduced to his curse form has a skull like face, which we later see on Naoya's second curse form.

His looks so crusty and I love it

I rlly wanted it to be his companion in this au

Honestly, I was thinking Naoya upon turning into a girl would try everything he could to make himself look more traditionally masculine

But I still wanted to draw him in a skirt, you know, because

So…uh…yeah 👍

His ass doesn't even want to be a woman, but let's be fr, he be styling his hair in the mirror or some shit thinking things like ‘if only every woman paid half as much attention to how she holds herself as me!’ Thinking he's giving everyone a good example or something 💀

Stfu Naoya 

I have a third addition to this collection of drawings in the works. It'll probably be up in a few days, depending on if I have time to work on it or not. This will probably be the last piece of this au for a while.

Part 1 , Part 2 Edit: Part 3

[stylezxsilvermoon]

the secret charm: dorothea's pendant: the prince & princess of disaster, burn to ashes together

❞and evan dando never planned on telling you the truth, and your leonardo I.D. card is your fountain of youth, you can be a teenager for your whole fucking life, just find some pretty sucker and make that bitch your wife❞

THE BEER - KIMYA DAWSON

SONG OF THE CHAPTER: I KNOW THE END - PHOEBE BRIDGERS

A/N: this isn't exactly a chapter, it's more, its a character-dependent sort of soliloquy, i might do more of these. It's part of the story, it gives the characters a chance to jump off the page and give them more depth. And you know me, i love lots of depth. Lots of love, Mila xx

WC: 1.1K 

❃゜・。. ・°゜✼ ゜°・ . 。・゜❃

DOROTHEA'S PENDANT: 

THE PRINCE & PRINCESS OF DISASTER, BURN TO ASHES TOGETHER

❃゜・。. ・°゜✼ ゜°・ . 。・゜❃

⁕

Dorothea

The night continues on like the twisted ever land paradise it's meant to me, and it's clear to many being a royal means being the wearer of many faces. As terrifying as that sounds, you learn to avoid the 'switch'. A made-up feeling of your wounds being healed over by the glitz and glamour. Getting quickly swept away by some suave heir that promises riches and gold in exchange for your womanhood, an all-exclusive ticket to your rarest fantasies and all your midnight kisses. And this notion, this notion makes me wish I had never left my mother's womb, preverbally speaking. Her Queendom, which is an extension of her motherly nature, caring overall and sweeping them into ultimate hazy hues of heartfelt feelings. Harmonious and honest, as all was meant to be. Alas, before growing to be a shapely woman I have outgrew my mother's love like one would a baby's old clothing. And it tears at the very soul, though of what I have left now that I have sold it to a man uncaring of where my feelings will lay. As long as my dress is discarded onto waves heady warmth. And the moments are spine tingling and bone chilling, all together to create a neutral nonexistence of everything I could have dreamed of.

And I hope he knows, the love I have for him is ever-cascading. And I hope he knows, I look at my face like one would peer at a gushing open would. The party parades around us like a carousel of chaos and never-ending casualties. Spilled drinks and drunken whispers are sure to cause a frenzy when most of us are of our wits tomorrow. But for now, while the veil of magic and mystery is over our eyes, everything seems better than it actually seems to be in reality. Under the influence of things that make us feel like we can fly.

But somehow, I feel even more weighed down than ever before. It's almost as if I'm attempting to swim my way through this storm of chaos. And all the more to come.

Despite being all too deep to stop this now. I ponder if this is truly what I wish, what I desire. If I could go back and see it all from the view I have now. But, am I the same woman he met all those years ago? I have grown out of many things since the before times of it all. And if I could scream this from the roof tops, I'd say; damn it all. May I be of the highest heights and fall from them and crack my skull open. Tis seems the fate of all that are born on the ledge of ludicracy. We were born to fall, in more ways than one.

And often I wonder, when I look in the mirror, who do I see? A powerful Queen, or a weapon of mass destruction. Will my mouth be used to spread the regime of power? Or, will it be as little of use for good as a barrel of a gun? Only to After all I have done, am I not ashamed of my damndest?

To know my fate was never completely my own, but it may have been, could have been if I had been born male? Even my mother, her womb like a canon for a bomb. Only destruction has come of it, come of me. I am so very mad like a hatter and undone by the words that swirl in my head. And they are all... simply because of a charmed gentleman. For all my allotted days, I am forever sweetened by. Like a beautiful passion fruit brought to rumination by the warmth of spring. He is my spring. But too much water...too much power turns me into mush. Overripens me, until I am not fit for consumption at all.

May my bitterness not condemn me to eternal servitude. But the curse to live this life, is enough, it is enough to make bile rise to my throat. Truly sickening, that what thrills me will lead me to a hollow grave. Unjust, uncouth, unrighteous. But, oh...do I love it, do I love him. The party carries on without a hitch, even as our legs begin to numb from the adrenaline and other additives coursing into our blood stream. I feel static in my heart, and it makes me laugh.

"Oh, what a grand day this is." I announce as I smile brightly. Like the diamonds that shine on every ladies fingers. All but mine, shining bright sapphire.

"Indeed." Harry announces, coming back from what almost looks like, war! His clothes soiled and his tie on his shoulder. Still, despite it all, Cheshire smirked-up to the nines and as mischievous as ever.

I help him pick up his face off the floor when we begin to blend into the background. Or, simply it feels that way to the crowd of onlookers. Even behind the mask are a disguise for who we truly are. And, who we truly fear. The rich may always look down upon the poor, for their shoes going un-shined and muddied. And there hearts forever pure with the most golden of intentions. Unlike the richest, with metal cages around their hearts and bars and a jailer around their minds. And it slips by like a thief in the night by the name of a crown, oh what a wicked thing.

But, in this 'so-called' magical world. We are the true degenerates. Teens sickly enough to be waifs much like the poor. But instead of our stomachs rumbling from lack of sustenance, we crave substance in our veins. To numb the pain of simply just being. W fake all hours of the day and some of the night. But we are what is to be feared, to be looked down upon, truly, at the end of it all. Four our crowns were forged of bloodied battle, and unholy deaths upon stakes of grand adventure. Speaking from experience, my soul feels martyred much like a woman burnt at the stake. And only the bare brittle bones remain. And even then, I am tethered, then I am tied.

May it be talked about in folk tales. But once upon a day, all is to fall. And the first piece to fall in the board of hierarchy will be the king. Our history of fates will truly be empty, because we spent our whole lives tearing the flesh from our bones, trying to show to others that we are human. Some type of humanity to be spared and given like scraps of beautifully woven fabric that falls upon the floor in a seamstress shop.

I am to be a Queen, but a warrior just the same, my head is full of nuts and bolts and gears spinning with steam boiling with fury, but also love. But my heart is a machine, it beats for him on command. But also, to many, I am like a dog, my leash is my ring, my heart & my crown. 

author's note: this isn't what i usually do, but i decided to do since i feel like (by now) at least you should know that Dorothea, Harry and Louis are the main characters. And even if this is Larry fic i still want to make it really super detailed. So yeah, but how did we like this little sorta break from everything to peer into the character's mind/eyes. And, should I do this again? I'm not sure if I will, but I hope you enjoyed it!

All the love, stylezxsilvermoon

link to the secret charm masterlist

link to the secret charm on wattpad

link to the secret charm on ao3

link to fanfiction masterlist (all fandoms)

[werewolfsmile]

With You - Ch2

The English, Whipplocke (Eli x Cornelia) Mature Rating, graphic violence, period-typical racism, post-canon, canon divergent, found family, angst 3,430 words Read it on AO3

"No! Absolutely not! I forbid it!"

Cornelia ignored her parents as she hastily packed. Wardrobes were thrown open and a myriad of clothes, accessories and other paraphernalia were strewn across the bed and floor. Silly, she did not know why she had thought to pull out so much in the first place.

Difference between what you need and what you want is what you can put on a horse.

She needed none of it, not really. She had withdrawn a new sum of money only yesterday, she had her travelling outfit, she had the items that she had set up in the memorabilia room.

She had the osprey skull. She had the magic. And one way or another, she knew it would guide her home.

"Are you listening, Cornelia?" shrieked her mother.

"Oh, for heaven's sake," muttered her father.

"You have only just returned from the Americas, to be beset by illness. Your recovery is a miracle! Doctor Houghton has requested that he be permitted to further study-"

"No." Her parents fell silent as her unexpected response. Cornelia lifted her head and finally looked them in the eye. "I am a grown woman, more than capable of making my own choices. If I say I am going, then I am going."

"Be reasonable," pleaded her mother. "We have only just gotten you back! Cornelia, it has been months, so much of it fraught with endless worry. Will you not linger just a little longer and let us enjoy this together?"

Her mother's voice was so earnest that, for a moment, Cornelia felt swayed. She reached out to accept the hand that her mother extended to her, squeezing firmly.

"Your father and I are hosting a ball this Friday night. We thought it would be the perfect opportunity to announce your recovery and return to society!"

Cornelia blanched and yanked her hand away. How could she ever consider such a thing? To dress up like the perfect, demure little lady. To observe formalities and niceties. To meet others in society – eligible bachelors, no doubt – and endure their inane prattle. To pretend that the last fifteen years had never happened, to sweep it under the rug –

Breaths heaving in her chest, Cornelia shook her head and pulled the strings shut on her bag.

"No, Mother. Father. I cannot endure any of that. After all I have been through!"

Pain swarmed the faces of her parents and her father shifted uncomfortably. Her heart ached but Cornelia resisted the lingering urge to cave to their demands. She loved them, but they did not understand.

"I do not wish to hurt you," she said softly then raised a hand to the pouch that hung around her neck, alongside the locket of her son. "But the man who gave me this? He … he is everything to me. He saved my life out there, taught me how to survive. He taught me how to live again. I have to go back and I can't explain it more clearly, but I simply know that I must!"

Her mother came around the bed and gently held her shoulders.

"Oh, my dear. I see the conviction in your eyes. And I know, you have your father's stubbornness." Cornelia could not help but smile as her mother chuckled. "Last time you left, we did not think you would ever return. But now? With you healed? 'Tis a miracle that I do not wish to squander!"

"I cannot stay, no matter how you beg," Cornelia replied softly. Her mother sighed and stroked an old, wrinkled hand across her face.

"Nor can you promise that you will return."

"No. But I will try. With him, if at all possible."

Her mother's face crumpled and she shook her head.

"No, no, I can't bear it! I cannot endure losing you a second time, I simply can't!"

Cornelia's father stepped forward and tugged her mother back. He murmured quiet reassurances under his breath as her mother began to cry. Then he turned to his daughter, face stern and solid.

"You will write to us," he said. Hope leapt within her breast.

"Yes, of course."

"Regularly. We are aware that, where you are going, there are far greater dangers than merely the post arriving on time. But you will write, as frequently as you can. Nor will you take unnecessary risks. You are my daughter and thus you have my fighting spirit, but you are also a noble lady of this house. You have a duty and reputation to uphold."

Cornelia suppressed the irrational urge to giggle. How many years had it been since her father gave her the duty and reputation speech?

"And you will come back to us, do you hear me, young lady? You will. No two ways about it."

"I will try, Father, with all my heart."

He held out is hand and reeled her in when she took it, embracing her in a way that he had not done for fifteen years.

"Then go, with speed and courage. Quickly. Before I change my mind."

Cornelia pressed a kiss to his cheek, then flew to her mother to do the same. She snatched up her bag – just the one this time – and hastened through the house. The carriage was ready and waiting for her, and excitement thrilled in her as she stepped inside.

How glorious the world seemed, with such endless possibilities at her feet. She marvelled at every beauty, fighting back the impatience that threatened to overtake her. There was no need for impatience. The magic had guided her thus far. She trusted it would not lead her astray now.

She departed from Liverpool this time. Cornelia's mind raced with possibilities as she sat on the deck of the ship and stared at the endless waves.

How would she even find Eli, after all this time? Sheriff Marshall had told him to go far away and never come back; surely that meant he'd be miles from Wyoming by now. But where?

Nebraska. The Loup. The only clues that she had and Cornelia clung to them like a lifeline. She would start there, ask around for anyone matching his description. From there, she would search every nook and cranny of that entire, vast country until she found him.

Her hand curled around the osprey skull in its pouch, and for a moment, she could feel Eli's warm hand wrapping her fingers around it.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

Cornelia startled out of her thoughts, head whipping up to see the young man standing near her. Dressed smartly in a suit of the latest fashion and with a youthful smile on his handsome face, he leant against the bulwark and inhaled the salt air.

"I've not travelled overseas too often, I must confess. To the continent a handful of times, but to America? This will be an adventure like no other!" The man glanced down at her and blushed lightly before turning to face her properly. "Apologies for interrupting you, and my lack of introduction. Mr Alexander Thornridge, at your service."

"Lady Cornelia Locke," she replied and held out her hand. "How do you do?"

"Charmed, my lady." Alexander took her hand and bowed over it, pressing a soft kiss to the back of the leather glove. A shiver ran through Cornelia and she fought the urge to yank her hand away. It was not his touch she yearned for. "Is this your first trip to America, as well?"

She shook her head and turned her gaze out to see as her hand was relinquished.

"Second."

"Truly! Then, you've seen some of the wonders for yourself? Oh, it must have been terribly exciting!"

She nodded absently, more concerned with the memories that filled her mind.

"From the moment I set foot on her shores. 'Twas an adventure rife with danger but … One I would not trade for the whole world."

Alexander sighed wistfully and Cornelia glanced up at him. He looked so young and innocent, so wholly unprepared for the violence in the west. Yet then again, she had no way of knowing if he was headed west or instead to one of the safer, established cities.

"Might I inquire as to the destination of your journey?" she asked. "New York, perhaps?"

His smile grew broader, as though he had been waiting for such a question.

"No, in fact. I am headed to Nebraska. I'm to be a homesteader, can you believe it?" Alexander laughed but Cornelia could not return it. The smile faded from her face and she turned her gaze back to the ocean. This young man, little more than a boy, was heading into the west to start a new life.

Dressed in his finery with his hair perfectly coiffed and not a wrinkle on his skin anywhere. Did he not know the hardships that lay ahead? How would he survive, as green as he was?

"I suppose, then, that you have associates you will be meeting up with?" she asked nervously.

"Some," he confirmed and she let out a breath. "They say the land is rich and fertile. I have studied agriculture and horticulture at university, so I know a thing or two myself. My father thinks I'm mad, you know. Says I should stay at home and continue the family business. But I have no desire to be a lawyer, so here I am! Throwing away my future, as my father would say. Ah, but is it not exciting? To take your destiny into your own hands and see what you can make of it!"

Every word hurt to hear. Cornelia's heart ached and she longed for the comforting touch of Eli's hand on her shoulder, his solid warmth at her side.

"The allotments are reasonably priced at the moment, too. I would be a fool not to seize this opportunity. And yes, of course, I have heard tales of the dangers. But honestly, humanity is more civilised than the papers would like us to believe. Why should I fear the Indian or the outlaw? Such tales are far more exaggerated than people think! My friends have had no such issues and they write to me every couple of months!"

"Oh, Mister Thornridge. The west will eat you alive." Cornelia stood and turned on her heel, ignoring Alexander's surprised blustering. "Please excuse me."

She returned to her cabin and fought down the anger that seethed within her veins. What a fool! A childish, starry eyed fool! He would most likely be dead within the next couple of months, a year at the most. And for what? A chance at adventure? A new start on land that would never truly belong to him?

Cornelia pressed a hand to her lips. Had it truly only been a few short months ago that she set out for the first time? How similar had she been to Alexander Thornridge? She should not have survived – she had never intended to – and yet fate had other plans.

Perhaps fate would be kind to Alexander. But she doubted it.

~*~

Red Feather spoke fluent English. Said her parents had taught her the same as they taught her their own tongue. Never knew when she might need it. Turned out, speaking English had saved her life. She was able to sneak away at the right moment thanks to overhearing the men's plans. If not for one man turning around early and catching a glimpse of her disappearing form, she would have put a far greater distance between them than only a few moments.

Eli did not find they had much need for conversing with each other. English or sign language, either worked fine for the times they needed to communicate, but the rest of their time was spent in companionable silence.

A part of him hated the silence. He longed for a feminine voice to fill it with her whimsical yet strangely romantic chatter. Heartache stabbed through him and he looked to Red Feather instead.

A new life. A new purpose. He had to hold to that. Cornelia would not want him to become stuck in the past.

Finding Red Feather a mount was as simple as killing a couple of bushwhackers. Eli let her choose the horse she wanted and watched in amusement when she struggled to shorten the stirrups for her young legs.

"Need help?" he finally asked and she threw a glare over her shoulder. "No shame in asking for help."

"I can do it," she retorted. Still, the leather refused to budge. With a snarl of frustration, Red Feather gave up and scrambled into the saddle defiantly. Her feet hung at least a foot above the stirrups but she held her chin proudly. Eli made no comment, instead squeezing his own horse on.

She lasted the entire day before she caved and asked for his help at night. Eli showed her how to soften the leather after it had grown stiff. Together, they shortened the stirrups to an appropriate length before they settled in for the night.

Having a child along reduced his travel speed somewhat. Eli had no clear destination in mind, merely roaming where the wind took him, but he still noted that he could not ride as far each day. Red Feather tired more easily and was slower in her preparations.

There was a time that such things would frustrate him to the point he would leave the child somewhere. Not this time. It no longer hurt to think back on his own children – his two boys and three girls, all taken before their time. Red Feather reminded him of them. Young and vibrant yet already hardening against the horrors of the world.

Eli silently vowed to protect her, to keep her soft to the beauty and wonder of it all, just as Cornelia had done for him.

Ten days after they started travelling together, Eli slowly turned the wheat seed jar in one hand under the light of the stars. His other was tucked behind his head as he lay on his bedroll, thoughts miles away. He wondered where she was now. Was she suffering a slow death? Or had the sickness taken her, sudden and violent?

"What is that?" Red Feather asked and Eli flicked a glance towards her. She lay on the other side of the campfire, rolled onto her side with one hand propping her head up.

"Medicine," he replied. Red Feather frowned, staring at the jar anew.

"Don't look like any medicine I ever seen."

"Medicine comes in many forms. You're too young to know that yet. But you'll learn."

Eli wrapped the jar back in his bundle, and stowed it all in his bag. The sound of crickets filled the night air with a familiar chorus. His eyes drifted over the stars above, picking out the constellation Cornelia had shown him. The scorpion. Then to the one next to it, the wolf.

Wherever she was, whether she still lived or not, Eli hoped she knew he was still with her.

"Eli?" Red Feather spoke softly. He turned his head to her and waited for the rest. She poked at the ground with a plucked stalk of grass for a long moment as she gathered her courage. "What do you plan to do with me?"

He stared in surprise. Had he not already made that clear enough? Perhaps not, not to a child.

"Take you with me, as I have done."

Red Feather chewed on her lip and risked a glance at him before daring to speak again.

"Why?"

"Hmm. Way I see it, there's nothing else for it. You got no one, I got no one. Together … At least we have each other. That's better than being alone, isn't it?"

There was so much more to it, words he wanted to share about magic and a woman who had changed his life. But Red Feather was too young to understand. She needed simplicity for now. With time, she would come to see the magic for herself and be ready for the full tale.

"If we find some other Indians, will you give me to them?"

"Would you want that?" Eli asked in turn. Red Feather kept her eyes lowered as she shook her head. "Then that's your answer."

"But …" She crushed the stalk of grass in her hand, a flash of raw vulnerability darting over her face. "I'm not your blood. I'm your enemy. Why would you want me?"

Her voice was small and fragile. It pierced through Eli's heart, sharper than any knife, and left him longing to comfort her. How long had it been since he held his daughters or his sons in his arms? How long since he wiped away their tears, soothed their fears, and rocked them to sleep?

How long since he felt like a father?

"See your skin?" he asked and she stared at him, eyes glassy. "Same colour as mine. Feel that earth beneath you? Feels like you belong, don't it? 'Cause you were born to this land, same as I was. Blood of your ancestors in your veins, they been here for thousands of years. Just like mine. There is more the same between our blood than there is any difference."

A tear slipped down her face, onto the ground below.

"It don't matter to me that we come from different tribes. You ain't done me no wrong, and I don't intend to wrong you, either. You're not my enemy. You're my daughter. So long as you want that, too."

More tears flowed down her face but she made no move to staunch them. She nodded, signing to him with a shaky hand. Eli signed back, accepting the words she was not strong enough to voice.

Red Feather lay back down, weeping softly. Eli watched her for a time but did not push her to accept his presence or his comfort. Her trauma was still fresh, her pain raw. She would come to him when she was ready. Instead, he closed his eyes and tried not to let the memories overwhelm him.

Eli wanted a family. It had taken him so long to admit that to himself, but now he had finally accepted it. Still, he could not help but yearn for someone to help share the burden.

With you.

He could not share this with Cornelia. But he could live it for her. He could love again and build something new – both with Red Feather and the wheat seeds in his bag.

Eli drifted off to sleep with that flicker of hope kindling in his chest.

He woke hours later to a distant coyote howling on the plain. Something shifted beside him and his eyes snapped open.

Red Feather. He recognised her barely a split second before he would have gone for his knife. She was shivering, her eyes still glassy from tears and her own blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She lay down next to him, gently wriggling closer, until there was only a breath of distance between them.

Eli closed it. He opened his blanket and pulled her in, then wrapped the blanket over her. With this silent permission granted, Red Feather burrowed against him. Her limbs were bony and he grunted as an elbow jabbed his ribs. Her hair tickled his chin and her nose was cold against his neck.

None of this mattered. He took in a deep breath, learning her scent – foreign, yet familiar. Youthful. It elicited memories of campfire meals, of laughing with his wife, wrestling with his sons, and dancing with his daughters. It coaxed that little flicker of hope in his chest to burn a little brighter.

They needed a plan. Wandering the plains without direction was well and good when he was on his own, but with a new daughter? Eli wanted better for her.

He would have to deal with the bounty on his head, first. Life was dangerous enough even when there weren't men hunting him by name. He would have to find somewhere safe to leave Red Feather –

No. He couldn't do that, not after he had told her he wouldn't give her away.

So. She would come with him. It would be dangerous and anxiety clenched at the thought of another child's blood on his hands. But she was not helpless, she had proven that already.

Then there was nothing else for it. Eli would have to teach her. Satisfied, he curled his arms tighter around his new daughter and let the stars above lull him back to sleep.

[missionaria-protectiva]

His deep grey eyes mirrored the soon approaching storms winter would bring.

book accurate description, my beloved 🥰

"You live dangerously, Lord Stark. Without the protection of your loyal bannermen, all alone at the gates of your castle. I could have planned an ambush and within moments —", his guest carefully ran a finger along her neck before a cheeky smile spread across her narrow lips. "You wouldn't dare, Lady Cerwyn.", he pointed to the long sword sitting on his broad back, "You'd be dead in the blink of an eye." Her almond eyes narrowed as she softly tilted her head, "Don't underestimate me."

the girls are already fighting as foreplay!! 😩😩

I love that Wylla wants to pay her respects, but oooof, hers and Cregan's shared grief is so palpable and devastating... and poor baby Rickon 😭

Little Rickon was sat next to his father as a maid was unsuccessfully trying to feed him yet the small boy declined the vegetables served to him. Cregan watched him out of the corner of his eyes and decided he's had enough before picking the boy up and putting him on his lap.

BYE I'M DECEASED

"Unfortunately he has inherited the boisterous thick skull of the Starks.", his father jested as he unsuccessfully tried to bring a slice of potato to Rickon's mouth.

oh, Cregan's dilfing so hard, I love their relationship so much 🥹🥹

Rickon has been fed!! Wylla success!!

"Do not fall asleep next to him. We have still have a lot to discuss."

oh, fucking CLOCKED. that's literally what I would have done lmaooo

Rickon has fallen asleep!! another Wylla success!!

She noted he had taken off his leather chest protection and had rolled up his tunic sleeves to his elbows. His muscles were drawn visible underneath the thin fabric and she had to press her legs together in order to ignore the aching throb under her garments to concentrate on their conversation.

Wylla is sooooo fucking real 😌😌😌

Wylla had to digest his words firstly. He would obviously never consider her as a bride. Confusion and embarrassment spread through her. She was ashamed to ever have formed the thought he would ever see her as anything more than the little girl she used to be.

nooooooooo, don't think like that, girl!! we'll make him see 😤😤

"I am not your fool riding across the north to pick the next best woman to warm your bed while you and your stupid council plan the war.", she spat angrily before she turned to leave him.

"Acknowledge me then as an ally."

OOP, THAT'S RIGHT, BESTIE!! STAND UP FOR YOURSELF!!

loving this so far, it's a unique idea yet still faithful to canon, and I can't wait for the next part!! 🫶🏻🫶🏻

— Winter‘s Storm: Chapter I

pairing: cregan stark x cerwyn!reader (oc)

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), mentions of blood, short description of a death person, lots of heartbreak/grief, loosely hinting at a friendship/love triangle, mentions of being in love with another woman’s husband, grammar (english isn’t my first language)

word count: 2,844

taglist: @cregan-starks @gotranting @deltamoon666

•••

Late summer snow fell quietly on the still green lands of the North, slowly wrapping it in its white cloak. The increasingly harsh winds heralded the approaching winter. The quiet crunch of the frozen grass giving way under the heavy hooves of the black stallion shattered the silence of the dusk day. The castle towers of Winterfell loomed on the horizon. Its rider pulled the grey cloak further around her body and spurred the animal on. Half a day's march already lay behind steed and rider.

Their arrival was already expected as the Lord of Winterfell sat patiently outside the gates on his own steed, his black cloak attached to his broad shoulders. His deep grey eyes mirrored the soon approaching storms winter would bring. The corners of his mouth twitched barely noticeably at the sight of his expected guest. His otherwise grim expression seemed to soften, a sight the northern lands had not seen for a long time. The black steed slowed down at the sight of him. "You live dangerously, Lord Stark. Without the protection of your loyal bannermen, all alone at the gates of your castle. I could have planned an ambush and within moments —", his guest carefully ran a finger along her neck before a cheeky smile spread across her narrow lips. "You wouldn't dare, Lady Cerwyn.", he pointed to the long sword sitting on his broad back, "You'd be dead in the blink of an eye." Her almond eyes narrowed as she softly tilted her head, "Don't underestimate me."

He did not return her smile and dismounted from his steed without a word. The animal snorted softly as he let one of his calloused hands glide almost lovingly over the light brown coat. Turning his gaze back to the black stallion, he took a few step forwards and grabbed the reins made of leather close to its head before allowing the horse to sniffle his hand. After a short moment, the animal lowered its head and let him pet its mane. "I would never underestimate you.", he spoke, his voice hoarse and low, before he offered a hand and helped her to dismount. The man was now towering over her. His hand, which had been on the leather reins only mere moments before, softly gripped her shoulder and he lowered his head so their foreheads were touching. Dark strands of hair fell across his face. A gesture he had already cultivated in their childhood. "It is good to see you, Wylla.", Cregan spoke softly. A gloved hand cupped his roughened cheek, "It is good to see you, too, old friend." She took in his familiar scent of pine needles, dirt, firewood and a hint of wild berries mixed with his sweat. Reluctantly, she withdrew her hand and cleared her throat. He released his own from her shoulder and straightened up before taking the horses by the reins and leading them through the open gates inside the castle. Wylla caught up to him and grabbed the fabric of her light grey dress to keep pace with her friend. "Feed and water the horses.", Cregan barked at the stable boy as he pushed the reins into his hands. The boy nodded in fright and quickly retreated to care for the horses. She sent an apologetic glance at the poor boy before hurrying after Cregan through the courtyard again who already set a heavy foot to disappear inside the brick Great Hall. "Can I not visit her first?"

Her request made him stop in his tracks. Wylla noticed how his hands formed to fists and his body tensed up. A short, dark glance towards her made her almost regret her question. "Supper is already awaiting us." His scowl would have intimidated her but she knew his grumpy moods were due to the occasion of the day. Her own heart grew heavy at the thought. She didn't want to imagine how he must have felt since the death of his wife. "Please.", the girl begged him.  A sigh left his lips before he gave in. "Then at last let me accompany you." Cregan stalked past her and she followed him to the crypts. It was a dark place, lit only by torches. The place was stuffy and cold. It was the first time Wylla had entered this place after her funeral. A cold shiver ran down her spine and the powerlessness that had almost driven her out of the mind a year ago threatened to take hold of her again. She clasped the cloak around her shoulders and pulled it further around her slender body. Tears took her vision and the deeper they went into the crypt, the more short of breath she became. An icy hand wrapped around her heart and squeezed until it hurt. She wanted to scream in agony. One of her hands found the safety of the wall to her right as they reached the grave of their childhood friend. Cregan's gaze was blank as he stared at the statue that was the spitting image of his wife. Neither of them said a word. The image of Arra laying in her own pool of blood, her teal eyes fixed blankly on the ceiling and the cries of small Rickon born mere minutes before, still haunted her to this day. "I am so sorry.", she whispered almost inaudible. It was a tragedy what had occurred to her.

He did not answer anything in return, but kept staring at his late wife's face carved in stone. Quiet sobs shook Wylla's frame as hot tears burned her from the cold winds reddened cheeks. A hand pressed to her mouth to silence the sobbing yet she miserably failed to. Cregan pulled her silently into his embrace, one hand soothingly resting on her back. She clung helplessly to him and pressed her face into the hard leather of his chest-plate. His scent along with the leather filled her nostrils. Several minutes of a comforting silence passed before her tears had dried up. The girl reluctantly broke away from him and looked at the statue. "I miss her every single day of my being.", the Lord of Winterfell cut the silence quietly. She did not take her eyes off the woman that had turned to stone. "As do I." Silence filled the air between them.

Half an hour later they decided to leave the crypts into the chilly night air and returned to the Great Hall to dine the prepared food. The hot fire in the hearth lighted up the Hall and fought off the chill inside her bones. Their cloaks were brought to their chambers by the servants when they had arrived. Fresh vegetables and potatoes along with venison was served. Wylla thanked the servants for the dished food before she loaded her plate and took a bite of each as a cup of clay filled with rich ale was placed in front of her. "It tastes heavenly.", her eyelids fluttered as the taste coated her tongue. Little Rickon was sat next to his father as a maid was unsuccessfully trying to feed him yet the small boy declined the vegetables served to him. Cregan watched him out of the corner of his eyes and decided he's had enough before picking the boy up and putting him on his lap. "He's grown so much.", Wylla spoke softly as she watched the boy. His dark hair and storm-grey eyes resembled his father yet his snub nose and full lips resembled his mother, a perfect mix of both of them. "Unfortunately he has inherited the boisterous thick skull of the Starks.", his father jested as he unsuccessfully tried to bring a slice of potato to Rickon's mouth. The boy knocked the fork away and tried to wiggle out of his father grip before he began to wail. One of the maidens quickly hurried to grab him but Cregan waved her off . "He has to eat before bed."

Wylla put her fork down and pushed the chair she was sat on across the wooden floor with a loud scrape before she stood up and rounded the table. She knelt down and bent slowly towards Rickon. "You have to eat or else you will never be as strong as your father.", his big eyes watched her as she softly spoke to him. "One day you will be Lord of Winterfell and all of the lands in the North will be yours. But if you won't eat, you'll never become big and strong.", she jested quietly before she began tickling him. The boy squealed and giggled before stretching towards her and Cregan let him climb into his friend's arms. Her rosy lips pressed a kiss to his temple before she arose and carried him towards her chair on the other end of the table to take a seat again. "Now eat, Rickon. If you behave yourself, I'll read you a tale before you go to bed.", she promised him and shortly glanced at Cregan, silently asking for his approval. A short nod of his was enough and she glanced back to the boy sitting on her lap. She carefully brought the fork to the child's mouth, who looked at her with wide grey eyes before reluctantly opening his mouth. Quickly shoving the vegetables inside, she told him to close his mouth and chew. The boy obeyed and swallowed the food down his throat. Quickly opening his mouth again, Wylla was just about to spear a piece of meat on her fork as he slid restlessly back and forth on her lap. She quickly shoved another bite down his throat feeding him until he fully refused the food. "Are you fed?", her voice was soft and sweet. Rickon nodded and buried his head in her chest. She put an arm around him and gently brushed over his side. The sight of the little human snuggled up to her warmed her heart. She hurried to finish eating and then pulled the boy up onto her shoulder to carry him to bed. "Do you mind if I put him to sleep?" Cregan nodded shortly before he arose from his chair and planted a kiss on his son's dark hair. "Good night, boy. Sleep tight." The child reached out to him sleepily before letting his hand hang loosely again. "Do not fall asleep next to him. We have still have a lot to discuss.", Cregan's breath brushed her ear as he leaned in not to startle to boy in her arms. His sudden closeness caused her body goose bumps. She nodded shortly and left the room with Rickon's handmaiden.

While the handmaiden, Gilly, prepared the boy for bed, Wylla laid down on the furs on the bed with a book in hand about the mythology of 'The Children of the Forest'. She opened the book and looked at the drawings. Children with disproportionately large and expressively like green eyes and a pale gray-green skin with apparent rough to wrinkly texture, similar in appearance to plants. The tale was already read to her when she had been a child until she could read it herself. Rickon was placed next to her, covered into the furs and she moved over to him so he could see the drawings. Gilly lit the firewood in the hearth to keep the chamber warm before she left them alone inside. Wylla opened the first page and began reading to him, showing him the drawing as he pointed to it from time to time. After a while, the boy fell asleep cuddled up to her. She watched him for a short moment before she closed the book, planted a soft kiss on the crown of his head and tried to detach herself from the boy as gently as possible. The book was placed back on the shelf on the wall next to the wooden door before she left him in his peaceful slumber.

Cregan was already awaiting her in the Great Hall as she joined him an hour later. She shot him an apologetic glance before she took a seat next to him on the wooden table and took a sip of the ale she had not touched earlier. "Apologies, Rickon wanted to know everything about 'The Children in the Forest'." A deep chuckle rumbled in Cregan's chest and took a long sip of his cup of ale. "Wasn't that our favorite story when we were children?" She smiled gently and placed the cup of clay in front of her. "Yes, of course." A comfortable silence filled the room before she set to speak again. "What was it you wanted to discuss earlier?" The man next to her sighed heavily and sternly furrowed his thick brows. She noted he had taken off his leather chest protection and had rolled up his tunic sleeves to his elbows. His muscles were drawn visible underneath the thin fabric and she had to press her legs together in order to ignore the aching throb under her garments to concentrate on their conversation. She quickly took another sip of the ale to hide her heated cheeks.

"My council urges me to remarry. Yesterday, a raven from King's Landing has arrived reporting of the death of King Viserys I. and the usurpation of the throne through his firstborn son, Aegon II. The rightful heir, his daughter Rhaenyra, is said to be residing on Dragonstone. There is talk of war. Without securing my bloodline and position as Warden of the North and Lord of Winterfell my council fears that the lords of smaller vassal houses sworn to House Stark will turn against me and peace will be destroyed.", he paused shortly to take another sip of ale, "Besides, the harvest of this summer must be taken, winter's coming."

She swallowed thickly, fright began spreading through her. "The King is dead? Why did the Hightowers put an usurpator on the throne when your father and nearly all lords of Westerosi noble houses have sworn their loyalty to his heir Rhaenyra?" Cregan sighed deeply as he locked eyes with her for a moment. His stormy grey met her deep brown-black. "They must have been planning it for a long time. The King was already ill during my father's time as Warden of the North." She turned her gaze back to the cup of clay in her narrow hands so as not to drown in the depths of his grey. "Arra is dead for barely a year and they're already forcing you to remarry." His features darkened at the mention of her name. His heart had only begun healing itself when it was already supposed to belong to his next bride. Wylla watched him out of the corner of her eyes, the warm light of the fire dancing across his handsome features. It was improper of her to desire the husband of another woman; regardless of the woman dead or alive, loyal friend or hated enemy. Yet she had been secretly in love with him since he had reached manhood seven years ago at the age of four and ten.

"I have mourned long enough. I must make my decision wisely. This marriage must be chosen political strategically.", his voice firm and yet broken. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat. "You should probably discuss such matters with my brother. I am in no position to —". He interrupted her rather harsh. "You are to help me to lead the lords of our vassal houses back onto the right path. Bind them to us again by offering them gifts and my hand in marriage to their daughters. Find me a suitable bride while my council and I plan the defence of the North." Wylla had to digest his words firstly. He would obviously never consider her as a bride. Confusion and embarrassment spread through her. She was ashamed to ever have formed the thought he would ever see her as anything more than the little girl she used to be. "Cregan, I am not sure if I am the best choice for this. I am not part of your council and —". Once again the man interrupted her, this time a little softer as he cupped her narrow hand with his own big, almost massive, hand and stared at her with an intensity she wasn't sure she would be able to withstand. "You are, who knows me best." Her eyes flickered between his before she pushed his calloused hand away in anger and arose from her chair. "I am not your fool riding across the north to pick the next best woman to warm your bed while you and your stupid council plan the war.", she spat angrily before she turned to leave him. Just as her hand touched the wood of the large door leading to the courtyard, he arose from his chair. "I need you as an ally." Anger made her tremble yet she didn't turn to face him. "Acknowledge me then as an ally." With that she pushed the door open and left into the icy embrace of the night.

[celestialspecial]

These Beautiful Torments

Recovering from the fight that has left him badly wounded both physically and mentally Billy tries to piece together the parts of his past. To remember who he is, or was, but it’s never that easy is it?

Warnings: Trauma, Depression, Eventual Smut, Violence, Unplanned Pregnancy- Canon? We don’t know her. (If i missed any feel free to let me know)

Writers Notes: Ok this is my first chapter testing the waters of an idea that I’d thrown out there a little while ago. Let me know if you like/want more- I have a few chapters planned but will determine if I continue it or not :) Love you all bunches. *cover image to come soon!

It was always the lights. Flashing. Blindingly bright. Music lilting in the background. And the taste of blood. Filling his mouth and dripping out onto the ground below. Then he saw the haunting visage, a skull, burned into his retinas, emblazoned under his eyelids by those damned lights.

Then he’d wake. Sometimes slowly but more often than not, jolted. Attempting to rise himself upright only to find his body strapped down to the bed he lay in. He was still here, in the hospital. How long had he been here? A sharp shooting pain streaked across his forehead, eyes scrunched shut pleading for the pain to cease.

It was the same thing over and over, day after day. He felt the maddening Groundhog Day taking its toll on his head. He loosed a puff of breath, condensation collecting on the back of his plastic mask. That was one of the first memories he had of this place.

 Seeing the absolute state of his face in the mirror when he’d regained consciousness had threatened to make him black out again. The scars, angry and red, crusted with healing blood, bruising, jagged, criss crossing his face over each prominent feature. Running shaky fingers over the raised edges, shouting in agony, real pain and mental anguish at his reflection. It wasn’t long before he received his “new” face. A white blank canvas, his new outward appearance, concealing the monster he’d become underneath.

 When the extent of his memory loss became apparent he was assigned a therapist. He knew she was the one who had suggested the mask for him, finding it placed on his bed after their first visit when he’d refused to meet her eyes.

 A cast of characters would come in and out throughout the day, some he was starting to recognize, the therapist, his doctor, the armed guards that would stand in the hallway, a short angry looking woman who would stand at the foot of his bed every so often and one more.

 She was there a lot in the beginning, then he heard his therapist having a conversation with her in the hallway, raised voices that he couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, and she stopped showing up so much anymore. She would be there maybe once a week. 

He’d feel pangs behind his eyes every time she’d walk in, trying to remember who she was. She didn’t say much, sometimes she’d read to him and he’d pretend to be sleeping, enjoying the sound of her voice. 

 It was soft, careful, moving over the words effortlessly. God why couldn’t he remember who she was? Her presence felt comforting, welcoming, but he could sense the edge in her voice sometimes. The way her eyes always looking worried, searching. Begging him for some recognition that he couldn’t give to her. 

 Krista, the woman putting him back together had asked her to leave one day when Billy had thrashed violently in his bed after yelling at her that he didn’t know who she was. Why was she there? Sometimes her presence would trigger anxiety and searing pain in his head when he thought too hard about her, searching the cracks in his broken brain for some semblance of recognition. When he’d pry too hard he’d crack and grow angry, shouting at the top of his lungs, causing the guards to come rushing in to restrain him further.

 Then she’d be escorted out, the first time fear plastered on her face, then another time fighting back tears. He’d grow angrier after, rage at himself, for not remembering, for having this person who felt like solace taken away and he was left alone in his room again with no comfort, no sweet voice reading to him.

 “Billy?” He looked up from where he’d been staring at the spot on the wall, mind racing. Krista stood at the foot of his bed, clipboard in hand. He cocked his head in question, instead of answering vocally. This seemed to irritate her. “Billy, you know who I am.” 

 “I do.” He responded, refusing to look into her eyes again, finding a fleeting feeling of joy when he sensed her frustration. It felt good, to just feel something. 

 “Did you sleep last night?”  He did, but just barely. 

 “I had the dream again…” he mumbled behind his mask. The same thing every night. The skull, the flashing, the painted horses. She hummed in thought, writing something onto her notepad before walking over to his side, ripping open the sides of the protective casing he was kept in. Allowing himself to push up off the bed to his full height, towering over the small woman in front of him, moving to the side table by the window. 

 His legs felt weak, the joints popping as he moved, a flash of rage at how pathetic he felt. He was a marine, first in, last out and now he had little strength to move and his bloodied healing face created another obstacle he didn’t want to tackle.

“How long?”

Krista paused gathering her papers, and pulling her chair out at the table across from him.

 “How long what, Billy?” He gazed up at her from under the mask, bottomless darkness.

“How long have I been here?” She tried to conceal her sigh, this was obviously something he had asked before, maybe multiple times.

 “It’s been a little over 3 months. You were in a coma for 6 weeks after your surgeries, but healing more and more every day.” 3 months. That seemed like so long and yet he knew that was hardly anytime at all. The fact he could even struggle over to the table to sit should be seen as a miracle, he should be grateful, but he wasn’t. 

 “And who is she-“ before he could go into more detail Krista cut him off.

 “We have a lot of work to do today Billy, maybe we should focus more on your health and regaining your memories.” 

 “Maybe it’ll trigger something-“ 

 “Billy.” She ground out. He felt the anger bubbling up in him again, how could she claim to care so much about helping him when she wouldn’t answer his questions? Eventually it faded, they went through the motions, him naming blue things around the room, going over what he could remember, de-escalating his rage.

 After an hour of struggling through his mind, sifting through random thoughts and trying to unpack the vast amount of confusion that was swirling in his head, you walked in. Billy’s head swiveled to the door, taking you in as you stood hesitantly just inside the room. A muscle ticked in Krista’s face as she looked you up and down. You stood in a large chunky sweater, holding a book to your chest, obviously not expecting to see them both sitting by the windows.

 “I-I’m sorry…I thought you might be done.” 

 “We’ll we’re not.” Krista bit out, and flinched realizing how abrupt she’d sounded and how “not professional” she sounded. “We’ll just be a little bit longer.”

 You shifted on your feet wondering if you should just leave, if you were going to cause more trouble than this was worth. Billy’s eyes never left you, watching each movement of yours, calculating, at least that was still the same. He might look at you with no recollection of who you were but his same old attentiveness and alertness remained behind those eyes. 

 “Sorry I’ll come back later.”

 “No. Stay.” Billy’s voice drifted over to you, it’d been so long since you’d heard him speak, at least to you. His gaze never wavered as you pulled a chair in from the hall and sat, waiting for them to wrap up. Running your fingers over the pages, trying to distract yourself in some way shape or form as they finished. You could feel him looking at you, even though you did everything to not meet them. Krista noticed how he stared as well, and was very displeased at the distraction. 

 “I think that’s enough for today.” She managed after a fruitless 10 minutes, packing up her items and guiding Billy back to the bed, as if on cue a guard walked in to readjust Billy’s handcuffs.

 “Is this really necessary?” You asked, watching the guard clasp the handcuff on one of Billy’s wrists, muffling a grunt and walking away, ignoring you completely.

 “It’s just protocol.” Krista explained, throwing her purse over her shoulder and walking towards the door herself. You sensed a smugness in her response, that she got to have full access to him while you had a finite version. “Try not to upset him.” She whispered passing by you swiftly, closing the door behind her as she went.

 You felt a moment of awkwardness being alone with him, it had been a few weeks since you’d been back, and last time he’d been sleeping, blissfully unaware of your presence. Billy just sat up in the hospital bed, barely adjusting himself, just …staring at you. You could see the wheels behind his head working at full steam, trying to figure you out. To recall something, anything. The hurt never seemed to get easier, the pain of not being remembered by the love of your life. 

 “I just ugh.. brought a book to read to you if you wanted or-“

 “Who are you?” You felt the weight of the question hit you harder than you know he intended. Krista had pointedly told you not to upset him, and after the last few outbursts of his she’d also advised you not to tell him about you two. That you’d been a couple, especially since just your presence and the confusion it caused seemed to tip him over the edge. The idea of him trying to remember a romantic relationship, let alone one that spanned years could potentially stunt his healing.

 “I’m a… friend.” 

“Oh..”you didn’t miss the subtle flash of disappointment in his face. The way his eyes flew from your face to focus on the wall instead. 

 “Did you want me to leave?” Please say no.

 “No. It’s okay.” You let out a sigh of relief you didn’t realize you were holding. Pulling the chair over, you opened the book and started reading, watching as he shifted in the bed, leaning back, either listening or deep in thought. You read on watching as the sun began to set, noticing that his eyelids were growing heavy, trying to hide your smirk at how cute he looked.

 It was easy to think back to happier times seeing him like this. To pretend you weren’t reading to him in a hospital bed that he was handcuffed to. To imagine he did remember you, that this was all just a bad dream and you’d wake up to him holding you when the sun rose tomorrow.

 “Billy?” You tested the waters to see if he was still awake. His eyes shot up, fixed on you, enough of a reply for you. “Billy it’s getting late…I should- I should go home. Are you going to be ok?” It was dumb to ask, you knew it was but it was subconscious at this point. You just needed him to know that you cared, even if he just thought you were a friend worried about his well-being.

 He nodded his head. “Yes.” He paused in thought for a moment. “Will you come back-tomorrow?” You felt your heart leap a little.

 “Would you like that?”

 Another pause, pondering deep down if he would actually like that.

 “Very much so.” 

[black-mistress-of-evil]

Hey! Can I request a Bucky x Reader where Bucky gets hurt during a mission and the reader is there to take care of him? Maybe he’s caught of guard by this because he hasn’t had someone take care of him in a long time? Feel free to do whatever you want with this!! Thank you so much and I can’t wait to read it 💕

Bucky Barnes x Reader

A/N Thanks so much for the request @thighs-of-betrayal-blog this was so fun to write! Sorry it took so long! I swear every time I get the motivation to write my life gets crazy. But here it is, hopefully it’s a little bit what you hoped for and if it isn’t I hope you enjoy it anyways haha 💜

Warnings: FLUFFY FLUFF; angst if you squint; very very brief canon level violence; a minute of mutually pining idiots

Word count: approx 2.3k

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader (he uses the endearment “doll” but other than that reader is gender neutral)

Why Do You Care?

“Bucky stop being so stubborn and let me see!”

You were standing in the living room of the safe house Bucky had dragged you into, hands on your hips glaring down at the super soldier on the couch. He was avoiding your gaze, staring a hole in the wall to your left, and had his arms folded across his chest. He looked to you more like a pouting child than a 100+ year old ex-assassin/current Avenger and if you weren’t so frustrated with him you’d probably giggle at the sight.

The mission had been a success. Sort of. You and Bucky had been sent in to steal sensitive files from an abandoned Hydra base. Which you managed to do. But it ended up being less than abandoned and without any backup the fight out was a rough one. Just as the two of you were finally getting out, covered in blood and bruises, Bucky had grabbed your arm and shoved you into a crouch, bending himself over you protectively as a shot rang out. He grunted out in pain and you leaned around his frame to send a bullet straight into the skull of the Hydra agent who’d been stupid enough not to stay down. You’d tried, then, to make sure Bucky was okay but he wasted no time in hauling you back up and out into the night. His hand slipped down your arm to clasp yours and he didn’t let go until you were safely within the walls of the safe house. The more the two of you had run the more obvious it became that he was hurt but he ignored you asking about it.

Now that he’d made sure the safe house was secure and reported back to Steve what had happened and where you were, he couldn’t avoid you anymore. But he could ignore you and he was trying his damnedest to do so.

“M’fine.” He grumbled at you for probably the third time in as many minutes, shifting to turn his injured side away from you as if that would make you go away.

“Bucky I know you’re not fine so why won’t you just let me see so I can help?” The cuteness of his pout was wearing off as your patience was wearing thin. “Do you not trust me or something??”

Bucky’s eyes snapped up to yours then, his heart rate rising as he saw the concern there. He did trust you. More than he trusted himself most days. Hell he was in love with you. But you were way too good for him, too full of light, and you’d never be interested in someone like him. He’d only ruin you anyways. But when he looked into your eyes he couldn’t stand the flash of hurt he saw when you asked that question.

“Course I do doll...I trust ya...” his voice was hoarse and he tried taking a deep breath to clear his throat but it sent pain shooting through him and he groaned, pressing his hand to the still bleeding wound in his side.

“Buck....” your tone was softer now as you took a step closer. You thought for a second that he was going to let you check on his injury but the moment your hands reached for him he shot up, ignoring the pain, and pushed past you into the bathroom while mumbling about not needing help.

You roll your eyes and sigh as the bathroom door slams shut behind him. Ever since you’d met the quiet soldier when he joined the Avengers he’d swung back and forth between pushing you away and pulling you in closer. He always volunteered to be partnered with you and you worked well together but he’d refuse to spar with you. He liked helping you cook for team dinners but always declined your invitations to go out for lunch. During movie nights he only ever sat beside you or, if someone beat him there, he’d sit on the floor and lean against your legs even if there was an empty seat by someone else, but he wouldn’t join you when you were binge watching your favourite show alone. You couldn’t figure him out but the more you tried to the more you fell for him. It had been agony for you to want him knowing he could never see you as more than a teammate and friend. Regardless of how many times his behaviour had made it clear he wasn’t interested in you that way, you couldn’t help it. You loved him. And if that remained unrequited the rest of your life then so be it, you were that gone for him.

And so, despite his insistence that he didn’t need your help, you found yourself trailing after him towards the bathroom. You pressed your ear to the door and could hear him shuffling around, pulling out a first aid kit, and then gasping in obvious pain.

“Bucky? Open the door and let me in? Please? I want to help...I want to take care of you, you just have to let me....” you pause, waiting for a response, and notice that all the sounds on the other side of the door have ceased.

“Buck? Please, I care about you...let me...” your voice is lower, almost a whisper now, and you wait another few painfully silent seconds before hearing a long sigh from the other side of the door. When it cracks open, your eyes meet his piercingly blue ones and you nearly crumble at the uncertainty you see there.

“Can I come in, Buck?” You ask gently and he hesitates for only a second before nodding and opening the door wider. You step inside and motion for him to sit on the edge of the counter for you and he quickly obeys.

“You’re gonna have to take your shirt off for me to see, Buck.” You say gently, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. He grunts in acknowledgement and begins pulling his black tee up, hissing as he raises his arms causing a tug to his injury. Without a second thought, you reach forward and help maneuver his shirt the rest of the way off, dropping it to the side as he brings his arms back down. As other times in the past when you’ve seen him shirtless, you can’t help but let your eyes travel across his firm chest and toned abdomen, drinking him in until you raise your eyes to his and realize he’s watching you. You quickly avert your gaze, your ears burning at having been caught ogling him, so you miss the way his lips curl into a smirk. Focusing your attention onto his side you gasp at the large gash there still slowly leaking blood.

“Not that bad, doll.”

“James Buchanan Barnes! Just because its not life-threatening does not mean that it’s ‘not that bad’. Dammit Buck why wouldn’t you let me help you take care of this as soon as we got here?!” You huff as you grab some antibacterial cloths and begin cleaning the wound, ignoring his hiss as you do so.

“M’sorry, doll...it’s just...haven’t really had anyone take care of me in...well since before the war to be honest. Got used to taking care of myself...used to not having anyone care.” Bucky’s voice is barely a whisper and you have to strain to listen to him. He’s never been so vulnerable with you and you want to make the most of however long he’s going to let this moment last. When its clear he’s waiting for you to say something you reach one hand up to softly cup his cheek and turn him to face you.

“I care. I care so much, Buck. You just have to let me.” You try to put all your emotions into your gaze, desperate for him to see that he doesn’t have to be alone and that he is loved and cared about. He sighs and leans into your hand more, raising his own to rest on your hip.

“Why?”

He spoke so quietly you’re not sure you heard him and raise an eyebrow to ask him to repeat himself, too afraid of breaking the spell that seems to have fallen over the two of you to speak.

“Why do you care so much, doll? Why me? I’m not...I’m not worth it.”

This is it. The chance to tell him how you feel. If he rejects you that’s fine, you decide. Even if he doesn’t return your feelings at least he will know that he is loved and that’s enough for you right now. Your heart feels like it may burst as you weigh your response carefully.

“You, Bucky, are so worthy of all the care in the world. You went through hell and back a million times over and came out the other side a kind, thoughtful, sweet, considerate, gentle, loving man. The world tried to break all of that out of you but you are too strong and too GOOD. The world owes you and if I could wrap up all the love that exists in it and give it to you I would. But I’ve only got mine so that’s what I’ll give you.”

Dropping your hand from his face to his shoulder, you hold your breath as Bucky’s eyes stare into yours as though searching for something. He tightens his grip on your waist, before finally breaking the heavy silence, his voice at least an octave lower.

“You’ll....give me...your love...?” Bucky is the strongest man you know and yet you have never heard him sound so timid and unsure in all the time you’ve known him. He looks so hopeful and scared and you can’t help the confession bursting from your lips.

“Yes Bucky! I will. I already have. It’s yours. I-I love you.” You take a deep breath before continuing, rambling now. “And I don’t expect to you to return my feelings and I hope I haven’t ruined our friendship because that would just kill me nothing has to change between us I just needed you to know that—mmph—“

You’re cut off by Bucky’s lips connecting with yours, his hands cupping your face, thumbs rubbing gently across your cheekbones. The kiss is gentle, careful, almost tentative at first. But then your arms snake around his neck and one of his hands makes its way into your hair and it becomes passionate and desperate. Bucky pulls you between his thighs so you are flush against him and the feeling of his taut muscles against you makes you moan. Your hands lift to tangle in his hair and tug gently as he runs his tongue along your bottom lip, practically begging for entrance which you immediately grant. He growls into the kiss as he explores every inch of your mouth with his tongue, his hands roaming all across your body, pulling you impossibly closer as you arch into him needing to feel him. He stands suddenly, pushing you back a couple of steps until you are pinned between his body and the wall. You gasp for air and he moves his lips along your jaw, down your neck, and then back up to press another searing kiss against your lips before resting his forehead against yours as he tries to catch his own breath. Your chests rise and fall together and he rubs his nose against yours before placing another tender, gentle kiss on the corner of your mouth.

“Sorry....couldn’t help myself...” Bucky manages to tell you between gasps for air.

“Never apologize for THAT...” you giggle and the vibrations of his chuckle against your chest make you feel lightheaded as he leans back to look you in the eye, cupping your cheek tenderly.

“I love you.” He sounds sure. Confident. Like nothing in the world could be more true than that statement. You can’t help the ridiculously giddy grin that splits your face as you tug his face back to yours for another kiss, which he smiles into.

Once you come down from your highs a little bit you manage to coax him back to his spot on the counter and you continue cleaning his injury and stitching him up though it takes much longer now as Bucky keeps distracting you. He plants kisses to your nose, your shoulder, your neck, your cheek, your forearm, basically any part of you that comes close enough to his lips. When you finally finish, you let your hands run along his muscles as you rub your nose against his and kiss him deeply, gently biting his bottom lip eliciting a sound from him that turns your insides completely upside down.

Before you can say or do anything else, the front door opens with a crash and Bucky grabs you and shoves you behind him protectively as he peeks out into the front room to assess the threat.

“Dammit punk! What’re you breaking down the door for?! I thought you were a hostile! Why didn’t you just call and say you were here??!” You sigh in relief at Bucky’s nickname for Steve and move to peer over his shoulder at the Captain as the two super soldiers glare at each other.

“I’ve been calling for several minutes! You didn’t answer! I thought you were in danger, jerk!”

“Sorry, Steve! We were...distracted. Bucky needed stitches.” You quickly apologize and give an excuse in case Bucky isn’t comfortable saying anything yet since you hadn’t exactly taken the time to talk yet. But he just turns to face you and smirks as he tugs you to him for one more kiss before reaching around you to grab his shirt and pull it on.

“Ya. We were pretty damn distracted. Didn’t really appreciate the interruption, punk!” Bucky chuckles and can’t help the grin that has been plastered on his face since you told him you love him. Your cheeks flush as he puts an arm around your shoulder, guiding you to Steve who is looking between you and Bucky with a happy, almost proud, look on his face.

“It’s about damn time, you two! Now, who made the first move? I need to know if I owe Sam $50 or not.”

[plaid-shirtsandvibranium-arms]

Nemesis: Retribution (5)

Summary: 10 years after the Avengers had left you for dead during a mission gone wrong, you unexpectedly re-enter their lives. Wholly unrecognizable from the person they used to know and now with a new team behind you, they ask for your help to stop a chain of syndicates who were manufacturing and peddling the super soldier serum. You were determined to say no until the chance at the vengeance you had been chasing for years was added to the offer.

Fandoms: Avengers, Marvel, MCU, The Punisher, Daredevil

Pairings: Female Reader x (Frank Castle, Billy Russo, Matt Murdock, Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes, Pietro Maximoff)

Warnings: EXPLICIT SMUT. SHAMELESS SEXUAL BEHAVIOUR (18+ ONLY. I WILL BLOCK YOU), human rights violations, polyamorous relationships, reverse harem, blatant disregard for canon timelines and events, angst, Punisher canon level of violence and gore, strong language, mentions of trauma, mentions of character death, fluff if you squint,

A/N: Okay okay. I’m finally happy with how this turned out. Goddamn that’s a lot of words. I’ll see you all in the party in the comments and reblogs! I love reading what you think. Don’t be shy. Jump in!

No permission is granted to repost, steal, or translate my work. Not even a credit makes it okay. Tumblr is the only place I post my writing. If you see it anywhere else please report it.

[gif not mine. credit to: this glorious gif post.]

Series Masterlist | Full Masterlist

1:5 Lemons

2 missions.

A 50/50 chance of getting Salvacion.

Your heart was pounding in your chest and you were on the verge of getting lightheaded from the anticipation. A decade of chasing this bastard and this was the closest you had ever gotten to him. The man was not only deadly in skill, but always seemed to manage to give you the slip every single time. Forcing yourself to face the life you left was worth it if it meant finally avenging Lily.

The briefings the past week had been long, but they were important to make sure everyone was prepared to end this. You were minutes away now from shipping off to the mission and your whole body was buzzing.

This was it.

There were two locations that you had to hit at the same time. Two locations with large shipments that you had to stop from reaching its destination. The teams needed to be split.

"Let's go over this one more time," Steve started, fully suited up in black that was truly a far cry from his old blue and red ensemble. "I'll be leading a team into the shipment yards with Bucky and Nem at the front. Sam will be on air support. Billy will manage a team of snipers in the surrounding area."

This was the smaller of locations, but with the larger shipment. The location itself entailed a more strategic approach. You weren't happy that there was a chance that Salvacion would be at the other location, but having Frank on that team put you somewhat at ease. He understood more than anyone how important this was to you and he promised he would take Salvacion alive. He was yours to kill.

Frank always kept his promises.

"I'll be leading the other team into the industrial district," Frank continued, his signature vest strapped tight across his chest. "Pietro and Matt will cover the perimeter and I'll be charging in with Nat and Wanda."

Their location was more complicated. It was too close to the residential district and the warehouses there ran 24/7. There was a high risk of civilian casualty if they weren't careful which was why almost everyone who was powered was assigned to that group. They needed every capability they could pull to make sure no innocent blood was spilled.

"Good," Steve nodded. "We'll both have a group of agents with us too. They've been briefed and are prepping transport as we speak. We leave in 20 minutes."

Everyone nodded their understanding, grabbing their gear and heading down to the transport docks. There was a fleet of cars standing by that would be used, gassed up and ready to go. Your hands were drumming repeatedly on your vest, itching to just get on the road. Frank and Matt lingered with you before they joined the rest of their group.

The towering marine stepped up close to you and tightened the buckles of your bulletproof vest, wishing you would have accepted the offer of better gear from the Avengers but also knowing it was hypocritical of him when he declined as well.

It just wasn't your style.

It was his own damn fault for training you in his own combat style. He had no doubt of your capability, but still he worried about you. He always worried about you and he felt a sense of responsibility toward you after finding you tortured within an inch of your life.

"Stay close to Steve, sweetheart."

You snorted, but a glance back at Steve who was already looking at you with a raised eyebrow made you grumble and relent. "Fine."

"Good girl," Frank chuckled, before leaning in to press a firm kiss on your lips as he held you by the buckles of your vest. You smiled into the kiss, feeling the steady protection and reassurance that he always brings.

He stepped away for Matt to get his turn. This was a tradition that just developed naturally between the four of you. A kiss before danger. A promise to keep safe. A promise to come home.

Matt took your face in both hands and kissed the breath out of you as if he was trying to outdo Frank. It wasn't uncommon. He was always more aggressive with his affections, always as if he was scared you might suddenly slip away from his life and you were happy to reassure him every time that you weren't going anywhere. He chuckled when you bit his lip, beating him to it. He gave you one more peck before stepping aside.

Billy came closer to your side and slung his arm around your shoulders, chuckling as he nuzzled his nose against the side of your face. It was amusing him to no end at how easily you were folding for Steve. It was a nice change of pace from the three of them never being able to deny you anything.

Most especially Billy.

"We're definitely keeping Steve around. I think I like you compliant," he snickered, turning your head toward him with a finger under your chin. He planted a quick chaste peck on your lips. Your eyebrows quirked at the unusual behavior.

"What you're not gonna try to outdo me too?" Frank teased.

"Nem knows I do my best kissing elsewhere. Don't you, pretty girl?" Billy winked at you and you rolled your eyes. You smacked him in the chest but didn’t comment further. He wasn't wrong, but he was smug enough as it is.

You were about to turn toward the cars when you were knocked back slightly to the side by a sudden peck to your cheek. You couldn't stop the laugh when you caught Pietro's grin before he vanished again, a subtle warmth spreading in your chest. You were still smiling when you took your seat beside Steve who intertwined your hand with his and raised it to his lips, smiling that soft boyish smile against your skin that now made your stomach flip. He didn't let go of your hand throughout the ride, even as he caught Bucky's yearning gaze in the rearview mirror.

You were greeted by an ambush.

Somehow the syndicates knew that you would be coming, setting up a small army as your welcome party. A quick distress call through the comms from Frank confirmed that they were facing the same in their location.

But you couldn't focus on that.

You were too busy tearing through the goons that kept coming at you. Having two super soldiers and Sam in the thick of it with you was a blessing, but even with the other agents and Billy's sniper support you were severely overrun. You would just have to trust that the other team can handle their own.

You emptied the clips of your pistols as you trudged your way deeper into the fray, not bothering to duck or take cover from the onslaught of angry men. You tossed your empty guns to the side and drew out another, catching a few bullets in your vest.

No time to reload.

"I got you, Hedwig. Give 'em hell," Billy said in your ear.

The deadly smirk on your lips was the only warning the men in front of you got. You charged again as the adrenaline coursed through your body, bullets flying precisely into their skulls.

One. Two. Three. Four men down.

When your bullets ran out, you dropped the gun and pulled out two daggers. Your eyes narrowed as you took off into a sprint toward the closest target, weaving effortlessly through the oncoming fire.

A slice to the forearm to disarm.

A dagger up the chin.

Dead.

He dropped to the ground spluttering on his blood as you took the other dagger and sent it flying toward another's chest.

Dead.

Rough muscular arms caught you by surprise and gripped you from behind, caging you as you struggled. You saw the gun in his hand and reacted.

Break the wrist to disarm.

You smirked at the loud pop of his bones. You grabbed the gun before it dropped to the ground as you slipped a knife from your vest. The pain in his wrist caused him to loosen his hold on you, allowing you to turn to face him.

Blade to the gut.

Bullet to the face. Point blank.

Dead.

You didn't even flinch when his blood splattered across your face, joining the explosion of red already painting your figure. You could make out two more in your peripheral who dropped to the ground before they could advance on you, care of your guardian angel with a sniper rifle.

"Thank you, Blackbird," you said sweetly.

"Goddamn, doll," Bucky said, Steve stood beside him mirroring the same look of equal awe and fear.

This was the first time they had seen you in action. Hearsay and that little demo with Kim did nothing to prepare them for the sheer brutality you had when given the clear purpose to kill. You didn't hesitate. You didn't waste time. You didn't care that you were drenched in blood. You had a goal and you were going to meet it every time with ruthless violence.

This was who you were now.

"Are you hurt anywhere?" Steve came up to you looking worried after seeing you charging headlong at open gunfire.

He didn't like it. At least he had a shield. Skilled as you were, he didn't like that you were running every mission like you had a death wish. There was so much blood on you that it was difficult for him to tell if any of it was yours.

"None of the blood is mine," you dismissed, wiping your face with what was the only clean part of your sleeve. "Let's go. I hear more up ahead and Sam said that's where the shipment is."

Rounding the corner, you were faced with another cluster of goons with weapons aimed at your small group. They stood a good distance away in front of two shipping containers that were being readied for transport. Sam landed beside you along with a group of agents. Bucky pushed you behind him and Steve raised his shield to cover you both. Billy chirped in the comms that the snipers had repositioned and were ready. All of that barely registered with you, white noise against the rage that was brewing, because behind enemy lines was the goal you've been chasing for a decade.

Salvacion.

"I have to say," he drawled. His voice, the first you're hearing of now, sending a chill down your spine. "I expected more from the Avengers. You didn't even bring Iron Man. I'm disappointed."

"Give up the serum," Steve growled.

"No. I don't think I will," he answered. "Kill them all."

All hell broke loose once more; fists, bullets, knives, and a shield flying in every direction. Bucky and Steve kept close to you, shielding you from most of the shots as you advanced. You gunned down every bastard you saw but your eyes never strayed from Salvacion who was just standing there watching the clash.

Taunting you.

Something nagged at the back of your head as you fought. It was unusual for the syndicates to be deploying this many people to a single location even if it was for the serum. While you were thanking every god you knew for luckily drawing Salvacion on this mission, his presence was also peculiar. Something else was going on.

Something else was here.

The syndicates were pushing back on your team hard, but you were making a dent in their numbers. When you saw Salvacion start walking away, that was when you felt the panic stir in your mind.

"I can't let him get away, Steve!"

You ignored his and Bucky's calls for you as you made a mad dash straight through the fight, efficiently shooting and stabbing anyone who dared get in your path. You were consumed with the purpose of reaching him, of finally being able to end it all.

You left the larger fight behind you in favor of this more personal one, the noise receding as you chased him farther. You caught a glimpse of him making his way up stacked containers and you sped up your run. You didn't even think twice about climbing the height. Nevermind potential broken bones. Nevermind getting cornered. Nevermind that you had no backup.

Salvacion would die today.

When you reached the top, you were surprised to see him standing there waiting for you but also that he wasn't alone. You raised your gun to match the one he was aiming at you, but he merely tutted and smirked. His other hand also had a gun, this one aimed up the chin of the person he was holding captive in front of him.

Kim.

The amount of irritation this woman was bringing into your life was starting to get on your nerves. She was delegated on your team for this mission and you stifled the aggravated groan as you noticed that she was bleeding heavily from both shoulders causing her to not be able to fight back.

Top agent my ass.

"Hello, Nemesis," Salvacion grinned at you. "Or should I call you Y/N? Much more personal given our history, don't you think?"

Your name on his lips caused a wave of nausea and a sneer to grace your lips. You raised your gun higher, narrowing your eyes as his own pressed harder against Kim's skin. It wasn't an idle threat.

"Nice of you to show up for once. Was beginning to think you were avoiding me."

"Come now. Don't you enjoy our little game of cat and mouse?"

A game.

This was all a game to him and the malevolent smile on his face confirmed that. The fury in you burned, almost making you physically shake. Killing Lily was nothing to him while it had completely consumed your life. It had become your driving force while to him you were merely entertainment.

"You're going to let me go," he declared, fully confident.

"Is that so?"

"Yes," he dragged out. "Or else your teammate here will die."

"What makes you think I give a shit?" you scoffed. "Go ahead."

The way Kim's eyes widened in terror brought a sick sense of pleasure in you that you shouldn't be proud of. Salvacion let out a low laugh, amusement clear in his tone.

"Oh, dear child. No matter how much spite you wrap yourself with, you are the same naive hero wannabe you always were," he snickered. "Self-sacrificing. Even at the expense of your sister."

"You don't talk about Lily, you bastard!" you screamed, your grip shaking slightly on your weapon.

All of a sudden it was hard to breathe and your heartbeat was hammering in your ears. You didn't expect that finally facing him, hearing him talk about Lily like she was inconsequential, would shake you to your core. This was what you have been waiting for. This was what you have been building up to for the past decade. This was your purpose for living.

What were you waiting for?

"I am feeling generous today. Consider it my gift to commemorate our first official meeting," he said.

"What the fuck are you on?" you growled.

"Open the containers," he smiled. "See you soon, Y/N."

He abruptly tossed Kim to the side, pushing her off the ledge of the containers you were on and bolted away with a mad cackle. You shot at his retreating figure, desperately trying to aim through the turbulent emotions he inspired in you. You were going to chase after him when a yelp of pain caught your attention.

Kim was hanging by one hand off the edge, obviously struggling to hold herself up with her busted shoulders. You were too high up for her to survive the fall and she was too injured to help herself. Her grip was slipping.

"Y/N! Help me please!"

A dark shadow passed through your features. Saving her would mean Salvacion would definitely escape. Again. You didn't know if you would ever get another chance at him or when that would be.

You didn't like this woman. You never did. She tormented your youth, took joy in it even and as you reunited nothing changed. She was the same egotistic bully she always was. This was a dangerous mission. People die in the line of fire.

It happens. No one would blame you.

"Please!"

"Fuck!"

You dropped your weapon and clasped both hands on hers to pull her up. You strained with the effort, Kim being a deadweight adding to the struggle. You let go when half her body was safely on top, her legs swinging up to roll herself flat onto the surface. She was crying and whimpering from the fear and pain. You couldn't help the anger that bubbled to the surface.

You slapped her face.

"Get your goddamn shit together," you roared at her. "I don't have time for this. Call for evac, princess."

You ran toward the sound of helicopter blades, jumping onto crates and jolting your bones at the impact. You didn't care. The renewed rage had steadied you, calmed you almost to the point that the only thing you could see in your mind was taking him out. You had faltered and you would beat yourself up about that later, but you couldn't let him slip away again.

The helicopter was already starting to take off, Salvacion clearly visible through the open door. You cocked your gun and fired away. Empty. You slipped another gun out and fired. Empty. You kept running toward him, drawing and firing every last bullet you had as you screamed your frustration with every shot that missed.

You noticed that you managed to get a few through him by the way his body jerked. You were feeling optimistic until he reached around and pulled out a rocket launcher. You saw the sinister grin before he fired.

"Nem!" You heard your name being called, but you were too stunned by the horrible realization that you had failed today. You watched the helicopter slowly make it's way farther and farther behind the rocket that was hurtling toward you.

Even if you ran, the area of impact would still tear right through you. You were frozen in place, unable to process that this was how it would end. That it would end in you dying by his hand as well. That it would end without you making it up to Lily.

Your internal struggle was interrupted by a large body completely engulfing yours. The impact of the rocket threw you both to the ground and the loud explosion accompanied by ripping metal deafened your ears.

You struggled with your vision, the ringing in your head was painful and your body sore from crashing down. Oddly, your skull itself didn't feel injured. All of the pain seemed to be concentrated on your torso. You blinked a few times to focus the blur of your eyes as the repeated chanting of your name became louder.

"Are you okay, doll? Answer me, Nem! Come on."

"Bucky?"

Your sight finally focused to find that it was the brunette super soldier on top of you, covering you from what would have certainly been your death. The dread on his face gave way to a tired relief at you finally responding.

He pressed his forehead to yours and closed his eyes, taking deep steadying breaths. You noticed now that he was wincing and that his flesh arm was underneath you, supporting your back and cradling your head. His metal arm was detached, a mangled mess of forcibly severed wires and metal plates sticking out from his shoulder. Your eyes widened in realization.

"Bucky, your arm," you started to struggle underneath him, knowing he must be in a world of pain.

He shushed you by rubbing the tip of his nose against yours. Your eyes met icy blue ones and you saw him smile weakly, as if telling you it was worth it. He wouldn't hesitate to catch a missile with his arm again if it meant protecting you.

The rest of the boys reached you shortly after, Sam took Bucky and informed you that evac and medics were here. You were still in shock from what just happened. Billy took you gingerly in his arms, endlessly fussing at you and apologizing for not being able to do more even if you understood it was impossible for him to have tracked you through the chaos. Steve stood to the side, obviously furious at himself for not going to you even if you understood it was only right that he led the main fight.

Your body felt like it had gone through a war and you were too emotionally distressed to address anything else. You felt defeated. You felt at a loss. You failed Lily again today. Suddenly, you remembered what he told you.

His gift.

"Steve, Salvacion told me to open the shipments. He said it was a gift from him."

You didn't wait for them to respond, dragging your battered body limping across the yard to the crates. Billy recovered first, quickly jogging up to support your battered body straight with his. Steve followed closely behind, the uneasiness clouding the three of you. The locks were easily broken by Steve's shield and soon your gift was revealed.

What you saw drained the blood from all of you and caused your skin to immediately chill. It was the most sickening thing any of you have ever seen in your lives and that was saying something. How anyone could do this was beyond comprehension.

People. Dozens of people.

Crammed inside the steel box were dozens of people in various states of distress. All of them had barely any life left in them, barely sustained by the various IV bags hooked on their bodies. They hardly reacted when the doors were opened, too spent by what they had been made to go through to even blink. You suspected that a good portion of those who were not moving at all were dead. The smell was horrendous and this was coming from people who were about to be shipped to god knows where.

The horror you felt heightened to epic levels when you noticed that some of the drip bags held a different colored fluid, the distinct color of the super soldier serum. Then it clicked and the nausea finally overcame you. You poured your guts out onto the pavement, your stomach heaving violently as the truth made your vision spin.

Human testing.

Human experimentation.

And you had let the bastard escape.

Steve was going to approach you, clueless as he was on how to help you at that moment, but you had scrambled out of reach and ran out of the shipment yard. He called after you readying himself to go to you, but Billy's grip on his forearm stilled him.

"We're not who she needs right now, Cap," Billy shook his head. "Right now these people need us more."

"Where's she going?" Steve asked, swallowing hard on the lump in his throat and reluctantly agreeing.

"She'll be fine. Matt will find her."

Matt found you hours later. He had returned badly beaten and bruised from their own mission, but upon receiving word from Billy he pushed aside every painful injury he felt and rushed to where he knew he would find you. His chest tightened when he was told what you had seen. It was bad enough that you were carrying the guilt of your sister's death, but now you had the weight of all the lives that were victimized by these sick people too. It was too much for one person to bear.

He found you in the confession booth of the church on the corner of a quiet street and he couldn't see the broken look on your face when he opened the door, but he could feel it. He heard it in your unusually slow heartbeat, as if your organs were trying to give up. He heard it in the shallow breaths you took, as if the act of living was a betrayal in itself. He heard it in the cry that was begging to break through you throat. He could almost taste your despair.

He slowly knelt in front of you and pulled you urgently into his arms, squeezing himself into the tight space. He held you against him, clutching you tight and rocking you gently back and forth. This was an open secret shared between the two of you. When the darkness was overwhelming, you turned to each other and confessed. He pulled away after a long moment, cradling your face firmly in his palms. His thumbs brushed against your dry cheeks. Of course you hadn't been crying.

There were no more left to shed.

"Talk to me," he muttered, pressing his lips softly against yours.

"He experimented on a lot of people," you muttered. "And I let him go, Matty. I've been letting him carry on for ten years."

Your tone was almost a hoarse whisper, devoid of much emotion apart from a cold defeat. This worried him, but at least you were talking. You had known when you were being tortured that they Hydra hadn't perfected the serum. They kept torturing you in the hopes that they could get you to reveal anything about the formula, Steve and Bucky's abilities, or where samples of their blood were stored. You didn't talk.

Maybe you should have talked.

When the syndicates got their hands on the incomplete formula, they were faced with the same problem. A problem they apparently decided to solve by trial and error on actual people. You knew this. At the back of your mind you knew this, but it didn't register until you saw it for yourself tonight. Somehow you had ignored that fact because you had only been focused on your own grief.

"I let him go. I did this, Matty," you breathed, the guilt clear in your voice.

"No! You did not let him go. The bastard got away," he insisted. "And this is not your fault. I won’t let you think that this is your fault."

"No," you argued weakly. "I let him go. I had a shot at stopping him tonight and I didn't take it."

"Steve told me. You stopped to save Kim." The movement of his thumbs on your cheeks changed to soothing circles. "You stopped to save a teammate. That was a good thing."

You scoffed. "I wanted her to die."

"What?"

"For a solid moment as she was hanging on for her life, I wanted to let her die."

"She's alive now because of you, Nem. You fought it. You're strong. You didn't give into it."

"But what if that's what I need to do? If I did I could have ended Salvacion tonight."

You could have ended it all tonight.

Salvacion's words tonight plagued you. if you didn't try to play the hero then this whole twisted operation could have been stopped. If you didn't try to play the hero then you would have gotten your revenge for Lily. If you didn't play the hero then Lily wouldn't even be dead. You had wanted to save people so much, make a difference in the world, that you didn't stop and think about how that would impact the people you held most dear.

"You don't honestly believe that, do you?" Matt asked cautiously, he knew more than anyone the struggle you faced. All of you were just a bad day away from completely snapping.

"I don't know," you admitted in defeat. You sounded so tired and confused that it broke his heart.

He held you for a moment more, waiting for your heart and breathing to return to normal. He didn't know what else to do or what else to tell you. He didn't know how to help you this time. Just then, he sensed the arrival of a Maximoff twin.

"Pietro's outside. I'll ask him to take you away for a while," he shook his head when he felt you were about to protest. "You need a break and you need some peace."

He led you outside, his pace slower than normal as your shoulders slumped lower to the ground in resignation. He exchanged a few words with Pietro before he pressed a kiss to your temple and pushed you toward the other man.

"Come with me, little star. I'll take care of you."

The next thing you knew, Pietro had lifted you into his arms and asked you to close your eyes. You buried your face into his neck as you felt the world around you dissolve in a blur, your hair whipped around but you weren't scared. The steady grip he had on you assured you that you would be safe. When he told you to open your eyes, you had no idea where you were or how long you had been traveling.

"Where are we?"

He gently set you on your feet as you looked around the area. It was beautiful. A dense lush forest that opened up to a lake with a small cabin. Isolated. Quiet.

Peaceful.

Immediately you felt your body relax in the new environment. It was so far removed from anything and everything that it allowed you to let go of the tight hold you had on your life. It allowed you to let go of the rage for a moment.

"Sokovia," he answered. "This is mine. When Wanda and I were little, even before the enhancements, our connection was strong and can be overwhelming. I needed a place that was only my own."

"Wanda doesn't know about this?"

"No, it is the only secret I have ever kept from her. I've never brought anyone else here."

Turning to him, you could see the shy smile on his face. There was a reluctance there, as if he was nervous that his little hideaway would not be good enough for you. You were quick to shoot that thought down.

"It's beautiful, Pietro. Thank you for sharing this with me."

His smile brightened as he approached you and held both your hands in his. "We can stay for as long as you want to. I can go into town and get us more supplies. We can swim in the lake if you like and I can cook you paprikash. You'll love it."

He was so excited. So happy to be able to spend time with you. Elated to be able to share this sentimental place with someone else, but he saw the sadness in your eyes and it made him force himself to slow down. The smile on his face dimmed.

"Do you want to go somewhere else? I can take you anywhere you like."

The heartbreak and disappointment in his voice alerted you. You hurriedly wound your arms around his shoulders and forced his eyes to meet yours. You recognized the way he looked at you, but it was only now that you really noticed that he has always looked at you that way. He was so pure. So honest. So good.

He was too good for you.

"No, Pietro. This is perfect. You're perfect." You tried to smile up at him. "I don't deserve you."

Just like that he understood you. He drew you closer by the waist and pressed a soft kiss at the corner of your mouth. When he drew back, his smile lit up his face again.

"Why do you need to deserve me, little star?" he chuckled at the puzzled look on your face, finding it adorable. "Can I not just choose to love you?"

You frowned and he just laughed more. He shushed your protests by pulling you flush against his body, lowering his head to hover his lips mere inches from yours. He left this small distance as your choice to make just as he has made his.

"Let me choose to love you."

You could feel his breath on your face at this distance, see the sparkle of anticipation in his eyes, and his tongue darting out to wet his lips.

You made your choice.

Kissing Pietro has to be the most comforting experience that you had ever felt. He tasted like hot chocolate on a rainy day and you felt your body melt when he returned the gesture. You were sighing against his lips when the now familiar feeling of him dashing turned it into a surprised squeal. You blinked and you were lying down on a soft mattress with Pietro grinning down at you.

You laughed as you shared more kisses, hands giddily exploring each other and tearing away pieces of clothing until nothing lay between you. For the first time in a long time, you felt insecure about your scars. For the first time, you were reluctant for someone to see them. Again, just like that he understood you.

"You're beautiful, little star. You have always been beautiful to me."

He kissed you again, deeply and full of emotion that you melted into the bed. His lips traveled down your neck, your chest, your stomach. He stopped to nip and suck at the inside of your thighs causing you to involuntarily moan his name. Lower he went until his mouth was working gentle swirls on your sensitive bud. Your hips grinded against his tongue, desperately seeking more.

He pressed his mouth fully on you then, adding a finger much to your delight. He ate you like he worshipped you. Like he was blessed with the opportunity to bring you pleasure. Your body sang his praises, reacting with equal enthusiasm by soon reaching your orgasm. You shook beneath him as he allowed you to ride out your high, soothing you with gentle hands rubbing circles on your hips. He was smirking at you when he crawled up, satisfied that he had made you cum but clearly aiming for more.

He kissed you again as he lined himself up against your core, sliding it against your slit to coat it with your slick. He wasn't even inside you yet and you already felt like you were ready to cum. He held your gaze, silently asking for permission that this was still what you wanted. Instead of answering, you moved your hips to slip his length inside causing him to drag out a hiss and capture your mouth again. The groan you both let out when he bottomed out vibrated through your fused lips.

"You feel incredible," he whispered. "You feel so good wrapped around me. Just like I always thought you would."

"Pietro, please."

His strokes were slow and deep, hitting that special spot inside you that had you panting with want. The smooth roll of his hips was quickly driving you higher and higher toward another orgasm. It was so gentle. So sensual. So personal.

"Tell me what you want, little star."

Everything about Pietro's life had been one big event after another. Rushed decisions. Angry fighting. Missions. Even his very enhancement relied on speed.

He didn't want that with you.

With you he wanted to slow everything down. He wanted to savor every moment. He wanted to stop time if he could, keep you in his arms for as long as possible. Freeze you in this exact moment when all you felt was pleasure.

"More," you pleaded.

Maybe he could speed up just a little bit.

His strokes gradually hastened and he glowed with satisfaction at seeing you delirious with desire because of him. He palmed at your breasts, nipped at your neck, and bucked his hips just a bit harder.

"More."

He smiled. How could he deny you? He lifted you up until you were seated on him, holding you firmly with an arm up your back with his hand fisting in your hair. The other hand he slipped between the two of you to rub against your clit. You saw the wicked glint in his eyes before he dipped his head to lave at your breasts.

You felt like you were going to explode from the different sensations. That was until he decided to move your body to bounce on his cock, his own hips thrusting up to meet you and his hand on your back guiding you to wind your hips as you came down. Your clit hit his pelvis each time and another wave was added onto your building climax. You whined, moaned, and pleaded his name. Begging him to grant you release.

“Let go for me. I have you. Let go.“

He growled against your breast and pounded up into you until you screamed and shook above him, clenching him so hard you pulled his own orgasm out of him. He spilled into you, crushing you against him as you continued to flutter around him.

You fought to catch your breath and when you caught each other's eyes, still hazy from lust, you laughed. You felt free. You felt renewed. You kissed him then.

"I love you too, Pietro."

He looked at you with unrestrained adoration. He had been chasing after you for so long that he could hardly believe that he had finally caught you. That he was finally yours.

"What? You didn't see that coming?" you teased.

He chuckled and pulled you in for another lingering kiss. You felt so good in his arms that he has completely forgotten how it felt to not have you in them.

"I meant what I said earlier," he murmured against the skin of your shoulder. "If you want to we can runaway. I can take you away from all of this. We can stay here or we can go anywhere else."

He smiled warmly at you and pecked your lips when he saw the internal conflict flash through your features. Again, without a word he understood you.

"But I know that is not what you want," he reassured you. "I just wanted you to know that you have that choice if you should want it."

Tempting as his offer was, you knew you couldn't let go of Lily's memory. You would never truly be at peace until Salvacion was rotting six feet under and his whole operation was blown to bits. You couldn't leave your mission unfinished. And you couldn't bear to leave four other men behind. Looking back at the events of the past night, it felt more accurate to say five. Still, there was a sense of security from knowing you had that option.

"Let's go home."

------------------------------------------------

A/N: Okay let’s take a vote. Should we forgive Bucky now?

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[nynyhaha]

UVO ANALYSIS UVO ANALYSIS

I NEVER THOUGHT ID LIVE TO SEE ONE THANK YOU!!!!! What he said to Kurapika makes it seem like there were countless “Kurapikas” that tried to come after him and died trying. And each of their deaths is his triumph, a testament to his strength and that they died while HE lived. Yk,it’s self assertion and validation each time. “Kill or be killed but now it’s fun” Maybe that’s why Shal enjoys to see him fight,even if the situation looks bad,he knows Uvo will make it and wants to see how he will overcome this and that.

German dub Uvo is amazing. First time I watched HxH was in German and I still remember his “probieren geht über studieren“ line when he BIT INTO THAT SKULL. Delicious ✨✨

DO YOU MEAN TO TELL ME THAT HE GOT PISSED AT LATECOMERS CAUSE HE WAS SCARED? That each time he beat up Nobu after he was late it was because a part of him worried he wouldn’t be back at all? PURE ANGST BUT ITS CANON I KNOW IT

Uvogin having no clear answer is very similar to Chrollo being unaware of clear motives,it means neither of them at this point know why exactly they keep killing,it’s just what they do. “It’s because people like you show up that killing gets so addictive” So killing those after him specifically is addictive? That’s logical,they’re there to end his life and he persists. But also atp it’s a sport.

Now you said he wants to numb his emotions,could guilt be one of them? Like each rare time he has a question of what gives him the right to kill,he goes like “HAH,I WILL KILL EVEN MORE!! WATCH ME”. Like he doubles down and nothing can stop him.

Him hating avengers must be in some way an expression of pessimism toward this whole revenge deal he once had too. Maybe the idea that all evil can be punished and that by getting revenge one can establish justice. He now sees it as naive because he knows it doesn’t work like that. Now it’s “the weak get eaten by the strong and I AM NOT WEAK”

He doesn’t just hate Kurapika because Kurapika wants him dead or accuses him of being as bad as Sarasa’s killers,but because he represents this idea of the “noble avenger” who kills for a good reason. Uvo kills because he fucking can and because it’s fun. I don’t think Uvo or any of the Spiders ever saw themselves as the good guys,Chrollo even said they’d become villains, so to them Kurapika’s idea of moral superiority of the avenger must be especially egregious.

Uvogin has used up his deal of fucks to give over innocent deaths loooong ago. At this point killing them is probably easier than ever, but Kurapika won’t understand since he’s not there yet.

Man,I’m so happy we got more Uvo material in the flashback but also so damn sad that we didn’t get his reactions to the later situations of the Spider. I always want to know what he could’ve said or done and it’s so sad. Thanks for this analysis again cause I love trying to figure out Spiders,and that’s rarely done for Uvo

HxH Character Analysis : UVOGIN

*cracks my fingers* alright peoples, I've been cooking this for DAYS now and I finally have everything gathered (at least I hope so). So lean back, get something to drink and maybe some paper and pen to take notes :) This will be a long one! (btw if there are missspellings I am really sorry, english is not my native language and it's too much that I wrote and I do not have the energy to look over it again- :') )

Character Analysis of Uvogin, regarding the Sarasa Incident

Numbing and Emotional Detachment

A dumb brute with just muscles and pureply driven by the joy to kill. That's probably how a lot of people would describe him. This is actually not really true and I will explain why I think that.

In my perception Uvogin pureply kills because a) it's his 'job' and b) because he wants to drown his own emotions.

There are generally 2 Options we can work with.

Uvogin kills because it's one of the only things that give him a positive feeling, which lasts short term.

Uvogin kills because it's something that numbs his emotions

If we go with option 1, we assume that Uvogin relates positive feelings with killing.

Killing the people who came to kill himself, assumingly gives Uvogin the most pleasure (kinky lol). Assumingly it gives him some kind of kick of adrenaline, knowing he might potentially gives his life. It's probably a same kind of feeling with the russian roulette. (Most people play it because of the death wish, but I don't wanna focus on that too much for Uvogin. This death wish with Uvogin can be a giant topic for itself-)

I simply think, Uvogin got addicted to this kick of adrenaline over time and now simply can't stop.

In the german dub of HxH 2011 it's even put a bit better. There Uvogin says "Because dudes like you appear here and there, I just can't stop killing. It's like an addiction"(I am just obsessed with some of the wording in different languages. Plus I LIVE for german dub Uvogin lol)

NOW, what is ironic about this, is that some moments before Kurapika asked Uvogin what they feel when killing innocent people they don't even know. To which Uvogin answers with "Nothing"

I found this weird so I came to the conclusion that Uvogin has a) to difference between killing innocent people and people who come to revenge or b) he doesn't even know it himself and he is just a confused mess, which makes sense if you consider how his mental health state is after unhealed trauma and unhealthy coping mechanism (but I will go intot his now anyways).

But if we consider Option 2, that killing people is actually numbing his feelings, he might even be the complete opposite of what we thought he is. In this case he might be a emotional mess and killing people is what calms him down.

No matter what tho, Uvogin is heavily addicted to the act of killing and he continues to kill because it's something that distracts him from his emotions. Because judging for how long this has been ago, Uvo is way too deep into this entire hole of killing as coping that he can't bare to face the reality that by now, he is probably even worse than Sarasas murder. So he drowns himself in distraction, pushing the reality down his throat so he does not have to face it. But even if he wanted to, he would probably just break at the actual realization of what he has become.

Extreme Punctuality and The Urge to Control The Uncontrollable

(ah my favorite and the least thing looked at)

At first look it is just a cute funny detail added to Uvogins character to make him a bit more relateable and whole as a character. But looking at it I actually realized a sad thing.

Remember when Sarasa went out alone? The others thought she was just gonna get the tape and come back.

If you look at it and put it simply. Sarasa was late. You know what Uvo hates? Someone being late. Nice when the realization kicks in, is it? :)

To explain it now;

When they found Sarasa in the forest, it was already too late. Uvo realized that if they were to search for her earlier or just arrive earlier, they might have had a chance to make an impact on the outcome. Or even save her life.

With this in mind, Uvogins focus on being punctional now seems less random. His anger towards his comerades being late probably isn't even intentionally. Sarasa's death might have impacted Uvo with a strong sense of responsibility as well.

He wants to gain control over things he can't even control, which is a really common coping response to trauma. He once lost control over something, which led to a tragic consequence and now he fears to lose control once again. So Uvogins 'anger' is not because he is actually mad, but because he fears that the same thing happened to them. He simply just cares and is scared that the ones he cares about are getting hurt and worst case, even die.

Because it happened once. So it's much likely to happen again, right? This is a common anxiety thought process.

Outer Persona and Antisocial Behavior

It is obvious that Uvo has a certain 'tough-guy' persona that he shows to the outside world. It becomes very clear when he fights against Kurapika

When Uvogin begins to realize that Kurapika is stronger than he thought and (from his view) maybe even stronger than himself, you can see how this persona is slowly breaking down.

Outer Personas are a common thing for people with Anxiety and Depression. So I think it is save to assume, this is the case with Uvogin. The reason for that can be really simple; from just wanting to not let the others worry about his mental state or just to seem invincible to other people/enemies.

But it can also be, that Uvogin tries to convince himself that he is invincible and not wants to accept how vulnerable he actually as. And yet again, not being able to accept that he wasn't strong enough when Sarasa needed him to be.

To the 'antisocial' part;

When they found Sarasa in the bag back then, Uvo was about to leave her and the others. This always seemed a bit off to me. Why would he leave if he cared so much about her?

People have various reactions to when they don't know how to handle a situations or emotions. Some people laugh, some cry, some stay silent and some get angry. Uvogin is seemingly someone to cope with aggression or isolation/detachment. He probably just wanted to vanish because he felt weak and helpless, and his body instinctively reacted with aggression and the attempt to cut himself out off the scene.

Even at some point in the fight against Kurapika, you can see how Uvo started to gave up and just emotionlessly repeated himself to Kurapika: "Kill me" .

This also leads to (imo) Uvogin's biggest weakness :

Uvogin and Panic

Uvo is a strong and smart fighter, when it comes to combat. He can probably plan out a lot within just a few moments and has an incredible skill at creative problem solving.

Tho, for me, it tends to panic really easily, leaving him extremely vulnerable. The best example is in his fight against Kurapika but also against the Shadow Beasts. Theres a moment when he got caught off guard and starts to slightly panic, which led him to instinctively cope with aggression;

In the 2011 anime he even calls one of them "bastard" after collabsing onto the ground.

(small addition here cuz Shal wtf, why do you look like someone got you flowers after your comerade just collabsed onto the ground, obviously about to get tortured now??)

anyways-

Uvogins Ego and Self Blame

Ofc this can just be Uvo being Uvo, as he thinks a lot of his own abilities and skills, but since this is an analysis, why not looking into it too?

Maybe Uvogin tends to have an ego problem and high temper because he does not want to get reminded that he can fail too. Because in his opinion, the last time he failed, it led to Sarasa's death.

Logically it is obviously not his fault that Sarasa died. The kids straight up didn’t know what would or could happen. But I am very sure that Uvo always blamed himself for it. The same probably goes for Chrollo and the others as well. And since Uvogin is not in a healthy envirnment, nor got treatment for his trauma ever, he surely blames himself.

(And at this point he surely is not able to stop/change his mind on that anymore. Uvo would straight up rage if he was put into a therapist's office LOL)

A similar thought process might have happened when Uvo got kidnapped by the nostrade family and the others had to save him. After all, it would fit a LOT into his pattern of feeling vulnerable and coping with aggression trying to protect his ego. Cuz if he doesn’t he has to face the reality that he was too weak (again) and the others had to save him, putting them indirectly in potential danger.

His thought process is probably something like: I was too weak → others had to save me → IF they get injured or worst case someone dies bc of it, it is his fault → Cuz they had to save HIM. Because this again is a comon pattern when it comes to Anxiety and Depression.

which leads me to the next point;

Overcompensation with strength and the fear of weakness

My last point. A simple but sad one.

Uvo simply feats of being weak. So he purely focuses on physical strength and mastering his nen as an enhancer.

"If I am too weak, I just need to get stronger, right?"

Because he is an enhancer, he would probably think this simple. And even if we look at it from a depression perspective; A quick way out and taking the first idea to not waste any more time. Especially since Uvo does not seem to be much of an overthinker.

He had emptiness and many questions inside him and his first instinctive answer was strength. As simple as that.

gosh this was a lot- but I warned you before so don't blame me LOL

I hope I was able to explain my thought about him and how I look at him :) I will maybe do a second part, focusing on the "death wish" part I talked about earlier! We will see, no promises.

Feel free to tell me your opinion on this! I would love to hear them 🤍

[astaroth1357]

Demigod MC Series: Athena

So. I have to deal with the virgin goddesses… By mythos, there really shouldn't ever be children of Artemis, Hestia, or Athena (yes, Athena was a virgin goddess). PJ got past that by making it canon that Annabeth and her siblings were born from cracking open Athena's skull (yes, that's also more or less the canon explanation). They gloss over it real quick but I remember, Rick. I've always remembered and that mental image has haunted me for years...

I can't, in good conscience, ignore the history around Athena's worship (call it an academic restraint) but I REFUSE to do the skull thing. So, since I make the rules here, I'm going with magic adoption. They still get magic powers, they're just more human than demigod. Cool? Cool.

Demigod MC Series: Intro, Aphrodite, Hermes, Hades, Dionysus, Demeter, Athena

Lucifer

The human that popped out of the portal seemed to have enough sense not to attack everyone in the room for a change, but even Lucifer could tell that was more of a strategic choice than for lack of ability...

Their very existence was highly unusual… and quite worrisome. He wasn't even aware Athena could have "children" of her own, but apparently she had been taking in some particularly bright humans to raise and train like her own...

Unbeknownst to him, a surprising amount of human scholars, diplomats, and generals have her to thank for their trade… and that alone should speak to the level of intrigue at play here. 

Was this an accident or Athena's attempt to plant an Olympian spy in the Devildom too…? Either way, he didn't trust them from the get go…

Look, Lucifer isn’t stupid. Athena is a goddess of Wisdom and War and war happens on more than just the battlefield… 

Since they've shown up records have been going missing, official documents keep getting misplaced, and he swears that there's some kind of bug in the student council room...!

It's infuriating watching the MC suck up to Diavolo when he's almost certain that they're running their own agenda behind the scenes! And he can't prove any of it!! They cover their tracks too well!

Lucifer has one of those corkboards covered in newspapers and string in a secret wing of the Castle - 100% dedicated to just tracking the MC's activities…. The longer they're there, the more obsessed he becomes...

He swears between Simeon, Solomon, and MC he feels like a shepherd wondering why the sheep are growling… The Devildom has never been in more danger than it is right now... Send help.

Mammon

To be honest, he kind of thought that they were just going to be Satan 2.0 but that's not really true.

They're more than just a book sponge! Though they do read, like a lot. Let’s just say from one schemer to another… Game recognizes Game.

They come up with plans and ideas soooo fast, it’s insane! Honestly, there are times where he has a new money-making plot and he just brings it to the MC first to run it over. 

Nine times out of ten, not only do they sniff out any problems but they have a solution for him in a matter of minutes! His scheme game has been on point since they’ve shown up!!

They’re also even better tutoring than Satan is, so he’s even managed to get a couple A’s for the first time in his life! Lucifer actually told him he was proud (which he secretly recorded and now uses as a ringtone much to his brother’s regret...)

So yeah, he likes them... buuut that doesn’t keep him from thinking they act a little weird sometimes... 

Mammon: *points to a unused tower close to the RAD building* Over there is the Tower of Sorrow. We use it for storage.

MC: Ah. Interesting… *starts writing in a notebook, muttering* It may need a few minor tweaks but the location is defensible...

Mammon: *stops* Ya say somethin’?

MC: *looks back up* Nope! Say, you’ve been to the Castle a lot haven’t you? Do you know any good ways in?

Mammon: Uhm… Why do ya want to know that…? *starts looking around for Lucifer*

MC: In case of emergencies. I like being prepared. 🙂

Mammon: Look, I don’t know what Lucifer might’a told ya…

MC: I’ll pay you a thousand Grimm for it.

Mammon: Well shit, ya want those maps with or without color?

... Yeeeah, that’s pretty weird… But it’s probably fine. I mean, as long as they keep giving him money, who’s he to complain? 🤷‍♀️

Leviathan

Also thought that they’d be a lot more like Satan but was pleasantly surprised that they were into more than books.

What else did they like exactly? Military strategy!!

It’s been a looong time since he’s been able to talk to someone who’s actually interested in all the battles he’s fought, both in the Celestial Realm and the Devildom, and their curiosity is kind of flattering...! Not a lot of people take his strategic prowess all that seriously anymore...

Plus, they are the BEST partner to have any turn-based strategy game. Hands down. He once got stuck on a level of D-COM for weeks until the MC walked in and mopped the floor with the AI!! They have a serious head for probability and tactics.

The House once made the mistake of letting these two be on the same team during a Hell Game and they absolutely demolished the competition. Mammon didn’t even get a single shot off before half his team was lost to a rigged paint grenade… It took a whole day to clean up… 

However, Levi’s also noticed some odd things about the human… He likes that they’re interested in his past but maybe they’re a little… too interested?

Levi: -and that’s how we defeated the Four Horsemen before they escaped from Purgatory. 

MC: Wow, Levi that’s seriously impressive!! *furiously scribbling on a notebook*

Levi: Well t-thanks… 😅 But, uhm... are you writing that down…?

MC: Hm? Oh no, just doodling. *they lift up the notebook to show a bunch of cute little sketches on the page… and not the magic-based invisible ink all over them…*

Levi: Oh you draw too? Can you do fanart???

MC: Eh, sometimes. But say Levi, can you tell me about your naval ranks again? I’m still really curious… *gets the pen ready again with a smile*

Satan

Oh, it's been a long game of cat-and-mouse between these two… and unfortunately, it’s been pretty addicting too.

He honestly had every intention of tricking the human into making a huge mess do he could bother Lucifer, but at every turn they proved just a hair too clever for him...

He once gave them a cursed book to “lend” to Lucifer, but they saw through it the moment they touched it and lifted the spell before handing it over.

He rigged a podium to spray glitter during one of Lucifer's speeches but the MC disconnected the trigger mic before he even got on stage. It was pretty dang frustrating...

At one point he got so desperate that, just as a test, he tried to trap them in the House's Music Room. Fortunately for them, it only took a few minutes to work out an escape. They even passed by him in the hallway with a wink!

It's confounding! It's infuriating!! 

...and it's so damn sexy... He should be furious but he’s just in awe!!

Add on that they know their art, literature, and multiple different crafts thanks to the tutelage of their adopted mother and that’s it. He’s finished. This boy is in love.

Truthfully though, a part of him is 90% sure that they’re also gathering state secrets… Like, they’re watching Barbs and Diavolo far too close for comfort - but he just can't bring himself to care. 🤷‍♀️

The MC could walk into his room one day and say, "Hey, do you want to help overthrow the monarchy with me?" and he dreads it because deep down he knows that he wouldn’t say no…

Take some notes, kids. Some bad influences get you to drink or do drugs. Others pull you into a centuries long conspiracy to destabilize and topple rival realms from within… But he has fallen for their brain hard. Devil help them all…

Asmodeus 

They’re pretty clever, he’ll give them that, but uh… Are they a little off to anybody else?

Asmo is a charmer by birthright so he has a bit of nose for when someone’s just a liiittttle too nice… Not much of a nose mind you, because he can be thrown off by compliments himself, but enough to think that the MC might be a little too… “kind” for their own good...

First off, who wants to spend that much time with Levi?? They don’t even seem that interested in anime! They just keeping asking him for old war stories…

Then all the sucking up they do to Diavolo and Barbatos? Look, he gets it. Diavolo is a delicious piece of man-hunk and his butler could give him a lesson or two in sweet-talk (and he has), but they seem to be just a little too… nosy.

Of course, Asmo’s suspicions disappear pretty quickly after they start to spoil him with spa nights and beauty secrets they picked up from “casual research” into the subject.

And you know, get a little Demonus in Asmo and start massaging his back? Oh, sweetie he’ll sing like a bird!! … with gossip. Singing with gossip.

Asmo: So I’ve heard that Lucifer has been spending more time at RAD than usual… His whole club is talking about it, they think he’s meeting with some witch!

MC: Hm, is that so? *works on a knot near his shoulder blades* What do you think?

Asmo: Ooh~! Right there, MC! *purrs and lays his head on his arms* Well come on, this is Lucifer we’re talking about! I’m sure he’s just working.

Asmo: Hmm... though come to think of it, I think I heard him asking Barbatos for the spare keys to the Tower of Sorrow…

MC: Oh really? Huh. *works out the knot and gets up* I just remembered that I left some papers with Satan... I’ll be right back.

Asmo: You’re going already??

MC: *waves him off quickly* I’ll be right back, Asmo. *hurries out the door to do totally on-the-up-and-up things… surely*

Beelzebub 

Honestly he doesn't like this one… But not for the reasons you'd expect.

He agrees with everyone else that they seem a little shady, but Solomon and Simeon are too so it's not like that's anything new... 🤷‍♀️

No, no. He dislikes them because they're the person who FINALLY figured out how to keep him from eating all the food in the kitchen!!

Turns out that the trick was to put a teleportation charm on the fridge door that would send all the food away if it’s opened after a certain time of night… 

And where does it go? The Purgatory Hall fridge. And where does the Purgatory Hall food go…? The HoL fridge…

It doesn’t sound so bad until you remember that it means half of their fridge is now Solomon’s leftovers…. 🤢

After they put the same kind of spell on the pantry, it was all over… He couldn't get midnight snacks from the House anymore… Everything was contaminated by Solomon…

The MC is a nice enough person, he doesn’t have a lot of complaints about them, but he wants them to leave. Now. This is inexcusable… He’s so hungry… and he doesn’t want to die by “goulash” or whatever Solomon calls his latest culinary catastrophe… He’s still too young for death… 😓

Belphegor 

In a way, he absolutely could not have asked for a better person to help him get out of that attic.

… In another way, he got one of the worst possible people to try and kill... Like. They saw through his scheme sooo fast…

How was he supposed to know that the human had training in body language and sniffing out lies???

Getting the door open was a piece of cake for them. They knew enough magic to undo the seals and just rummaged around Lucifer's stuff long enough to find the key to the door. He could not have found a more competent individual for a break out, really.

It’s just… well he didn’t expect to go from locked in a room like a prisoner to tied up in enchanted rope, still like a prisoner but now mobile. 😑 

They even used his own hug ruse against him! They caught his wrists when they got close and tied him up before he could shake them off...

Admittedly, it wasn't exactly the best look for them either - what with walking Belphegor downstairs to the others like a one-man-prison-caravan but they're as silver-tongued as they are sly so they talked their way out of it beautifully… 

And like hell was he going to trust them after that!! And not even Beel liked them so something had to be up...

Well, you want a detective? Look no farther than Belphie (no seriously, it’s in the canon). He can put things together pretty fast when he puts his mind to it and watching the MC for a while gave him enough proof to work off of...

He always knew that, humans were bad news and the MC just proved it to him all over again. They are bad news, bad bad news and they’re going to-!

Overthrow… Diavolo…? Is that what he is getting from them…? Huh…

Wait a second, MC. You might just have him interested… 😏