#i think i had one with scar and his hat but i lost it :(

[apollos-boyfriend]

my favorite genre of gif is cubitos fucking beefing it

try and name something funnier than these. you literally can’t

[captainfantasticalright]

In 1985, one of the only persons interested in an interview with a “new” writer called Terry Pratchett, after his publication of the Colour of Magic, was one Neil Gaiman. Neil Gaiman was writing for Space Voyager at the time. "The Colour of Pratchett" was the name given here:

It ran exactly one page inside the June/July issue of that year. The interview took place in a Chinese restaurant in London.

Here is Neil many years later holding that issue. You can see it here if you want. Warning: extremely emotional video.

Neil arrived wearing a grey homburg hat. “Sort of like the ones Humphrey Bogart wears in movies” he later wrote. (Before saying that in fact he did not look like him, but like someone wearing a grown-up’s hat). Terry Pratchett, photo courtesy of one @neil-gaiman, was in a Lenin-style leather cap and a harlequin-patterned pullover. At this point, Terry was already a hat person, although not that hat.

Terry offered Neil this : "An interview needn't last more than 15 minutes. A good quote for the beginning, a good quote for the end, and the rest you make up back at the office"*. (Terry Pratchett had worked many years in journalism by this point ).

But the meeting went terribly well. The two of them realized they had "the same sort of brains". So well indeed, that in 1985, Neil had shown Terry a file containing 5282 words, exploring a scenario in which Richmal Crompton's William Brown had somehow become the Antichrist. Was a collaboration in the cards as of that moment? Not really. But Terry found in Neil someone to whom he could send disks of work in progress and to whom he could pick up the phone sometimes when he hit a brick in the road of his writing.

Terry loved it and the concept stayed in his mind. A couple of years later, he rang Neil to ask him if he had done any more work on it. Neil had been busy with The Sandman, he had not really given it another thought. Terry said, "Well I know what happens next, so either you sell me the idea or we can write it together". **

On collaborating together:

Here is a video of Sir Terry saying why he chose to collaborate with Neil, another video talking about the technical difficulties of writing a book when the two of them where miles apart ,and some pages from Interzone Magazine Issue 207 published December 2006:

An Interview with Sir Terry Pratchett and his works- and Neil Gaiman, where he shortly addresses the process of writing Good Omens.

Terry shortly mentions,

“Neil doesn't rule out another book with me and he was good to write with...yep, it could happen. With anyone else? I don't know, but probably not.?”

Neil says,

"Terry took that initial 5,000 words of mine and ran it through the computer (because I’d lost the files in a computer crash) and made it the first 10,000 words, and it was definitely Good Omens at that point. Neither one thing nor the other, but a third thing.”

"I think Terry could do a very good impersonation of me if he needed to, and I could do a very good impersonation of him; so we knew the area of the Venn diagram in which we were working. But mostly the book found its own voice very quickly. It helped that we were both scarred by the William books when we were kids...”

And as you know, unless you’ve been living in Alpha Centauri, the rest is history. That was the beginning of what would become William the Antichrist and later would get the name Good Omens:The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch. (Title provided by Neil Gaiman and subtitle by Terry Pratchett).

More about the writing process:

Terry took the first 5,000 words and typed them into his word processor, and by the time he had finished they were the first 10,000 words. Terry had borrowed all the things about me that he thought were amusing, like my tendency back then to wear sunglasses even when it wasn't sunny, and given them, along with a vintage Bentley, to Crawleigh, who had now become Crowley. The Satanic Nurses were Satanic Nuns.

The book was under way.

We wrote the first draft in about nine weeks. Nine weeks of gloriously long phone calls, in which we would read each other what we'd written, and try to make the other one laugh. We'd plot, delightedly, and then hurry off the phone, determined to get to the next good bit before the other one could. We'd rewrite each other, footnote each other's pages, sometimes even footnote each other's footnotes. We would throw characters in, hand them off when we got stuck. We finished the book and decided we would only tell people a little about the writing process - we would tell them that Agnes Nutter was Terry's, and the Four Horsemen (and the Other Four Motorcyclists) were mine.

From the introduction to William the Antichrist:

“In the summer of 1987 several odd ideas came together: (..)I found myself imagining a book called William the Antichrist, in which a hapless demon was going to be responsible for swapping the wrong baby over, and the son of the US Ambassador would be completely undemonic, while William Brown would grow up to be the Antichrist, and the demon would need to stop him ending the world. The unfortunate demon, whom I called Crawleigh, because Crawley was a nearby town with an unfortunate name, would have to sort it all out as best he could.

It felt like a story with legs.

Terry took the 5,000 words, and rewrote them, calling me to tell me what he was doing and what he was planning to do. The biggest thing he was going to do, he told me, was split the hapless demon into two characters – a would-be-cool demon in dark glasses (which was, I think, Terry’s way of making fun of me, a never-actually- cool journalist in dark glasses) who had renamed himself Crowley, and a rare-book dealer and angel called Aziraphale, who would embody all the English awkwardness that either of us could conceive.”

William the Antichrist being a direct inspiration of the 1976 film The Omen. If the baby swap had just been a little bit messier and the kid had gone off somewhere else he would have grown up as somebody else. “And then there was a beat and I thought, I should write it, it will be called William the Antichrist” says Neil. ***

“The first draft of Good Omens was a William-book. It was absolutely in every way it could be a William book. It had Violet Elizabeth Bott, it had William and the Outlaws, it had Mr. Brown”.

Over time they realized that they would have more creative freedom if they in their own words filed off the serial numbers. William and the Outlaws becoming Adam and the Them.

But the spirit of Just William was never far away.

The joy for Neil was to construct “perfectly William sentences”. The one when Anathema tells Adam that she has lost the Book, and he tells her that he has written a book about a pirate who became a famous detective and it is 8 pages long… that’s “a William sentence”.

If you want to read more details about William The Antichrist, here are some slides I made.

Good Omens was also inspired by a particularly antisemitic moment in The Jew of Malta and John le Carre's spy novels. (Neil’s ask)

 Then I was reading The Jew of Malta by Kit Marlowe, and it has a bit where the three (cartoonishly evil) Jews compare notes on all the well-poisoning and suchlike they’d done that day, and as a Jew who never quite gets his act together, it occurred to me that if I were the third Jew I’d just be apologizing for having failed to poison a well… And suddenly I had the opening of a book. It would be called William the Antichrist. And it would begin with three Demons in a graveyard… (x).

“When we finished the book we estimated that the words were 60% Terry’s and 40% mine, and the plot, such as it was, was entirely ours.” -Neil Gaiman

"Neil and I had known each other since early 1985. Doing it was our idea, not a publisher's deal." "I think this is an honest account of the process of writing Good Omens. It was fairly easy to keep track of because of the way we sent discs to one another, and because I was Keeper of the Official Master Copy I can say that I wrote a bit over two thirds of Good Omens. However, we were on the phone to each other every day, at least once. If you have an idea during a brainstorming session with another guy, whose idea is it? One guy goes and writes 2,000 words after thirty minutes on the phone, what exactly is the process that's happening? I did most of the physical writing because: 1) I had to. Neil had to keep Sandman going -- I could take time off from the DW; 2) One person has to be overall editor, and do all the stitching and filling and slicing and, as I've said before, it was me by agreement -- if it had been a graphic novel, it would have been Neil taking the chair for exactly the same reasons it was me for a novel; 3) I'm a selfish bastard and tried to write ahead to get to the good bits before Neil. Initially, I did most of Adam and the Them and Neil did most of the Four Horsemen, and everything else kind of got done by whoever -- by the end, large sections were being done by a composite creature called Terryandneil, whoever was actually hitting the keys. By agreement, I am allowed to say that Agnes Nutter, her life and death, was completely and utterly mine. And Neil proudly claims responsibility for the maggots. Neil's had a major influence on the opening scenes, me on the ending. In the end, it was this book done by two guys, who shared the money equally and did it for fun and wouldn't do it again for a big clock." "Yes, the maggot reversal was by me, with a gun to Neil's head (although he understood the reasons, it's just that he likes maggots). There couldn't be blood on Adam's hands, even blood spilled by third parties. No-one should die because he was alive." -("Terry Pratchett : His World”)

(Here are some slides of mine where I go into some other details concerning the origins of Good Omens).

Another wonderful insight with Rob Wilkins in "The Worlds of Terry Pratchett".

*Quote: from Terry Pratchett A Life With Footnotes by Rob Wilkins, but said by Terry of course.

** All the quotes, facts listed here : see above.

***all other quotes by Neil Gaiman from various interviews and asks I’ll link.

[ghoulbrain]

The Cost of Flesh

18+ 4.9k the ghoul x f!reader. gif credit. dirty talk, vaginal fingering, clothed/naked, finger sucking, grinding on a cowboy boot, cooper's busted anatomy forces him to get creative, body worship, lightly established dynamic, surprisingly sentimental. a prompt from @tearueful that got wildly out of hand. thank you, friend! 🖤

When what starts off as a purely sexual arrangement with the Waste's most notorious bounty hunter–the ghoul–gradually grows into a living, breathing love, you're both forced to confront the inevitable humanity that comes with sharing your body with another.

There’s a living myth that walks the wastes, a figure known exclusively as the ghoul. He’s enigmatic, a force of nature that declares himself to the world with his every step. If you're unaware of sharing a room with him, it’s likely because he’s hunting you, in which case it’s not a matter of if he catches you, but when.

Naturally, it was the talk of the town when he made a regular haunt out of the saloon you worked in.

He watched you serve drinks all evening, his gaze a physical thing upon you. Normally you expected a degree of harassment from clientele, raiders and the like often rolling through, but it was as though everyone else sensed his attention on you as much as you did. You could tell from the tilted angle of the wide brim of his hat when he was listening to your conversations.

It was as eerie as it was intriguing. You couldn’t fathom a bounty on your head, so what did he want?

You would soon be ensnared by him, but not for a bounty. It was for pleasure. Your pleasure.

“Come upstairs with me,” He murmured in your ear, standing close behind you, a gloved knuckle rolling up your spine. “Y’ain’t gatta do nothin’. I won’t hurt’cha none. Just wanna hear a pretty bird sing.”

You shivered, caught unaware. You never even heard his approach, even though the din of the bar had quieted in the late evening.

“I’m not for sale,” you replied, testing the water. He was close enough that you felt him, but not so close you were pinned. You could move if you wanted to.

“I ain’t buyin’,” he gave back. You could feel the heat of his breath on your neck. “But I’ll make it worth y’while.”

The gravel grit of his voice was nearly drowned out by the drumming of your own pulse in your ears. To this day, you don’t know what possessed you to agree, but you did. He took your hand in his, the leather of his glove soft with wear, and led you away from the bar. The next thing you knew, he was stripping you bare in one of the dark rooms above the bar.

The ceremony with which he undressed you had felt disconcertingly like meal prep. He tied your hands above your head, and your heart thundered with the understanding that there was nothing to stop him from devouring you alive where you lay sprawled out on the bed. 

By the time his gloved hands were dragging away your underwear, you felt dizzy with the heady mix of arousal and fear, an unquiet ache thrumming between your thighs. Your only meager assurance was that of all the legends you’d heard of the ghoul, seducing and eating barmaids wasn’t among them. 

And yet devour you he did. You were hooked from that very first wet, hot slide of his tongue against your clit. He spent hours with you that night, mapping your body with his tongue, your scars and blemishes serving as waypoints and constellations. He nipped and sucked until dark marks blossomed under his tongue, and he relished those spots more than any other.

He never took off more than his gloves, and he never let you touch him. He never fucked you. He brought you to climax with his mouth and his hands so many times you lost track of the number. All you could do was writhe and moan your pleasure. He didn’t stop until those moans turned to sobs, until you begged him to. After that, he cut your binds loose and left you a mess on the bed, aching and used. 

You laid there for a long time, thinking you would never see him again.

The ghoul returned not a week later. 

He wasn’t subtle about what he wanted from you, beckoning you from across the bar with a crook of two fingers. You felt your knees weaken with the memory of those same fingers in your mouth, your cunt, that hand pinning you by your throat to feel your cries against his palm. He stared at you from beneath the brim of his hat, cocked his head. You nodded, and his eyes flashed.

Hungry.

You didn’t learn his name until your third encounter. He whispered it in your ear.

“Now scream it for me, sweetheart.”

You did.

The two of you would meet several more times. He would stay a little longer after each session, and bit by bit, you would come to understand the man beyond the ghoul. He doesn’t talk about himself, and he doesn’t ask anything of your life in turn, but he reveals himself in pieces nonetheless. Beneath the ruthless pragmatism of his legendary persona, you find the manners of a shockingly tender gentleman lurking.

He’s always unhurried in disrobing you, devoted to the task at hand: taking you apart piece by piece. He treats each article of frayed clothing like a piece of paper that might tear if he pulls too hard. He makes the process of being undressed in and of itself feel like sex, every move intentionally sensual. 

For you, the experience ranges from thrilling to maddening depending on your mood that day. He never heeds you, always keen to take his time regardless of your impatience. He takes a particular kind of enjoyment in your body, the likes of which you’ve never known. You’re certain he knows it better than you do at this point, and yet he’s never laid himself bare to you. Never let you bring him the kind of pleasure he brings you.

He’s never kissed you.

“Please. I wanna touch you, too,” you tell breathlessly, knelt between his legs, naked as sin. His focus breaks, gaze snapping to yours. You lick your lips, relishing the rare feeling of catching him off guard. You slide your hands up his thighs, inching towards his groin. “Taste you. Make you twist. When’re you gonna let me, huh?”

He catches your wrists as quickly as a viper strikes, holding you still for a long, tense moment. You hold his gaze without any of the fear or reservation you’d felt that first day. 

Despite the warmth that’s grown between you in the time since that first night, you’re uncertain of what exactly the two of you are now. It would be romantic to think of this feeling in your chest as love. Certainly it is intimacy. Familiarity. What is love if not consistency? Perhaps it’s like masonry. Steel against stone, and the conscious choice to change something as immutable as solid rock.

For as long as he chooses to come back to you, to find his pleasure in you, is that not love? If it isn’t, it might just be the closest you’ve ever come to it.

Dumbstruck for a moment by the tenderness in your gaze, Cooper’s own drops to your hand, lifting it to his mouth. His grip is tight, but not painful. As he does with everything else, he takes his time answering.

“Won’t do much good, darlin’,” he says, folding your hands wrist over wrist. You perk up. He’s never given a proper explanation for why he seems to have no interest in your reciprocation. From his belt, he withdraws a length of rope and begins encircling your wrists. You allow it, the ritual a familiar one. “Plumbing’s long busted, but that don’t mean I don’t enjoy myself. Enjoy you.”

Like the final piece of a puzzle falling in place, understanding dawns. His initial use of you drops perfectly into context. It was like you were more an object to him than a person, a vessel for him to exact sensation upon. You understand now that that’s exactly what you were. Be it the radiation or the myriad of drugs he takes to keep the degeneration at bay, it’s likely just one more piece of him the Wasteland has stolen.

“Oh.”

“Disappointed?” He asks, fastening the rope with a sharp tug that shoots a hot throb between your thighs. If he’s apprehensive about your answer, he hides it well. If they still made movies, he’d make for a fine actor.

You pause, giving the question the thought it deserves. “Not exactly. Maybe a bit,” you say, struggling to articulate the feeling. “Kind of relieved, though. I didn’t know if you couldn’t, or just didn’t want to,” you admit, leaning into it when he brings his palm to the side of your face. Your lips part automatically for the brush of his thumb along them. “I just want to do more.”

Cooper’s gaze softens, the line of his mouth twitching in what almost looks like a smile before it’s tampered by a profound sense of sadness. However, it disappears as quickly as the smile that nearly was. His expression smooths back out into controlled focus.

“So do more,” he says in that molasses drawl, thick and sweet. It could be your imagination, but his voice sounds warmer than it did a moment ago. “Put on a show for me.” He widens the spread of your legs with the press of his boot to your inner thigh. “I got plenty ‘a things for you t’ride.”

He lifts the worn leather to the wet heat gathering between your thighs and you shudder, lashes fluttering. His boot sinks back to the ground and you follow it, grinding down against the leather with a soft sigh of pleasure. He hooks his fingers through the tether around your wrists and draws you forward by it, his knee pressing between your breasts, your bound hands resting on his thigh.

“Don’t take much t’get you moanin’, do it, sweetie?” He baits, mouth curved in a crooked smile. You roll your hips with a soft keen, shaking your head. You were already tingling all over from the slow way he’d undressed you, and now that ache is growing rapidly into thrumming need. He whistles lowly. “All that noise for a li’l friction.”

He bucks his boot against your cunt, wringing a cry out of you. You screw your eyes shut, clutching at his pant leg while you roll your hips, embarrassed by how right he is. Everything he does is electrifying, and his honied voice in your ears helps turn the curve of his boot into the most exquisite touch you’ve ever known.

With his teeth, Cooper tugs off his glove and touches your cheek with warm, rough fingers. His bare thumb hooks your bottom lip, easing it open until you taste the salt of his skin pressing down on your tongue. “Or just didn’t want to…” He echoes through a frayed laugh, sounding equal parts amused and wistful at your words on his tongue. “Y’got no idea what I’d do to this sweet mouth if I could.” He presses his thumb deeper, watching with dark eyes as you start to suck. “What I’d give t’see how pretty you cry, chokin’ on my cock.”

He paints such a pretty picture that you long for it, too. Releasing his thumb with a breathy sound, you open your mouth. “More,” you say, your breaths shallow. “I want more.”

His own chest is heaving with each breath, his tongue caught between his teeth. He slips two fingers into your mouth, pushing them all the way to the knuckle. You both moan with it, pressure creeping slowly up your spine. He rocks his fingers in and out, and you start to match his pace, grinding against his boot as fast as his fingers fuck your mouth. 

Catching on, he kicks his pace up a notch, captivated by the pull of your lips, the shimmer of your saliva on his weathered skin. You can see it in his eyes, how he loses himself in your pleasure as if it’s his own, filling in the gaps with faded memories. He pushes in a third finger, teeth raking over his bottom lip. You push your tongue between them, over them, sucking and lapping as if it really is his cock in your mouth. 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he hisses, pulling sharply on your bindings. You make a noise around his fingers, so close to the peak of release that your lungs begin to seize, throat quieting. It’s pure agony when Cooper abruptly hauls you up onto your knees, halting your ascension. “C’mere,” he growls, all grit and throaty need. His fingers slip from your mouth and he manhandles you up into his lap, bringing you into a straddle over him, your bound wrists thrown over the back of his neck.

The same fingers he had halfway down your throat now move between your thighs, pressing into your slick, yielding body with two wet fingers in one deep push. You groan, the burning ache of it so good your eyes roll back. His free hand skirts up the length of your torso to the underside of your breast, kneading soft flesh with a rough hand. Then, so quick all you can do is gasp, he pushes the weight of it upward, meeting pearl-soft skin with lips, tongue and teeth.

All the while his fingers sink deeper, moving faster. He adds a third and you strain against your binds, arching your back, pressing your chest into his hungry mouth. He scissors his fingers, determined to make you feel every inch he fills you with.

“C-Cooper…” You keen, shivering for the hot slide of his tongue over your nipple, how he sucks it into his mouth.

Pulling off with a wet pop, he drags his tongue up the line between your breasts, greedy for the taste of you. “Shh, shh,” he hushes, already teasing a fourth finger. His breath is hot on your damp skin. “Just a little more, you can take it,” he says, pressing his thumb to your clit, rubbing circles to soothe the burn of being filled so suddenly.

“I can’t, I can’t,” you protest, nails biting into your own hands, eyes screwed shut.

“Y’already there, sugar,” he rumbles, each word rougher than the last. He’s right, you’re seated in the crook between his thumb and index finger, so full of him that your thighs are trembling from the strain of it. He rocks his hand slowly, fucking you deep, crooking his fingers until a sharp jolt of pleasure makes you shudder. “Doin’ good, takin’ everything I give you. That’s it. Go on, pretty bird. Sing me a song.”

Your eyes meet, both bleary and wild. You could lose yourself in the darkness of his gaze, and given his insatiable hunger, you know he would swallow you whole. You moan for him, sing his praise with the breathlessness of your voice, with the sway of your hips as you pick up his rhythm. He nods absently, watching you with such voracious wonder, you feel beyond yourself. Half human, half embodiment of pleasure. 

The meteoric rise back to the cusp of your climax feels like flying, your stomach tightening, the velvet walls of your cunt throbbing and squeezing his fingers so tightly, you feel their every slide.

You come hard on his fingers, crying out just before the height of your pleasure seizes you. Cooper watches every second of your release, his own lids flickering, though he never blinks. He slips his arm around your body and pulls you to him, naked skin pressed snug against leather and tattered fabric. You collapse into him, held up only by his grip and the tether binding your hands around his neck.

He holds you through the aftermath, savors every last wet quiver of your cunt around his fingers. His thrusts slow, but he doesn’t stop until–in a quaking breath–you beg him to. His fingers settle in deep, lingering a moment before he slides them free. The relief of escape from overstimulation is rivaled only by the awful emptiness that his fingers leave in you. You clench your shaking thighs on either side of him so that he might understand.

Stay.

Either he understands, or he simply isn’t through with you. His gloved hand slides up and down your back, thumb brushing the back of your neck on every upward swipe. Before long you hear a decidedly wet slurp, and you lift your head from his shoulder to look at him through euphoria addled eyes.

One by one, Cooper licks every one of his slick fingers clean, purring his approval. “Not even decades of radiation poisoning can erase the taste of good pussy,” he says, voice low and lazy. “And this, darlin'? Gourmet."

You smile, heat rushing up your chest to your cheeks. “I think you have an addiction,” you say, a slight slur to your words. You roll your fingers, which tingle faintly, the rope taking its toll on your circulation.

He clicks his tongue, hands settling on your hips. His hands are warm, and his touch erupts goosebumps up your spine. “Y’say that like it’s a problem. Gonna cut me off?”

“As your dealer, it’s in my best interest to encourage said addiction,” you say, cocking your head. Up close like this, focused only on each other’s eyes, it’s easy to forget he’s anything other than a man. His eyes are beautiful, the color of sand in that fleeting hour of sunset that turns the whole world gold. Not even the hole left from the decay of his nose takes away from the beauty of them. Truth be told, you find the whole of him entirely too handsome. “Besides, I find myself similarly afflicted.”

His lips split into a slow smile. “Y’somethin’ rare, darlin’. Fine company’s scarcer than clean water these days.”

Another wave of heat washes through you, but this time it concentrates in your chest, coiling around your heart and squeezing. “You’re just not used to talking to people who know how to read,” you say, trying and failing to swallow back the sentimentality swelling in your throat.

He chuckles. It’s a rare sound, one that does nothing for the growing affection suffocating your heart. “True, true.” He already admitted that the way you spoke is what caught his attention in the first place.

“Say…” You begin, hesitant. “You remember what I said to you when we first met? Down in the bar.”

Gently, Cooper lifts your arms from around his neck, setting your hands between your bodies. He blows out a breath and starts untying your hands. “I’m old, sweetness. Refresh my memory.” 

"I told you I wasn't for sale," you remind him, blood rushing back into your hands with the removal of the rope. You rub them together.

He makes a small noise of recollection, winding the rope around his hand. “Y’did.”

“I’ve changed my mind,” you say, watching him carefully.

His gaze flickers up to yours, searches your expression. He can tell you’re guarding it, and his own sobers in response. “Dare I ask the cost?”

"Love,” you blurt out, far more graceless than you’d been in your mind. His eyes widen a fraction, caught off guard. In any other moment you’d be smug about that, but now it’s precarious. Whatever nebulous sentiment exists between the two of you, you know it’s fragile. “Love. Yours, or just… mine. The cost is love.”

“Y’don’t love me, sweetheart,” he says, but the gentleness of his words does nothing to dissuade you. It only worsens the yearning in your heart.

“You don’t get to decide that,” you say, a frown tugging at your lips. 

He’s quiet for a moment, gauging you. “Y’don’t know me.”

“You let on more than you think you do,” you counter, hands braced on his chest. “I might not know everything about your life, but I know you.”

You know he read westerns and science fiction novels written by a man named Louis L’Amour, but confessed to liking his poetry best. You know the variations in his smiles. You know the sound he makes when he gets up from sleep, stiff-limbed and weary. You know him in intimacy. You know how he craves  peace and grace in the warmth of your body. If blinded and deafened, you would know his touch.

Whether he likes it or not, you know him the way souls know each other.

His eyes drift away as if he’s leery about you seeing anything more than you have. “What you’re lookin’ for, y’not gonna get it from me. I’m burnt out, darlin’. All dried up.”

“I’m not asking for more than you’ve given,” you say, trying not to let the terrible ache in your chest color your tone. You could scream at him for how wrong he is. How much left of him there is to love. “I’m telling you that I have more to give, and I want you to have it.”

“I wouldn’t even know what t’do with it anymore,” he says, gazing somewhere distant.

You wish he’d at least look at you as you bled your heart. “Nothing you haven’t already done, if that’s what you want.”

“Then why say anything at all?” He asks, an edge creeping into his tone. He does finally look at you, the lines of his expression as guarded as they were the first day you met him. “If y’didn’t want t’change things, why say anything?”

You stiffen to keep from shrinking away. You want this too badly to let him spook you now. 

“So that you know,” you say, choosing your words carefully. Each one feels sharp on your tongue, too honest. Too vulnerable. You’re giving him too much power with each one that falls. “I’m telling you so that you know I love you. I’m telling you because if I don’t, I might explode with it,” you say, fervency climbing in your voice, spurred on by the beginning sting of rejection. “I’m telling you for me. Is it easier to accept my love if it’s selfish?”

There it is again, that flicker across his face. Whatever he expected to hear, it wasn’t that. Slowly, Cooper removes his other glove, dropping it to the wayside. With that same hand, he brings his knuckles to your face, ghosts the heat of them down your cheek.

“Y’deserve better than half measures from a broken old man,” he says so quietly, you strain to hear each word. “Most of me’s always gonna be out in the sands, lookin’ for what’s lost. That’s no life for you.”

Taking his hand in yours, you hesitate a beat before you start to place gentle kisses on his every first knuckle. “Maybe. Maybe not,” you say between kisses, not meeting his eye yet. You’ve never been quite so openly affectionate. “But it’s like you said… Fine company is scarce,” you say, kissing each second knuckle next. “Don’t deny me the best I’ve ever known.”

His smile is reticent, tugged from the corner of his mouth as if by an invisible string. There’s something wistful in his expression. He watches you kiss the pads of his fingers next, the prints of them long worn away and replaced with thick calluses. His thumb is last. You give it a playful little nip, lest the softness of your lips scare him off.

Cooper slips his hand out of yours, the wistfulness of his gaze replaced with somber resignation. “M’sorry, darlin,” he murmurs, cupping either side of your face. 

Your stomach drops, the bitter stench of a goodbye settling into the air between you. You remind yourself that you knew this might happen. You repeat the thought again and again, as if being right will make it hurt less.

His thumbs stroke over your cheeks. “If I were a better man, a stronger man,” he says, gaze dipping to your lips. “I’d walk away for good.”

Your brows furrow. “Wh–”

He kisses you with such gentleness it breaks you apart. Your hands fly to his jacket, holding him to you. It’s as if the entire world spins on its axis, your stomach flipping wildly with it. It leaves you floating, tethered only by the grips you have on each other. What begins as a chaste press quickly heats up into a gnawing hunger, his tongue slipping into your mouth, your teeth scraping his bottom lip.

“Lucky for me that I ain’t even a good man,” he says, words peppered between kisses. 

The world spins again, but this time you really are moving through the air. You let out a yelp as Cooper flips you onto the bed, kissing a trail down your naked chest. You’ve felt his tongue and his teeth, but never the reverent press of his lips. As if you’ve only just given him permission to see you as something more than a tool for vicarious pleasure, he touches your body the way a superstitious man worships–full of intent and genuine belief.

“Cooper,” you sigh, smiling. “It’s my turn to touch you,” you remind him, tugging at the shoulder of his tattered jacket. The most he’s ever taken off is that jacket and his hat, but you want more.

He looks up at you from between your breasts, hesitating a beat. “You should know that it only gets uglier ‘neath the collar, sugar.”

“You’re not ugly,” you tell him. At his skeptical expression, you continue, “I’ve seen ugly. Heard it, felt it. You’re not ugly. Not to me.”

He quirks a hairless brow and lets out an incredulous little breath, adjusting himself onto his knees between your legs, swayed. “Y’might consider glasses,” he tells you, shrugging out of his coat. 

You hook your legs over his and use them as leverage to sit up, reaching for the buttons of his vest. “That might not end well for you,” you say coyly, popping each one loose. 

“I’m used to it,” he says, leaning down for another kiss. This, too, is reverence. He takes his time, savoring the feel of your lips against his, licking the taste of you from them like you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever known. With his vest open, you work on his undershirt next, tugging them loose while sucking on his tongue.

Halfway down, he stills your hand with a firm grip on your wrist. “That’ll do,” he tells you, voice little more than a rasp. You bite back a protest and nod, understanding that this is likely more exposed than he’s been in a long, long time. You push back into the kiss and press your hand to his chest, sliding slowly down. 

The skin beneath is as gnarled as old tree bark, pitted in places and scarred in most. For as durable as ghouls are, Cooper’s skin has been shredded and torn and riddled with bullets enough times that parts of his body have taken hold of those memories forever, formed around them.

You treat them gently, tracing them with your fingertips. You feel unreasonably powerful when he shivers subtly beneath your touch. You press your hand flat to his heart to hold the beat of it in your palm. It’s slow, but each thud is strong. You break from him with a deep breath, dizzy from the way he makes your head spin with each kiss.

“Lie down,” you say breathlessly. You’re almost surprised when he does, unaccustomed to taking so much control. You cozy up against him, laying your head where your hand had been a moment ago, and close your eyes. His heartbeat sounds just as it felt. Steady, firm, slow. You imagine the radiation has scarred him inside and out, left his heart thick and misshapen as well. Alive nonetheless.

After a brief hesitation, Cooper’s arm slips around your waist. His thumb caresses your hip. “For what it’s worth,” he begins, his tone overly conversational, masking whatever true feeling lurks beneath. “I won’t hold you to none of it. Not if y’get sick of it.”

If you get sick of him, he means.

You tip your head back to look up at him. His gaze is affixed to the ceiling, but you can see apprehension in his distant expression. You drop your eyes, nuzzling your cheek against his chest. His hand cups the back of your head in response, stroking. You smile faintly, soaking in all these little affections. You wonder how long he’s been holding back from touching you like this, denying himself such simple intimacies in order to maintain a distance he didn’t feel, but deemed necessary.

“You’re wrong, Cooper.”

“‘Bout what?”

“You are a good man.”

He goes quiet at that. The two of you lie there a long while, his hands absently roaming your body like he’s committing you to memory. Your hands do the same, dipping under the hem of his shirt to explore further. He hooks his knuckle under your chin, tips your head back to kiss you languidly.

There’s a surreal domestic feel to the unhurriedness of it all, as if he won’t be gone to the winds come morning. You make a home of this moment in your mind, constructing four walls in which to imagine another life. The kind you’ve read about in tattered books and seen on fuzzy old screens.

All the while Cooper holds you, his lips never long from your skin.

You eventually find your way under the covers together, past the point of words. You drape yourself back down against him, your ear finding the chamber of his heart once more. You fall asleep listening to the beat of it, content for now to take each day you spend with him as they come.

[hearts4renaa]

OH MY, LOVE IS A LIE!

summary: it's all over now, but he's still thinking of you. featuring alhaitham, diluc, kamisato ayato, and zhongli. part 2 to you're losing me.

w/c: 2.1k in total a/n: i am really churning out angst for yall. inspired by hits different by taylor swift

I find the artifacts, cried over a hat. Curse the space that I needed.

“There’s no way you still have that.” Kaveh comments as he walks past Alhaitham in their little library of the home. Kaveh looks at the small crystal in the scholar's hands, cringing.

Alhaitham glares at the blonde. “Shut it.” He grumbles, twirling the gem in between his fingers. He intended to give it to you over dinner, as an apology for the stunt he pulled two weeks ago. The guilt took over his body like a fever. He was sleepless for a few nights, and you slept in the guest bedroom. Eventually, he drew to a conclusion. The two of you had been dating for quite a while; maybe it’s time to take it to the next step.

He invited you to a proper dinner that night, and you accepted despite the growing tension between the two of you. Unfortunately for him, he didn’t realize the two of you had very different plans for that night. He was there to take it further. You were there to end it.

Kaveh’s scoff takes Alhaitham out of the depths of his memory. “Don’t you have better things to do than nag me?” Alhaitham spit out. “Pay your rent, perhaps?” 

Kaveh rolls his eyes, crossing his arms. “It’s crazy how you’re talking to me how you talked to them.” A glare made its way into his amber eyes. “Thought you would’ve learned to watch your choice of words after what happened.”

Alhaitham had no rebuttal. He knew Kaveh was right. He didn’t think his words or actions carried much weight until you were crushed under them. His words and actions chipped away at what he loved until eventually, nothing was there at all. How did he not notice? How did he not see the storms in your eyes? How did he not hear the tiredness in your voice? How could he let you fight for the relationship alone, while he stood on the sidelines as it withered to nothingness? His eyes redirect from Kaveh to the gem in his hands. It’s like he can still see your face in the reflection. Like the love was still there, shimmering and sparkling the same way the gem did in the afternoon sun.

“And yes, I do have better things to do.” Kaveh says, walking towards the entrance of the house. “I’m heading to lunch with a friend of mine.” A knock pierces their conversation, effectively saving Alhaitham from having to face the harsh truth from Kaveh of all people. “Ah, they’re here!” Kaveh leaves the library entirely, leaving Alhaitham in the room alone. He hears the front door open. “Y/N!” Kaveh greets. Alhaitham freezes.

What the fuck?

“Just one second, I forgot something in the study.” He hears Kaveh say, and footsteps are fast approaching. Kaveh retrieves his left behind item, but not before Alhaitham stops him. The grip he has on Kaveh’s forearm is almost painful.

“What the hell?” Alhaitham’s voice is bitter. Jealous, even.

Kaveh yanks his arm away. “Just because you lost the love of your life Y/N doesn’t mean I have to lose my friend Y/N.” Kaveh’s voice is firm. Soon enough, he’s walking away and out the door.

Alhaitham feels the sorrow truly kick in. All the times he asked for space from you. All the time he could’ve spent with you. Now, the space between the two of you was farther than ever before. And he can’t do anything but look at the gem in his hand, wishing he could run to you more than ever.

I trace the evidence, make it make some sense, why the wound is still bleeding?

He won’t admit it, but Diluc’s hands were beginning to ache from the endless action of polishing the glasses. He insisted on working the bar tonight, letting the usual bar staff have some well deserved rest. Peering down, Diluc takes the time to examine the many scars on his hands. They were dotted on his skin, and they all held a story. A burn. A scab he kept picking at. An accidental cut. Either way, they all had an experience leading up to each wound.

He realizes how much of a hypocrite he is. Scolding you for wanting the adventure, for getting a minor injury as if he doesn’t do ten times more fighting than you did. Worried endlessly for your safety, as if he doesn’t risk his life on the daily. Diluc has faced many wounds over his life, but the worst one he’s experienced was losing you.

The breakup wasn’t dramatic. The two of you sat across from each other next to the fire, and you told him of how you lost the love. Of how the flame burned so slowly than it burned out. The two of you agreed to end things together; at least, that’s what you think. He didn’t lose anything. His flame still burns as brightly as it did in the beginning. Perhaps his flame burned so bright that it overtook yours. You packed your things and left Dawn Winery. He saw you off with a polite wave, but the moment the door shut, the dam burst and the tears flowed.

Now here he was, without you, repeating a stupid polishing action until the door opened. There you were, with the Traveler and Venti of all people. It’s awkward for a moment, both of your eyes darting around to avoid the other’s. Eventually, the three of you get a table to sit at. As your group passes by, he hears the Traveler quietly say something to you. “Sorry, Y/N. I didn’t think he’d be working today.” He hears you laugh. Oh, how he wishes he was the source. 

“Don’t worry about it,” You say. “I’m basically over him.”

Diluc feels a sting in his chest, and he has to stop himself from dropping the glass in his hand. That hurt. He certainly wasn’t over you. The night passes, and you are engaged in conversation. Diluc takes the chance to steal fleeting glances in your direction.

The weapon on your back has more wear and tear. Your bag looks heavier, more used. He sees minor scars on your skin. A few on your arm, one on your cheek, some on your calves. It takes everything in him to not fret over you, but he knows he can’t. You’re not his to lose anymore. But most of all, Diluc sees the way you exude light. Cheer radiates from you, and he doesn’t think he’s ever seen you more beautiful than you were right now.

You may bear more scars than when you were with him, but he’s never seen you happier.

You were the one that I loved! Don’t need another metaphor, it’s simple enough.

Ayato runs a hand through his hair while walking the streets of Inazuma City. He was on the way to a wedding attire fitting, for his wedding to another Inazuman noblewoman. The wedding isn’t for another month, so it’s crucial to ensure that all clothing is prepared and ready to allow ample time for unforeseen circumstances. On the way to his appointment, Ayato passes by a familiar restaurant. He softly smiles, remembering how he used to visit often. Then, his smile is replaced with a frown when he realizes he hasn’t been in two months. There was no reason for him to eat there anymore- he used to eat there with you.

He’ll never forget how puffy your eyes were when you broke things off with him. It was obvious you were crying, and with how the conversation was going, Ayato was about to cry too. “I can’t do this anymore, Ayato.” Your voice sounded exhausted. Ayato hated knowing he was the reason for your sleepless nights. He didn’t understand why he snapped at your skepticism over the arranged marriage. He couldn't, and wouldn’t ever imagine you marrying someone else. He understood. The problem is, he understood too late. Now, it’s been two months and he still doesn’t go a single day without thinking of you. 

Finally, Ayato arrived at his destination. The tailors was a quaint little shop in a less busy corner of Inazuma, but many of the locals purchased ceremonial clothing from the owners. They’re said to have a very keen eye, even when it comes to choosing employees. Ayato slides the door open, and he is greeted by a worker.

“Welcome! Are you here for a fitting or-”

He could recognize that voice. There’s no way. His eyes widened at the realization, and you did too, seeing how your words trailed off. 

“Y/N.” He breathed out your name as if he had been suffocating prior. You take a second to compose yourself before putting your professional facade back on. He is a customer. He is no more than that.

“Are you here for an appointment?” You ask.

Your formal tone throws him off. He remembers your cheery usual tone from back then, and he wishes nothing more than to go back to those times.

“Yeah.” He nods. “It’s…wedding attire.”

You feel your breath hitch in your throat. Of course, he’s still going forward with the marriage. After all, he made it clear that you have nothing to offer for the Kamisatos.You nod curtly before gesturing him to a fitting station. “Please allow me to grab my tools.” You give a small bow, ignoring eye contact. You turn away to head towards the shop’s tool drawer with measuring tapes and such. When you’re certain he cannot see your face, you allow your bottom lip to tremble slightly. 

Meanwhile, Ayato’s eyes stay trained on your figure. For the two of you to break up, then have you be the person attending to him during the wedding fitting? The Seven must be laughing at him as he experiences this cruel twist of fate. Suddenly, it hits him. The two of you are part of each other’s past. It’s over. You aren’t in each other’s present lives, and you most likely won’t be part of each other’s futures.

You might be a stranger now, but he will forever recognize your voice in a sea of people.

A wrinkle in time, like the crease by your eyes. This is why they shouldn’t kill off the main guy.

“Who do you think the lucky one is?” The women of Liyue gossip. Their eyes are fixed on Zhongli, following him like a hawk. The man in question is shopping for flowers. However, he seems to be interested in the large bouquets of flowers, the ones far too large to be classified as “just felt like it” flowers. He takes his time to examine each flower thoroughly. He checks the stems, petals, if they’re fully bloomed. Uncommon than most men nowadays, Zhongli was truly looking at every factor while shopping for these flowers, which is why the women were so interested to know who they were for.

On Zhongli’s end, his senses were being absolutely bombarded with the signature floral scent. Zhongli’s taste in flowers only gets incredibly picky around this time of year. After all, the anniversary of your death is upcoming. He only wants the best flowers for you, since he couldn’t give you the best when you were still alive. If there’s one memory he’ll never forget, it’ll be how you still told him that you loved him, even in your final moments.

“Excuse me, are you looking for anything in particular?” A worker asks him.

Normally, he’d politely decline and continue about his day. But he can’t. Not when said worker looks identical to you. His eyes are wide, scanning the person up and down. Same hair, eyes, facial structure. If he didn’t know better, he’d think you were right in front of him. Unfortunately, Zhongli does know better. He knows that you are no longer alive. And he knows that he is the reason for your death.

He regains his composure. “I’m alright, thank you.” His smile is polite, but not sincere.

"Ah, alright. I’m sorry if this sounds weird but…” The worker started. “Are you doing alright? I’m sorry, I just felt like I had to ask you. Gut feeling, I guess.”

For a second time, Zhongli was taken aback, but he answered nonetheless. “Yes, just trying to find some nice flowers.” The worker smiled. It amazes Zhongli how much they look like you.

“Are you buying flowers for someone?” They ask.

“Yes,” Zhongli pauses. “They’re for someone who is very dear to me.” 

The worker points to a bouquet. “How about this one, then? It’s one of my favorites.”

Zhongli smiles. They were your favorite too. He lets out a chuckle at the situation. He had always hoped to see you again, but he didn’t think you’d visit him like this. “That one looks great.” He responds.

He looks up at the sky, and he hopes you know that in every other universe, he would’ve chosen you.

[heartsforseo]

Straw hats with a member who was formally a celestial dragon's sl@Ve.

A/n: hehehe I always come back... *Insert the afton's bg music* request=?? requested: <yes> <no> wc: 1,140 warning: I only write for fun so grammar could be back. + some ooc?

⭑You found it incredibly challenging to open up to others due to your reserved nature. Despite hoping that Jinbe's arrival would provide an opportunity for conversation, your shyness prevented you from engaging with him. Thus, when a celestial dragon attacked the sunny and remembered you, the entire crew was taken aback by the unexpected turn of events.

⭑Luffy would be SHOOK amid the battle and pause for a bit.

⭑He'd turn and look for you, looking for an affirmation.

⭑Would shout your name a million times until you say something.

⭑When you said yes he'd have mixed feelings (sad and mad generally). Questions would start popping up, leaving him wondering why you hadn't said anything from the beginning.

⭑After he's done with the celestial dragon, he'll drag you and push you to talk.

⭑After your explanation, becoming the pirate king and destroying all the celestial dragons would give him more reasons to do so.

⭑Zoro wouldn't hear about you being a slave. He's either lost or focused on eliminating the marines guarding the boat.

⭑So when he returned to the ship and noticed the uncomfortable atmosphere, he would be perplexed and ask what had happened.

⭑He's not good with words and comforting so he'll just shrug about it.

⭑But he'd still be worried of course. He'd mutter "You can talk to me when you need someone, you know?"

⭑You turned around, making sure that he said it. But he'd turn and walk away.

⭑He's blushing inside and out so I hope you'll take his words seriously!

⭑Unlike Zoro, Nami would be mad AFFF.

⭑She's not just mad at the celestial dragon but also you! The Straw Hats are a family, and there should be no secrets.

⭑Big sister mode activated: When you need to open up, she will be there to provide comfort and gently guide you through the process. She will support you by holding your hand and ensuring that you feel safe and supported every step of the way.

⭑After you're done explaining, she'd try to distract you about the past and would do shopping with you and Robin.

⭑Would def give weird stares to the celestial dragons the crew would meet.

⭑She's now your therapist so congratulations!

⭑Poor Ussop. Boy was already pissing then he found out about your situation.

⭑He'd feel sad after the argument. He never realized something major had happened to you before! I mean, you know how to hide it…

⭑Tried to assist you by offering you coffee and gave some words of encouragement.

⭑For example: "At least you're with us now..." or "That's alright, it was all in the past now."

⭑At one point, he was so worried that he accidentally splashed Zoro's shirt with the coffee he was supposed to give you, causing them to bicker.

⭑It earned you a little laugh, and with that, Ussop was already happy.

⭑Sanji, on the other hand, would pause on what the celestial dragon said.

⭑Whether it was true or not, he directly attacked the celestial dragon.

⭑No female should ever go through that pain. Even if he hadn't experienced it, he knows how hard it would've been.

⭑He'd shower you with praises and affection. "You did so good holding it all up..." or "You're here with us now. You can always rely on us..."

⭑He was also the one who filled Zoro up on what was happening.

⭑Would look at you from time to time to see how you're doing.

⭑ Chopper would be SHOCKED and worried.

⭑He starts thinking about the pain and wounds that you’ve gotten. It clicked to him and finally realized why you used to have a lot of scars on your back + arms.

⭑While you’re explaining to the crew your experience, Chopper went to his office and made some anti-anxiety pills ‘cause he doesn’t want you to suffer anymore. (Robin had to kick him out).

⭑Would look at you endearingly and hold your hand around the ship. He just wants to make sure nothing bad will happen to you!

⭑Other than that, Chopper would still act normal and do some silly stuff with Luffy and Ussop.

⭑Robin is Robin. She already had some suspicions about your past, but she wants to hear the truth directly from your mouth.

⭑When she heard what the celestial dragon said she was a bit shocked. Yes, she had thought about it, but another person who suffered from the world government?

⭑She wanted to hold you right then and there.

⭑If Nami’s sitting on your left then she’d be on your right. She’d pat your back and make you some tea. (Ussop’s coffee did not make it😔)

⭑After the talk, she became your therapist (w/h Nami. 2 heads are better than one they say.

⭑Will try to keep an ear out for you when you disappear on her POV and in an unknown place. (Yes an EAR)

⭑Franky was SUPERRRR shocked. Like Robin, he knew you were hiding something either. But he didn’t push through. Your business is your business.

⭑Would be the one bombing the celestial dragon’s ship.

⭑While you were explaining your past, Franky was crying loudly and was playing sad music in the corner. (He had to get moved since his crying ws louder than ur voice)

⭑After the incident, nothing major really changed your dynamic.

⭑You both were still goofy and you’d still do the “SUPERRR” pose with him.

⭑But even so, Franky is still glad that your past didn’t affect the present negatively; instead, it made you stronger.

⭑Brook is another person who'll be shocked.

⭑He didn't think much about everyone's past. He likes to mind his own business and when someone opens up to him, he'll listen wholeheartedly and give some advice.

⭑So when you open up to the whole crew he'll just listen. He'd give some side comments here and there but that's that.

⭑Like Franky, nothing would change with your dynamic. He might be a little protective but he knows that you could handle yourself.

⭑The moral of the story is to find someone like Brook.

⭑Jimbei would be mad mad AF

⭑He's Luffy but 10x worse when it comes to the celestial dragon topic.

⭑He was never captured as a slave, but as a member of the Fishman species, he understands the immense hardships that must have been inflicted upon them. Being subjected to torture at the hands of one's kind was an even more maddening experience.

⭑But even so, Jimbei would be happy that you're finally free and is with the crew.

⭑After your discussion with the group, he would politely excuse himself and usher you into a private conversation. His demeanor would resemble that of an older brother, emanating a deep sense of care and understanding, while also imparting his valuable knowledge.

⭑Safe to say you have another buddy to talk with.

A/n: I LOVE JIMBEI SO MUCH.

[bountydroid]

Darlin' pt 7

pt 1 / pt 2 / pt 3 / pt 4 / pt 5 / pt 6 / pt8

Cooper Howard/The Ghoul x f!reader (SMUT)

Description: After a close call Cooper gives in to his feelings for Reader.

Notes: This chapter is half smut. For those who don’t want that I don’t think you’d miss anything of importance in the story if you skip it.

TW: p in v, unprotected sex, irradiated cream pie, pretty vanilla (sorry pervs lol love you I'm just not good at smut).

His scarred lips were rough against mine, one of his hands on my hip the other tangled in my hair. This was a moment I dreamed about my entire life. Someone who cares about me was never something I thought I’d have. While having a couple of fleeting flings here and there with my brother's friends, I never had a true romance. This feeling? It was straight out of one of my novels. When he finally pulled away, I couldn't help but let out a breathy sound of dissatisfaction. He gave me a teasing smile before taking the vials from my hand and shoving them into his bag.

"Let's go find you some Radaway, Darlin'. We’ll have ya feelin' better in no time." He said as he grabbed my hand and pulled me into the building.

"Thank god Lucy left the door open." I thought to myself as we made our way inside. 

The place was huge and felt like a relic of the past. The rundown storefronts and flickering lights left much to be desired. I pushed my body against Cooper's back as an uneasy feeling settled in the pit of my stomach. Noticing my discomfort, he gave my hand a small reassuring squeeze. He was still in bad shape, clear as day, as he stumbled through the building.

After some exploration, we came across a room full of bodies. "Didn't know Lucy was capable of this." I gasped.

"I imagine these fellas did most of it." He said, kicking the boot of one of the men on the ground. He was holding a gun, but it didn't seem to have done him much good. While Cooper scanned the bodies, looking for anything of value, I started to wander over to some of the other rooms. One room in particular caught my eye, some of the things inside reminding me of the medical center we found Roger in.

"Don't go far," Cooper said as he huffed another vial before rummaging through the men's pockets.

"I won't," I mumbled as I looked back at him one more time before entering the room. I swallowed nervously as I looked around the room before setting my sights on some drawers in a cabinet. After some searching, I could some syringes with the word "Radaway" written on the side. 

"Found some!" I said happily as I made my way back to Cooper to find him shoving vials of Jet into his hat. “That's so much!" I yelled in shock.

The happiness radiating from the two of us could have probably lit up a city. He looked up at me with the biggest smile I have ever seen on him before his eyes flitted to the syringe in my hand. He dropped his hat on the ground as he held out his hand expectantly. 

"Let me help you with that." He stated.

I was perfectly capable of injecting myself, but I liked the idea of Cooper taking care of me, so after a moment of hesitation I passed it to him. While he was looking over the syringe, almost like he was making sure it wasn't fake, I took the time to look over his face. REALLY look it over. His leathery tan skin and his beautiful hazel eyes. I knew that many people looked at him with disgust, but I don't think that after getting to know him I could ever think of him as anything other than beautiful. I was so lost in thought I barely registered the needle going into my arm.

"There," He said with a satisfied tone. "All better."

"Thanks, Coop." I beamed up at him. I had some Radaway, Cooper had a lot of Jet, and he finally kissed me. Everything felt perfect. 

Cooper knelt down to pick back up his hat when something caught his eye. A rectangular black box with glass on the front. 

"What is that?" I asked curiously.

"That, darlin'." He responded, a look of shock on his face, "That is a television."

I ruminated on the word, trying to figure out if I knew it from anywhere as he grabbed something and inserted it into the television. He slowly made his way to the couch and plopped down. The expression on his face was something I couldn't recognize. Amazement? I sat down next to him as I looked at the television curiously, whatever it was it was affecting Cooper. The box sprang to life, lighting up as he pressed a button on the controller he was holding. The television played a video. "Of course!" I thought to myself as I remembered the stories of moving pictures. The man on the video reminded me a lot of Cooper. The western attire, the confidence, and of course the gun he was holding. 

"Reminds me of you," I said innocently, not realizing the weight of my words.

"Nah, He ain't nothin' like me." He said quietly before looking over at me to scan my face before looking back at the video.

The man in the video was talking and I was trying to pay attention, I really was, but It was so long since I had sat anywhere but the ground, and while under normal circumstances I would call the couch uncomfortable, it felt like the most comfortable thing in that moment. I put my head on Cooper's shoulder and yawned. 

"Tired already, sugar?" Cooper teased.

"Maybe a lil' bit," I admitted. "I could stay up a bit longer, though."

"For what?" He mused, almost like he knew what I was thinking. 

I giggled, blush coating my cheeks as I whispered, "Maybe some more kissing?"

He hummed happily before pulling me onto his lap. I yelped in surprise at his sudden movement, grasping at his shoulders. “Now why would you want to kiss lil’ old me?” He was mostly joking, but an undertone of seriousness hung in the air.

“A better question is why wouldn’t I want to kiss you, Cooper? You are strong, you take care of me, you are handsome-“ I started to explain.

He scoffed, interrupting me. “I ain’t handsome.”

“You are!” I try to explain, “You have pretty eyes.” I said like I did days ago, back when he barely tolerated me. “And the way ya hold yourself is very… sexy.”

His eyes snapped up to mine, they were darkening, hungry. The embarrassment coursed through me and I could hardly stand it, so I buried my face in his neck.

“Awww getting shy, sugar?” He mocked. Before I could respond I felt his lips on my cheek. He stayed there for a moment before he started trailing down my neck, leaving tiny kisses in his wake.

I sighed happily as I pushed myself closer to him. I could’ve stayed that way forever, but Cooper had other plans. His hands were still on my hips from when he pulled me onto him. He slowly started to massage them before pressing me harder down on his lap. I let out a sound that was a mixture between a yelp and a moan.

“You like that?” He whispered in my ear.

I shook my head yes, my face still hidden in his neck.

“I wanna see you, darlin’.” He stated, his southern drawl slurred. He wasn’t demanding it, the tone in his voice was soft and hesitant, like he was worried he was going to scare me off.

Holding my breath I slowly pushed myself up. I was sure my face was red as a tomato as I made eye contact with him. When our eyes met, it felt like a damn had been released, lust flowing through me. “Coop,” I whisper before I start moving my hips on my own.

He let out a growl as he squeezed at my plush hips. “So soft.” He said.

“All for you, I’m all for you,” I say before crashing my lips into his.

The kiss was heady and passionate, I felt like I was drowning in him.

“Too many clothes,” I mumble against his mouth. Before I started to tug at his tattered duster jacket.

“I agree,” he sighed. Instead of helping me with his jacket, he ripped my hands from him and quickly tugged off my shirt, almost tearing it in the process. He sucked in a breath as he took in my bare chest. It was a sight to behold. Hair messy, half naked, and pupils blown. There was no way he could question if I wanted him, not anymore.

“God damn.” He groaned before leaning forward to kiss my chest. It’s like he wanted to kiss every inch of my body and I was starting to get impatient.

“Stop your teasin’,” I grumbled out, tugging at his jacket again.

This time, he obliged, quickly shucking it off before his hands started fumbling at his vest buttons. I cursed at him for wearing so many layers. I took this time to slide off his lap to take off my boots and pants, leaving me in nothing but my underwear. His hands stuttered as he threw off his vest and pulled off his shirt, distracted by the view in front of him.

“You, sugar, are way too good for me.” He muttered, his hands reaching out to pull me back onto his lap.

I moaned at the feeling of his rough jeans rubbing against me through my underwear. I could feel myself getting wetter, smearing my arousal on his pants. I rubbed my hands down his scarred chest before finding myself fiddling with his buckle.

“You want me?” I asked as I bit my lip. “Then take me.”

This seemed to flip a switch in him as he quickly spun me around so my back was on the couch. He hovered over me before kissing me fervidly. I undid his belt before popping open the button on his pants. He briefly pulled away from me to pull on his pants completely before slotting himself back on top of me.

“Darlin’,” he moaned as he rubbed his erection against my core.

I was so lost in the feeling I could barely respond, “Yeah?” I moaned out.

“There was more Radaway, right?” He asked. It was sweet that even in his lustful state he was still worried about me.

“Yes, Coop.” I responded, “Now fuck me already.”

He chuckled before mocking me, “So eager.”

He continued to tease me as he slowly pulled down my underwear, kissing down my legs as he went. I started to get dizzy, the arousal was becoming too much to bear. Finally, he pulled my panties off completely, kissing his way back up my body. I widened my legs as far as they could go, silently beckoning him inside of me. I heard him curse under his breath before slowly pushing himself into me. We let out moans in tandem, reveling in the feeling.

I put my hand on the back of his head and pulled him down so our foreheads were knocking against each other. I looked deeply into his eyes before I started to plead, “Fuck me, Cooper. Make me feel good. Please!”

“I could never say no to you.” He whispered before sheathing himself completely, his head brushing against that sweet spot inside of me.

He gave me a peck on the lips before trailing down my neck again, sucking as he went. The idea of having marks on me that everyone would see made me moan loudly. He was claiming me as his. I started to wiggle, silently begging him to move. After a few moments, he gave in, starting slow. It was intimate, sweet even. He wasn’t fucking me he was making love to me. He had barely started but I was already a babbling mess. Repeating his name like a prayer I begged for him to go faster. It didn’t take long for him to oblige, picking up his pace. The sounds of skin slapping against skin filled the room. The bodies on the floor were long forgotten as we got lost in each other.

“Y/n,” he groaned my name, causing me to squeeze around him. “Sugar, you keep feeling this good I’m not gonna last long.”

I was feeling too good to respond, letting out soft squeaks and moans as he pistoned in and out of me. He snaked his hand down my body to start rubbing at my clit, causing my body to tremble. I was close and he knew it, trying to get me to the edge before he arrived there himself.

“Cooper!” I cried out as I convulsed underneath him, succumbing to the pleasure. I could hear him swearing above me before he stilled, letting out one last moan as he came inside of me.

The both of us were breathing heavily. Saying we were exhausted would have been an understatement. He took a moment before starting to pull out of me. I let out a sad whimper at the lack of contact, grasping at his arms. He let out a breathy laugh at my actions. “I’ll be back.” He said, reassuring me. I watched him with half-lidded eyes as he went into the medical room for a moment before coming back to me with another syringe of Radaway.

I snorted, “That could have waited.”

He didn’t respond, instead opting to give me a smirk before sinking the needle into my arm. Once he was done he grabbed ahold of me, rolling us over so he was underneath me on the couch.

As he was rubbing reassuring circles on my back he told me, “Sleep, darlin’.”

I hummed happily into his chest before giving way to his request.

Tag list: @bruhidkjustwannaread @msrawog @valdemarismynonbinarylove @whizbang-cap @topiramateagreeable @sitkafay @lightan117 @eykismyfav @ajeff855 @madelinealexandra @justme12200 @sihlaryn @raviolisenpai @ellabellabunny123 @impossessedbyjeongyeon @leviathanleva @v3lv3tf0x @fallout-girl219 @savanahc @booksbabes @gauky76 @green--beanie @fanfictiongirly23 @gobbodoggo @erissco @helveticabold @katgirl05 @tfamidoingwithmylife @miketastic25 @alex-does-art-things

[enchantedanimal]

All of the QSMP eggs as dragons!

Now for my design notes/headcanons! (There's a lot lol)

- The color pallettes are (for the most part) based off of their parent/parents. In lore terms, l'd imagine that more time they spent around their parents before they hatched, the more their color developed to mimic them. It would usually be used as a survival strategy with their dragon parents, however sometimes their personality overcomes this and they develop their own color.

- Being dragonets, none of them can fly due to their currently underdeveloped wings.

- Tilin's yellow spots would make Quackity think that Wilbur was supposed to be the other parent.

- Tallulah's colors/features are close to that of a duck. It would likely be a coincidence, but it'd be enough to Quackity to feel like the island was mocking him.

- Tallulah's "hair" is feathers. She's the only one with feathers, and it may either be a cause or effect of her being left in the attic (possibly being mistaken to be an egg from a different species and not a dragon, or the coldness of the attic caused feathers to form).

- Tallulah and Tilin have the same colored eyes since Quackity once said that she reminds him of Tilin.

- Chayanne has fins bc he likes doing mlg water bucket clutches and fishing with Missa.

- Chayanne's tail fin, Leonarda's ear, and Richarlyson's wing are ripped in a spot due to loosing a life. Bobby lost one of his after I designed him but one of his horns would be chipped, and forgot Ramón only had one as well so let's just pretend he's got a scar on his left leg lol.

- Its kinda subtle, but Chayanne has protruding bottom canines, similar to my (and many others') Techno design.

- Fun fact that usually in my style I have the neck spines start from the top of the head. Ramon is purposely "bald".

- Ngl I don't have much to say about Trump bc he died so quick (rip) and I never saw much about him; but his hat is too big for his head.

- Bobby is a wyvern bc it's easier to slap everyone with his wings. He also headbutts and slaps ppl with his tail (those hurt more).

- Bobby's colors are less based after his parents, but the orange/blue complementary colors are kinda more of a nod to Jaiden being an artist (which doesn't make a whole lot of sense now idk my brain just defaulted to that), but feel they match his personality as well. Also his scleras (part of eye that's not the iris/pupil) are black unlike the rest who's are normal.

- Leonarda has a tiny mushroom pin on her hat and their back has mushroom-like spots for the hat she always wears.

- People keep saying that Leo somehow looks like Foolish which is funny bc that wasn't even intentional- in fact was worried that she would be one of the only ones who didn't resemble her parents enough. I did try to make her slightly taller but I'm going to guess that it's the jawline lol

- [Edit bc I just thought of it] Leo's wings are bigger bc they've grown faster due to using them more to glide off of Foolish's/Veg's builds

- Dapper is built to be more bipedal than quadrupedal (their dewclaws on their back feet act more like a normal toe for better traction/ stabilization). This makes it easier to grab (or steal) things for their collection. And hold a taser.

- Richarlyson is based after an iguana! thought it would fit well (it's kinda hard to base him off of 5 different people lol)

- Had to go off of a secondhand info + auto translations (I can understand a decent amount of Spanish but have no idea when it comes to Portuguese so this could be off) but think there was something about Richarlyson having a bad leg both in and out of rp, and think maybe Cellbit said something about him having a prosthetic for it and I thought that was so so cool! It's based semi loosely off of a dog hind leg prosthetic and a human running one; probably wouldn't actually be functional but tried to keep the general shape of the leg.

- Richas and his dads cover it in stickers :)

- Juanaflippa's tail and probably the lower half of her front legs (which aren't visible) are semi transparent from Charlie (yellow comes from Mariana), and it shifts around a bit! It looks more like slime than it feels like it. I've been calling her Bananaflippa endearingly

- Gegg intentionally looks like Juanaflippa a bit (but he's way more slimy)

- Gegg's inventory basically consists of him absorbing random things which are sometimes visible (he is so full of avocado toast). He's like Bob from Monsters vs Aliens or smth idk haven't seen that movie in forever.

There some smaller less exciting details and other headcanons I have for them (such as extra accessories they'd have like Tallulah wearing sweaters) but that's about it! Feel free to ask about anything I like talking about them lol

[2cool4ghoul]

I can dream, can't I?

Part 2 <3

AO3 link <3

This is my first time uploading anything like this, this dried up old cowboy got me feeling some kind of way! felt like joining the club! I was hoping for this to be multiple parts (featuring pre war Cooper and the ghoul) if anyone is interested in that, let me know!!!!!

word count: 4,349

Summary: You've spent the last few years after escaping your vault roaming the wastelands, doing whatever it is that you need to do to get by. Before the bombs dropped you were a model/singer, which is were you met western movie star Cooper Howard! You two spent the last few months before the bombs dropped falling in love but the bombs put a pin in that. But one day amongst the endless days spent walking, you come across a crazily familiar cowboy....

warnings: 18+, fingering, oral (fem receiving), swearing, minimal violence, if you want a part 2 there will be p in v, restraints, not yet edited.

<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3<3

Whilst the sun proved itself unbearable on most days, today had been particularly blistering. 

Traveling through the wasteland alone, on little to no water, with zero companionship had started to take its toll on you and you were sure you were becoming delirious. Your canteen had ran dry a couple miles back, the nearest town was unimaginably far, and you could’ve sworn you’d already passed that mound of dried yellowing grass. 

Refusing to admit you were lost, you dug your feet into the sand, one step at a time, panting and wiping the sweat from your brow. It was times like this that made you wish you’d never left your Pip-boy behind in the vault when you made your dramatic exit. What once served as a constant reminder of the vaults would’ve now been your best chance at survival. 

You shudder whenever memories of your vault come to mind. The experiments and test you had endured had left enough scars on your body to make you forget what your skin looked like before everything. 

Before the bombs had dropped you had been plastered on every other billboard, advertising whatever suspicious product had been shoved in your hands that day. You’d once had dreams of becoming a singer, but that had been stripped away from you in the midst of a messy divorce with none other than the head of RobCo himself. He’d sought to ruin what was left of your dreams in anyway that he could, even if that meant freezing you for god knows how many years and letting men play their cruel games with you in the name of science. These memories were often punctuated with plans of revenge and carefully thought out methods of torture that would yield the most excruciating pain. There was lots of time to think and to plan when wandering the wasteland, so you knew you’d be ready when the time came.

A sadistic grin was wiped from your lips when a distant scream snapped you from your planning. You paused for a moment, frowning whilst trying to figure out from what direction the commotion was coming from. Gunshots were fired, igniting excitement in your belly at the thought of a possible fight, something to break the monotony of walking all day and night long. Once you’d figured out the location of whatever was going on, you paced in its direction, a large dune of sand providing you with a height advantage. The grunts and growls of a creature grew louder, frantic shouts of panic coming from a women. 

You could immediately identify the creature by its ungodly noises, however when the scene came into view, you were still impressed with yourself for being correct. A deathclaw had chosen two wanderers as its victims. One appeared to be a vaultie, still in her nearly pristine blue and yellow suit, making you scoff a little. The other, a ghoul dressed in a cowboy get up, his hat having been knocked to the side as he tried his very best to fight of the beast which was barely flinching at the bullets being torn into its skin. The Vaultie had been holding up a tranquilliser gun, which was doing little to deter the deathclaw from sizing up its next meal, managing to swipe her back into the sand with a thud. It then set its eyes on the ghoul, slowly stalking up to them as they hastily reloaded their gun. 

After a few moments of deciding on the next course of action, whether to let the laws of nature take their course or to intervene, you decided on intervening. No matter how hard you’d try to forget it, you too had once been a vaultie trying to survive and would’ve begged on your knees for help. Or maybe you had just become soft. Swiftly, you pulled your shotgun from over your shoulder, lifting it and shutting one eye to aim correctly. You squeezed and pulled the trigger, right as it jumped to pounce on the ghoul. Your first bullet lodged itself into the side of the creatures face, and you shot another bullet right between the eyes, leaving it slumped on the floor beside the ghoul, who was now laying on his back, catching his breathe. It took a moment for the two strangers to locate who had saved them as you stood atop the dune, shotgun still in hand, blinking at them with an unreadable expression. Despite saving their lives, you didn’t trust that they wouldn’t turn on you, so you kept your gun in hand, breathing steadily.

“Thank you, stranger! I surely thought that was the end!” The Vaultie beamed up at you, wide eyes showing their relief, the grin plastered across her face, showing too much innocence. 

“My pleasure, sugar!” You called back down, your southern accent thicker than it used to be, surprising you even when you spoke. “You two best keep your wits about ya, not everyone out here is as willin’ to lend a helpin’ hand to those in need.” 

“We will certainly keep that in mind!” She glanced over at you and then over to the ghoul who was staring at you with wide eyes, his hat in hand, frozen in place. 

“Well,” You began making your way down the dune, walking carefully with the gun still in hand due to the Ghoul’s out of sorts reaction to your help, “You wouldn’t happen t’have any water you could share, in exchange fo’ saving your lives?” You tilted your head, diverting your attention to the Vaultie, flashing her one of your signature starlet grins, fluttering your lashes. 

“Of course!” She swung her back pack off her shoulder, also choosing to ignore the staring from the silent Ghoul, “I’m not too confident about how clean it is, but it is sure to quench your thirst!” She scrambled for her canteen before passing it in your hands eagerly. 

“Thank you, sweet girl.” You tipped your head to her before sipping, coolly, trying not to show how desperately you needed this. Whilst taking your last sip, your eyes got caught in the stare of the Ghoul, feeling him looking you up and down, examining your body and the tattered dress and cowboy boots, taking in every bit of you, eyes still as wide. “What’s tha matter with him?” You pressed as you passed the canteen back, “Looks like he’s seen a ghost.” Teasing, the Vaultie mirrored your confused expression.

“I think I have.” His voice was deep, the southern drawl faintly recognisable. He had finally gotten up to his feet, still standing a safe distance away from you. You took this as an opportunity to stare him down now. His face was marred and textured, his prominent bone structure told you before the effects of radiation took their toll, that he’d been rather handsome. Underneath the many layers of his clothes, a fade blue collar peeked out. You stood in silence, the pressure of his thick glare finally becoming all to much, your hand ghosting over your holster.

“Didn’t your mama teach you it was rude t’stare, old man?” Your tone was now threatening, “are we gonna have a problem?” Licking your lips, you readied yourself, the tension rising as you took a step closer. 

“Now, is that anyway to speak to your sherif?” He lowered his voice, so only you could hear him, also taking a step closer, the gap between you so small you could feel his breath fanning over your face. He stood much taller than you, intimidating in his stance, you had to tip your head back and look at him through your eyelashes, furrowing your brows.

“Cooper?...” You stuttered through your own confusion, your head leaning to the side slightly. At this close proximity you were able to properly look into his unchanged eyes. The glowing whiskey colour, twinkling in the hot sun. Immediately recognisable. “Oh, now you’ve got to be fucking kiddin’ me?” You laughed a sinister laugh, as a smug smirk played out over his lips. 

Catching him by surprise, you shoved him by both shoulders, sending him stumbling and falling back to the ground. You were quick to straddle his waist, pulling a knife from its holster attached to your thigh. “I’m gonna fucking kill you!” You threatened, he grabbed your wrists in protest, “You fucking knew, you told me I was crazy and you fucking knew all along!” 200 years of grief and longing and anger faltered at your lips, unable to form a full sentence as you both struggled on the floor. The Vaultie had chosen not to intervene, a couple ill attempts at deescalating the situation fell upon death ears. 

“Goddammit, darlin!” Cooper managed to hold both your wrist in one hand, pinning them behind your back. He flipped to two of you over, so he was firmly on top of you, the knife dropping from your hand as you fought back tears. You wriggled in his grip, eyes glassy, refusing to meet his own eyes. “You died, you had some awful crash, I went to your funeral.” He hissed at you, “What’re you doin’ here?” You stopped moving, stopping wriggling, the penny finally dropping. You sighed relaxing your body. He took note of this, his body falling next to you tired. You didn’t want to answer his question, sitting upright, deciding to leave the situation. 

“Not to intrude, but can someone tell me whats going on?” His companion waved awkwardly, finally taking a step closer to the two of you. You weren’t one to jump to conclusions but you looked back at Cooper and then at the girl, a sly chuckle leaving your lips.

“God, coop, you really are a dog, aren’t ya?” Raising an eyebrow at him, you shook your head, pushing yourself of the ground. “Well, you’ve certainly found yourself shacked up with a real man, miss…?” You spoke sarcastically, picking your knife from the floor, setting back into its sheath, gesturing for her name.

“Oh, my names Lucy-“ She put out her hand to shake yours before she was interrupted.

“Maclean.” It was spoken through gritted teeth, Cooper standing up, staring you down as you kissed your teeth.

“As in Henry Maclean?”

“Yeah, he’s my dad, I apologise in advance for what he did to you.” Lucy’s voice trailed off and she looked down, scuffing her feet. 

“We’re looking for him, haven’t seen him have ya?” Cooper was now standing by your side.

“No can’t say I have, I best be off,” His pointed glare looked at you unsure, untrusting of your decision to leave, “now you two have fun!” Turning you back to the both of them, you started walking in the opposite direction, ignoring any further protests, your name being called after you.

There was a slight scratch felt on your back, just below your shoulder. Stopping in your tracks, you reach round to pull out a small syringe. A scoff leaving your lips, the world around you deteriorating around you and melting into darkness. Your knees weakened and you fell directly to the ground, everything turning black just before your head made contact with the sand beneath you.

 ———————————————————————————————————————————

When you awoke, the room was dark and open, the warm glow of a fire illuminating one corner, casting a flickering orange shadow on the wall. Your head was throbbing, your body aching, you went to lift your arms to rub your eyes. However, you quickly came to realise you had been tied around the waist with rope, arms restrained behind your back, slumped in a chair which was close to falling apart. You writhed against your restraints, huffing before looking up and realising you were not alone in the room. 

Cooper was sat opposite the fire, the brim of his hat covering his eyes. “Sleeping’ beauty finally woken up?” You didn’t respond, simply staring him down looking at him past furrowed brows. “didn’t want to tranq ya, sweetheart, but you’re not gettin’ away that easy.” He smirked, leaving his position opposite the fire, slowly wandering over to you, the clatter of his spurs echoing in the empty room. “We got some catching up to do, do we not?” He now stood in front of you, the velvety drawl of his voice sounding better than you remember.

“M’not giving in that easy, Coop.” A smirk fluttered over you lips, blinking up at him through your lashes, sitting back in the chair to pretend at being comfortable.

“No? Of course you wouldn’t,” chuckling, he placed a gloved hand on your chin, forcing you to stare him in the eyes, “you wouldn’t be the lady I remembered so fondly if you did.” There was a chair that he dragged from out of you view, placing it in front of you, sitting down with his legs spread opposite you. “Now, you gonna tell me how you’re still here, lookin’ exactly how I left you, or am I gonna have to do this the hard way?” He spoke quietly, his elbows resting on his knees, leaning in closer to you. 

“I’m not telling you shit.” Your chest rose and deflated with every heavy breath you took, his gaze becoming almost as unbearable as the sun earlier that day. He tutted, leaning back, your eyes taking any chance they could to steal a glance between his thighs. He was pretending not to notice but you knew he did. This was the beginning of a sick game. One you definitely wanted to play. 

Licking his lips, he looked you up and down, tied up in your chair, squeezing your thighs together. For a moment there was silence, just the crackling of the fire. “What am I gonna do with you?” He muttered to himself as you sat firm in your silence 

“I can’t help you, Cooper, I don’t have the information you need.” You spoke matter of fact, and it was partly true. You knew nothing of Macleans whereabouts, you didn’t even know he was still kicking about.

“And what do you know about what information I need, huh?” He pondered, pulling a canteen of water from his coat pocket, your body stiffening at the sight of it. He raised it to his lips, slowly, eyes never leaving yours, even as drops littered down his chin, rolling down his neck. God, you could’ve jumped out of your chair and licked up those drops, drinking the water straight from his mouth. Your jaw fell slightly slack at the sight of it, the thoughts of sucking it up making your hips grind slightly in his direction, begging for any friction. This of course did not go unnoticed, for a sadistic chuckle left his chest, deep and inviting. “My oh my, you always were like a bitch in heat,” his tongue ran across his teeth, “you thirsty, lil’lady?” He gestured the canteen your way, “All you gotta do is ask for it.” 

You maintained your burning eye contact, pressing your lips together and nodding. “Gotta use your words,” getting up from his chair, he stalked his way over to you, making you crane your head up, basically panting for him, “go on, girl, ask for it.” He was enjoying this way too much.

“Give me some water.” You almost growled, the canteen so close to your lips, immediately pulled away.

“You need me to teach you some manners, girlie?” He was frowning, standing slightly behind you, just in view, “ask nicely.” 

“Can I have some water?” You were restless and if you squeezed your legs shut anymore your legs would be trembling, throbbing with your underwear damp with arousal. A light slap was planted against your cheek, not enough to hurt, but enough to send a shiver down your spine. “I’m not begging for it, Cooper.” Your tone was firm, but not firm enough to be truthful.

“Is that so?” His hand had moved down to your neck, grabbing firmly and tilting your head back so you could see him standing behind you, canteen in one hand. “Then you’re not gettin’ any.”

He kept a hold of you, like a wild animal, whilst he took another gulp of water, droplets dripping from his mouth pattering on your forehead and cheeks. Your mouth fell open, in the hopes of catching some, but you failed, only earning a throaty laugh from Cooper. “Christ, women, Look at you!” You’re cheeks flushed red with shame, humiliated with the mess you were. “You know what you gotta say-“

“Please Cooper Howard, I am begging you, Please!” You whined, close to tears as he raised where his eyebrows had been, watching you finally give in, pleased with himself. “Please.” You repeated breathing heavily. Your mouth dry, tongue running over your lips.

“Open wide, angel.” He mumbled, grip on your neck loosening ever so slightly. He tipped the contents into your mouth, water had never tasted so good, you let out relieved moans as you were replenished, not caring for the water that was spilling down your chest, falling between your breasts.

Whilst you took a moment to release a sigh of relief, the hand around your neck began traveling down, causing the tension to immediately rise back up. “That wa’nt so hard was it?” The depth of his voice and his accent leaving you quivering. His hand found its way to your breast, cupping and squeezing it, your back arching to his touch. He had been the last man to touch you like this, all those 200 years ago, and you’d dreamt of it ever since. You had never imagined you’d be lucky enough to experience it again. Yet, just as quick as his touch was on you, it left. You furrowed you brows, turning to try and meet his gaze with a pout, yet he was walking back out in front of you. Your bottom lip was tugged between your teeth as he had a sly grin on his lips. If your lips weren’t saying it, your big eyes were pleading with him to give you something else. Painfully slowly, he dropped to his knees in front of you, and your body involuntarily scooted to the edge of the seat, embarrassed by your own eagerness.

Despite him still being the man you’d once known somewhere in there, he’d been changed undoubtedly by his years of wandering. You shouldn’t be attracted to him anymore in the way you were. It was shameful of you to be this eager and will for him. Begging for any slight touch. Begging for a ghoul to give you something for your aching cunt to squeeze around.

“Why don’t you be a good girl and spread those legs of yours, show me what I been dreamin’ ‘bout?” Dripping with lust, he ordered whilst pushing your dress up around your waist. Doing as you were told, you opening your legs, being slightly shy. “No use being shy now, girl, open ‘em wide for this o’cowboy.” His annoyance only spurred you on, spreading them as wide as you could in the chair. “Goddamn,” He hissed, running his bare finger tips over your clothed arousal, the material slick and wet, “Your pretty lil’ pussy, practically dripping for me,” he groaned while pulling the fabric to one side, eyes taking in the sight of you panting, mouth wide, spreading your legs like a good girl, “all over a drop o’water?” He had a smirk on his new wet lips, that you just wanted to slap off. You thought for a moment of clenching your thighs around his head and neck and choking him out, yet you figured he’d enjoy that too much for it to be a form of punishment. 

When his mouth kissed against your inner thighs, you whispered a gasp, thighs finally trembling giving in to showing him how desperate you were for him. He was being cruel, teasing you and testing your limits. He refused to give into what you wanted without hearing you beg for it once more, taking immense pleasure in seeing you quivering and leaning into his slightest touch. His lips ghosted over where you needed him most, your eyes growing glassy, your stomach burning with desire, body aching from the tension you so needed releasing.

“Oh god, Cooper please, I need you so much, I’m achin’, it hurts, I need you.” Your words came out quickly, breathlessly, surprising the two of you, wiggling against the restraints, wishing to just grab his head and shove it into your grinding heat. He glanced up at you for moment, “please, I cant take this anymore.” You shook your head. “I’ll tell you anythin’ you want, please, just… just give me something.” A blanketed layer of sweat had ran over your body, glistening in the dimming glow of the unattended fire.

“You gon’ be a good girl f’me?” He looked at you sternly, his breath fanning over where you needed him most.

“I’ll be so damn good, I promise, I’ll do anything you want me to.” Swallowing down whatever was left of your pride, you scooted even closer to him and he hummed closing his eyes for a moment.

“I could listen to you beggin’ f’me all day.” He finally gave in.

His tongue lapped against you, a moan finally escaping you, He’d taken your thighs and rested them over his shoulders, full delving into you. His tongue dipped into you and you mewled. You so desperately wanted to touch him, pull him closer. The tension boiling within you was dangerously close to spilling over, embarrassingly fast. “God,” his voice vibrated against you, “You taste even sweeter than I remember, my sweet sweet girl.” He was in complete bliss, giving into a self indulgent spree of groans, sucking you in trying to taste as much as possible. Your thighs knock off his hat, yet neither go you seem to notice. He sucked at your clit, finding the sweet spot that he always knew so well, causing you to writhe and curse his name.

“Oh, Cooper, I’m gonna… oh please!” His hands dug into your thighs, leaving red marks that would definitely leave a bruise in their wake. He maintained his actions, until one hand reach round, finger tip tapping your clit whilst his tongue dug into you, readying himself to taste you as you came undone. 

“You gon’ cum for me, darlin?” He cooed.

This was enough to set you over the edge, “Oh my god, fuck!” You rocked forward, like a women possessed, as you clenched and squeezed shaking and shivering for him. Gulping for air, you were seeing stars, “There you go, attagirl.” He groaned, working you through you orgasm as the tension in your body released, your limbs relaxing. You were whimpering, expecting to feel his presence leaving you. However he remained, the pace of his fingers on your clit was fastening. Your back straightened, wishing you could relish in the release for longer before he started again. “I need a moment.” You panted and he looked up at you, pulling his face away, the sheen of his orgasm on his lips.

“No can do, sweetheart,” shaking his head, knelt in front of you, “I’m not finished with you yet.” Your eyes widened, gulping for air, mouth dry again. 

The finger was gone from your clit, pushing its way inside you as you threw your head back welcoming its entrance. “Besides, looks like youre takin’ it just fine to me.” His cocky voice was barely audible over the moans as he rutted his finger into you. He forced another digit in, slowly testing you with the feeling of pulling them all the way out and then all the way in again, knuckle deep in your cunt. You ground your hips against his fingers, eyes rolling back into your head, “God, look at you, fucking yourself on my fingers, you needy lil girl.” He tutted at you, dumbfounded by your willingness.

He curved his fingers, grazing against the spot which made you arch your back, “right there, sweetheart?” There was a gentleness in his voice, looking up at you as you clenched all your muscles against the rope, tied way to well for you to break free.

“Mmhmm, right there, cowboy.” You forced your words out, struggling to cope with the pleasure rushing through your body. Eyes squeezed shut, clenching around his fingers, fighting another orgasm with all your might, trying not to give in so easily this time. “I want you so bad.” You groaned and he went slightly rigid.

“Lets not move too fast now.” His jaw clenching, his own restrained demeanour threatening to break and snap. His quickened his pace with his fingers, trying to distract himself from the aching bulge of his own. “Don’t hold out on me, princess, I can feel how close you are, the way you squeezing round these fingers, come for me one more time.” He growled it, thrusting his hips into nothing, watching the way you were unraveling and moaning his name. He hadn’t expected you to be so eager, the rough exterior very different to the man you’d fallen in love with. 

The ever-growing tension was released once more, heart pounding in your chest, eyes rolling back until they’re were squeezed shut, cursing profanities and taking the lords name in vain, letting out unholy noises, rope beginning to rub the skin writhing beneath it raw. “Oh Cooper Howard, don’t stop.” You continued rolling against him, the use of his full name setting his heart alight. The waves of pleasure didn’t seem to stop, his fingers riding out the high for you, body shaking with tears rolling down your cheeks. Your body was truly truly spent. You had nothing left to give except for a lazy half lidded gaze at coop who was still kneeling opposite you, proud of himself that after all this time he was still able to leave you a dripping mess, trembling for him, moaning his name. Silence filled the room, your body slumped in the chair, staring down at him. You forced a lazy smile.

“What do ya wanna know?"

[phyrestartr]

Vampire | Miguel x M!Reader

Vampire!Miguel x Reader W/C: 5.9k

#NSFW, vampires, blood, gore, violence, bottom!reader, top!Miguel, mentions of sex work, mentions of assault, it's kinda cute idk, posessive behaviour, questionable relationship, reader is morally grey, reader is lowkey a criminal though lol, Johnny Blaze = Nic Cage 5ever sorry not sorry

Note: I FINISHED IT! Lost steam with editing so some bits may be kinda weird and word-y, but I really enjoyed writing this honestly :clap: ty guys for voting for me to finish this o(--( I actually finished it so quickly wtf--

--

Vampires. Blood-sucking, man-killing, devil-calling creatures. Many feared them, even now, even after the legends of Dracula faded into obscurity and out of the minds of mortal men. But there were some who kept weary watch on the old castle looming before your meager town: older folks, the ones with bleached scars and haunted voices, with quivering hands and a phobia of the dark. 

You thought they all spun tales, convinced themselves of a time that never happened thanks to whatever their parents hushedly told them come the waning of the sun. “Don't leave the house after dark,” “be wary of the man you know not,” “pray to God for his protection,” is what you figured they'd been told. You couldn't blame them. Not really. Mass hysteria, mass lies told to the young had a penchant for warping their minds, destroying their futures. 

But still, you'd listen. Face alight with a smile, one ear turned their way as you poured drinks for whatever patron came bumbling your way that night. There was one man, one who claimed to have been touched by the devil himself, momentarily transformed into something wicked and unholy, who frequented the establishment. 

“Come on now, Johnny,” you chided with a laugh, “you don't really believe all that rubbish. Touched by the devil? You Americans really are the dramatic sort, aren't you?” 

“You don't need to believe all of it,” Johnny said mildly. “You just need to believe a sliver of it. It'll do you some good. Keep you safe.” 

You smiled to yourself as you busily made a drink for a new customer. “Yeah? Keep me safe from what, exactly?” Your eyes met his, then, and you found your blood stood in place for a moment. 

“You know what.” The devil. He'd said it too many times to count without uttering his name. “Just be smart.”

“I'm always smart,” you said with a phony laugh, the sort you used to lull women and men into some cheap sense of comfort. 

“Smart people do dumb things, too.” He took a swig of his drink before peering down at the amber pooling against crystal. “Like sneaking around old, unhallowed castles.” 

You pursed your lips. “I'm just curious, old man, you don't need to worry. I've not been inside, yeah? Just looked ‘round the outside of the old place.” That's probably filled with loads of goods. 

But Johnny only stared at you, calculating, thinking. It almost unnerved you. 

“Just be careful.” 

And in that moment, a man whose name you didn’t know, but whose body you knew too well, walked into the bar. His shoulders were impossibly broad, his frame unnaturally tall, and from the glimpses you were allowed of his face hidden away under the brim of that hat, you remembered strong lines and proud cheekbones. His eyes, a bizarre colour, always glimmered ruby in the firelight thanks to some strange disease you never quite remembered the name of, and his hair, a dark oaken hue, wisped like tendrils of shadow rolling off his strong neck. 

He didn’t look at you, but you couldn’t look away. Your gaze followed him to where he found a quiet seat off to the side by a small table. He wouldn’t order anything. He never did. He only ever waited for your shift to end. 

“Kid?” Johnny prodded, freeing you from your momentary curse.

You blinked and sputtered, nodding in earnest to whatever Johnny had said. “I–right. Careful. I’m always careful.” 

–

Just be careful.

But that was impossible with this otherworldly spirit around you, waiting for you every other night just for the sake of bedding you, and leaving before morning with nothing but a stack of bills (or sometimes some jewelry, if you were lucky) to remember him by. Your favourite client by far. Your only client, per his request.

Your fists twisted into the bedsheets as you gasped with every brutal crashing of the man’s hips against yours as he took you from behind. He was in a bad mood tonight, it seemed. Normally, he liked to take it slow, he liked to savour his meal, but for some reason–

His hand clasped over your mouth when his teeth tore into your neck again. The cry that left you was hoarse and tired, but not so surprised, no; the man had his kinks, and one just so happened to be biting. He did quite the number on you, too, always breaking skin and leaving scars and scabs in his wake. But it felt good. It felt right to be claimed. The greedy, ugly little part of your heart wanted people to know you were taken and owned by this strange, captivating man.

“Fuck, I–” You buried your face into the mattress as another orgasm hit, striking your dull nerves like hammer on hot iron thrust after thrust. Soon enough, you felt his body stutter against yours just before an uncanny, liquid gold filled your guts and seeped into your core–he was finally done. Finally. Though part of you wished it didn’t have to end. 

His teeth, the pointed, feral things, dislodged from your neck before he ran the flat of his tongue against the weeping wound. Somehow, that always staunched the bleeding. You didn’t quite understand it, but you weren’t exactly well-versed in medicine.

“Tired already?” He mocked in that smokey, American accent. “Thought the young had more than that to offer.” The purr of his voice soothed the pulsing start of a headache as you came down from your high. Yet another strange effect he had on you. 

You took a good handful of moments to catch your breath before you tried to hazard an answer. “I’m–you’re in some kind of mood, darling; can’t blame me for your brutality.” You turned your head to rest your cheek against the scratchy sheets, and the beast took the opportunity to leave nips and kisses along your jaw. 

“Tch. I’m just reminding you who you belong to. Where you belong.” Sharp teeth grazed your skin again, and you shuddered. “No one likes to see theirs fawning over another man.” 

You strained to look back at him. “You–you mean Johnny? He’s not–I wouldn’t let him bed me, are you mad?” A rough push of his hips against yours reprimanded you. “H-He’s a mate, love, that’s all.”

The man twitched. “A mate?” 

“A friend, you bloody idiot.”

He relaxed, but still sought confirmation. “A friend.”

“A friend, indeed. Father-figure, maybe.” With a bit of effort, you managed to wriggle free from the strength of the man pinning you in place, and laid on your back to gaze up at him. “I’m not interested in him, he’s not interested in men, so you needn’t worry a thing.” One of your worn hands reached up and smoothed over the curve of his sharp cheekbone, drawing a pleased hum from the chamber of the beast’s chest. 

“Fine.” He rested his weight on you, and you sighed, content and warmed. But that bony chin digging into your chest was a tad bit fucking irritating. “Then if he’s not trying to fuck you, what makes you listen to him for hours on end, hm?” Hah. Annoyed. Jealous. Quite endearing. 

“He has stories to tell,” you offered. “Words about the devil and the curse of the undead. About Dracula and that old castle.” 

The man’s brows raised in interest. “Oh? And you like ghost stories, is that it? Here I figured I'd be enough to keep your mind entertained,” he said with a taunting smirk, like he thought your suggested belief in those spooky tales was laughable. 

Heat washed over your face. “I–you–shut up, I just like me a good story, is that so wrong? Tch, stupid American.”

He laughed, a sound you adored to hell and back. “I’ll keep it in mind. Might have a few good stories up my sleeve, too.” His head tilted the slightest bit. “Maybe then your eyes won’t wander.”

“Terribly jealous one, aren’t you? I never would’ve guessed it.” You raked your hands through his hair and he sighed, deep and ancient. But your words were true–this man, your mysterious client-turned-lover, he captivated all wherever he traveled. With so many eyes on him, why did he want you to look nowhere else but to him? 

Greedy man. That’s what you decided. He wanted everything and more. 

“Other men don't get to look at what's mine,” he mumbled after a time of you pampering him with pets and scritches. “And you're mine, for the record.” 

“Hm. I quite like the sound of that.” 

“Then marry me.” 

“I'm not sure I can,” you lamented. “I find myself in trouble too often. It puts me on the run, jumping from town to city and back again.” 

“You'd never have to run again if you let me have you.” He picked himself up and loomed over you, brushing his nose against yours as he spoke against your lips. “You'd be safe, cared for, never want for anything. None of those sacks of shit would would lay a finger on you again.” His lips trailed down, brushing against the thick vein in your neck. “I think it's for the best if you agree.” 

You almost argued back, but the large hand engulfing your throat gave you pause. He didn't hurt you, no, but gave you a silent warning. The power that man held over you contradicted his weakness to your wants and desires, and twisted your thoughts into unorganized knots. 

“I'll think on it,” you breathed, not wanting to say yes but unwilling to say no. You didn't want marriage, but commitment was a tantalizing idea. You'd just never thought it'd happen to you. 

His eyes came back to yours again. Your heart fluttered at the glints of carmine shimmering in candle-lit eyes. God, he was beautiful. 

“I better like your answer.” 

–

You left. You hated doing it, you hated running from your problems and whatever seemed to haunt you day to day, but too much happened in too short a time. 

For one, the landlord demanded more and more rent money from you when he noticed your gifted jewelry and newly tailored coat, and then, when you didn't give it to him, he took to trying to get payment another way. You shot him, obviously. 

Which led to your second reason for leaving–you'd shot a man and fled the scene, unknowing if he was alive or not, and uncaring of the outcome, quite frankly. You figured the lowlife would be more pressed about the money than dying, anyway. 

And third, the bar you worked at found out you'd been swindling and stealing on the job, pocketing tips and taking home near-empty bottles to refill with something of your own design to sell on the streets. Admittedly, it was fine work, but you'd long abandoned that method of money-making once that stranger wandered into your life and offered you more cash than you could imagine.

But you liked that bar. You liked those patrons. No strings attached.

And that's why you were back. Not with the intention to stay, no; you were back to scout out the castle after getting confirmation from some university lads about how valuable the old place was. You figured you could find enough in there with the scoundrels you'd come with, and maybe you could pay the old owner back before leaving for good. 

You'd never have to run again if you'd let me have you. 

Maybe you should've just said yes.

– 

The castle stood beautifully, even with the screams of the slaughtered ringing through the halls. It was big, too, eagerly letting you get lost in its enchanting halls and inviting rooms as you tried in vain to remember the way out. 

That's when you crashed into one of the uni snobs you'd come with, Harry. He was a mess, clothes and hair out of place for once, with a spray of sticky blood coating his face and white shirt. Osborn must've seen their tormentor. 

He grabbed your shoulders as you grabbed his arms. “We have to go, we have to go–” he chanted, pulling and pushing you in undecided directions. 

“Osborn, where did you see it? Where–” Another scream gave you a hint. Your eyes snapped down the hallway, staring deep into the torchlit halls and finding nothing but the unknown staring back. 

Then, there were footsteps. Slow, methodical things that rung to a tune hidden in your memories.

“We have to go,” you whispered, like that'd help. “Osborn, we have to–” a splitting pain electrocuted your senses and sent you stumbling backwards. The world spun. Your head ached. Funeral bells shrieked. Worst of all, that dress shirt and that fancy jacket you loved so much were stained suddenly, a foul colour of darkness that reeked of pennies and iron. It took you too long to look back to the student, and to see the smoking pistol held out in his shaky hand. 

“I had to,” Osborn whispered, so, so haunted. “I had to. You understand.” And quite frankly, you did understand; wounding a lamb to leave behind for a wolf to indulge in was a sure way to let a farmer escape. 

Harry took off. You grasped your stomach and leaned hard against the wall, trying to pull yourself together to make some kind of run for it before those languid steps found you and cut your story short. But you felt so tired, so dizzy. The red weeping under your hand and the bewildered pants leaving you left you colder and colder. You wondered if Osborn had shot himself in the foot with this one (hah), killing the sacrificial lamb, rendering it useless to what was believed to be a vampire of all things. They devoured the living, not the dead. 

Clack, clack, clack. The haunting echo of fine shoes on wooden slats passed you by, then vanished all together. You collapsed to your knees and heaved in the burning air just as a deafening screech ricocheted through the halls with the echo of frantic gunfire, and the slosh of viscera. You fought back the burn of bile in your throat when you braved a look; there laid a body on the floor, and a corpse standing above it, illuminated just barely by torchlight. 

His shoulders were impossibly broad, his frame unnaturally tall–

“We could have avoided all of this,” the creature growled. 

–from the glimpses you were allowed of his face hidden in the swath of darkness around him, you remembered strong lines and proud cheekbones–

“But you didn’t listen.”

–his eyes, a bizarre colour, glimmered ruby in the firelight thanks to some strange disease you never quite remembered the name of– 

“Why couldn’t you just listen?”

–and his hair, a dark oaken hue, wisped like tendrils of shadows rolling off his strong neck.

He appeared beside you so suddenly, so soundlessly, you wouldn’t have known he approached if it weren’t for the strength of your fluttering eyelids seeking the truth. You stared hard at the tips of his leather shoes. Perhaps you should’ve known it was him all along. Perhaps you had known. 

He knelt before you and forced your chin up, making your eyes meet his as he stared down through you. Blood marred his face, matching the wine-red hue of his furious, gem-cut eyes; even like this, teeth bared, about to kill you, he was beautiful. 

“Look what you’ve done. This is your fault–”

But that beauty was wasted on such a foul-mouthed monster. 

“My fault?” You spat. “Fuck you.” You tore your chin from his grip, but his hand sought out your throat instead. “Don’t fucking touch me–”

He smiled, bitter but so wholly and infuriatingly amused before he chuckled, shaking his head. “I’ll do whatever I want with you.” And before you could lash out, before you could throw a fist at his stupid face, he yanked you in and bit.

A winter breeze rippled through you. Cold. Piercing. And you gradually froze like water dripping from the gutters, no longer able to fight back, too sluggishly slow to do anything about your fate. You breathed hard, feeling the hole in your stomach and ache of your heart weep and worsen with every shattering breath you took. Your hands, gentle in their weakness, pawed at his chest and sought a spot to dig in and hold on to for dear life as the waking world turned its back to you.

But despite the bitterness, and despite words exchanged, he held the side of your face as you faded in and out of consciousness. He called something, and a flurry of orange wisps appeared above you. 

–

You awoke to the echoes of a dream, one you hadn’t had for a while. A cloudless night where you’d been caught in bed by a taken woman’s man and beaten half to death; in return, you shredded through the man's chest with a knife from the kitchen while the wife watched on in silence. You'd been ready to kill her, too, slit her throat in one easy motion, but she never screamed, never looked at the wild animal with fear. 

Tell the police he attacked you, miss. 

Well, it wouldn't be the first time.

You fumbled through the alleys after leaving the scene, but others, foul things that roamed the streets where not even rats lingered, found you, threatened to use up the last of what you had to offer this pitiful world. It seemed as though they disappeared in the time it took you to blink, though, and a man was left, standing in their wake. He looked somewhat disheveled, like he’d just finished some grand task, but he was just so put together, too. You struggled to make sense of it, but you didn’t really care to. 

“Well, isn't that impressive,” you said with a breathless laugh. “Not a shred of blood on you. Are you the ripper the paper’s gone on and on about?”

The being glanced over his shoulder, eyes alight in curious mirth. He turned your way and stepped closer. You saw it then, the slightest bit of dark smears on his face.

“Is that what they're calling me?” He adjusted his cuffs, and rolled his shoulders. “Huh.” 

Adrenaline poured into your heart. “You're quite the dangerous man, aren't you, sir?” you swallowed thickly as you looked him over: fine shoes, expensive coat, luxurious rings. “And, ah, well-off. You wouldn't happen to be interested in spreading the wealth, hm?” 

His hand cupped your jaw, sticky with freezing blood, and he leaned in. The pungent scent of iron curled your gut as he breathed you in, making up his mind with what to do with you. Then, with the dry, warm back of his gloved hand, he caressed the side of your face and watched your eyelids flutter, devouring the simple gesture. 

“Let's see if you can convince me to.”

-

“I know you’re awake,” he mumbled.

Curiosity willed your eyes open, and you gazed down at the hollow tube connecting you to the walking corpse. You fought to ease the jump of your heart, but it became impossible when a dark red raced from the vampire's arm down into yours. 

“Is that going to make me like you?” You whispered, nerves twitching and burning with the bite of restless fire ants. 

Crimson eyes found yours and looked deep. “It won't. You can relax.” But you weren't convinced, and your lover could tell. “You'd have to drink my blood.” 

“Why're you giving me your blood, then?” 

“You'll die without it.” He pumped something, you now noticed, and realized it was what drew the blood from his veins and drained it into yours. 

Curious. “Were you a man of medicine?” 

He scoffed. “Still am.” He threw you a wary look, one brow raised. “How many more questions are you–” 

“Your name?” That was something you'd requested before, but always through a veil of uncertainty. You didn't like to ask much of him. He didn't ask much of you. But you didn't know him, yet he knew you. 

Your vampire frowned, unapproving. “What difference will it make?” 

“You asked me to fucking marry you,” you bit out. “And yet you keep so many secrets from me, still. I've given you more than I have, and you can't even–” 

“Miguel.” You both paused–him to gauge your reaction, and you out of shock. “Miguel O'hara.” 

The cracks in your chest mended, just slightly. Miguel O'hara. What a name that was. Formidable and wholly suiting the beast of a man you'd known and craved for far too many years. 

“Miguel O'hara,” you whispered, staring tiredly at the red thread connecting the two of you. The name felt good on your tongue. 

Nothing more was said, then. He must've still felt the tension in the air, or maybe the coil of apprehension in your body, for he worked on in silence, quietly saving your life for no reason. 

It was when he pulled free the needle that you found the will to break the silence on your own. 

“Why didn't you tell me?” It came out a pathetic whisper, sounding as broken as your mind felt. 

He paused before pulling the needle from his own arm. “Tell you what?” 

It was a good question. You didn't know what to ask him to elaborate on. You didn't know if you wanted him to elaborate on anything, actually, because it'd make it too real, too tangible. 

“Everything.” And when he stayed silent, you narrowed it down to just, “all of…you.” 

Miguel licked his thumb and stroked it soothingly against the pinprick of a wound while his brows furrowed and his lips twisted into something of a frown. “How could I?” You both watched the tiny dot of red cease weeping. “If you'd moved on and you knew, it could put everything at risk.” 

If I'd moved on. It felt wrong. It felt uncomfortable to know he felt that somewhere between his ribs and his heart. And for how long? How long had he not trusted you? Did he even trust you in that moment, knowing what and who he truly was? Or were you now doomed to this castle just as he was? 

“I'll let you rest,” Miguel said as he clasped his medical case shut and stood. “Lyla'll bring you food.” 

Thump, thump, thump, echoed his footsteps, those fine shoes muffled by old carpet; but the sharp clack, clack, clack in the hollow echoes of your memories, just before the truth revealed itself to you, swallowed up your thoughts.

“(Name),” Miguel said, and your eyes opened to find the tall, proud back of his silhouette stood at the door, one hand clutching the knob. “Don’t leave this room.” 

And he left you there, heart aching, mind melting, soul shattering. 

–

Solitude reminded you of what else happened. The lads you'd come here with, nothing more than acquaintances, were missing, or perhaps dead. It ate at your mind. Could you have done something different? Could you have convinced him to let them go?

More importantly, would Miguel let you leave? He claimed he wanted to marry you, but words were just words if not put to use with actions. Staying by his side would mean stomaching the fact he'd consume countless other people, wouldn't it? How were you expected to watch your partner(?), your groom-to-be(?), hold and pierce others the way he promised to you and only you?

But could you let him stay here alone, hunted and hated by believers, laughed at by the average skeptic? If you were not here, how many more would walk in on a dare, and meet a terrible end? They didn’t matter, no, but the legend of a vampire would turn more and more true, summoning devil-hunters to his doorstep, stake and flames in-hand.

The thoughts plagued you, filling your head with the terrible buzzing of bees. You couldn't fathom why you cared so much; most of your life you'd lived for your own sake, doing what needed to be done to get by, to have a better tomorrow. You hated other people. A few of them you'd personally buried six feet under, whether they were dead or lived still, and you never batted an eye. You had no patience for those who'd oppose you. 

You would have killed Osborn yourself if O’hara hadn't. And that was the truth. That'd been the truth the whole time, ever since you saw just how expensively he and the others lived; gold dripped from their tongues, silver ran through their veins, diamonds fell from their eyes. You wanted to claim a bit of that for yourself. 

And Miguel had shared his wealth with you, just in exchange for a bit of blood and your body for the night. Surely you could look past what he did to survive, even if it put your heart into a spiral. 

Lost in thought, you found your way to his chambers, freely disobeying his orders

He lounged in a clawfoot bath. Stuffy heat lulled you into a daze, something like a carefree summer evening wherein the sun took too long to vanish. Though when he noticed you approach, shedding clothes the entire way, the heat grew near unbearable.

Miguel's claws creaked against the enamel in anticipation when you stepped into the water. You watched him with the same delicate intrigue as prey investigating something that could be a threat as you found your place between his spread legs, getting close enough to feel the pounding of his undead heart. You'd only seen his body in dim candlelight or withering rays of the moon, never truly illuminated by the glow of floating chandeliers nor the collection of sconces arching from the wall.

Slowly, your fingertips dragged along muscle, warm and firm under your calloused touch. The scars littering your hands and knuckles shone so stark against his perfect complexion. He really did seem too perfect. It would have sparked jealousy in your gut if he didn't apparently belong to you, and you to him. No one else got to touch. No one else got to see. 

Now, you were built finely yourself, but the man before you was something entirely different. You didn't know if it was thanks to his supernatural existence, but his body was built in a near-animalistic way that screamed power and speed, not similar enough to a human. Though, looking back, you did always think his manners in bed were more beast than man. The growling, the clawing, the marks of claim on the nape of your neck, it all clicked and made sense in the whirlwind of your mind. 

“I think a werewolf would suit you better,” you admitted. “What with the claws and biting and general uncouth behaviour.” 

Miguel huffed. “You must be talking about yourself.” His voice rang low and quiet, too aware he might scare off his prized hare if he put too much into his words. “You're the one acting like a rabid animal.” 

“No, you.” 

“Don't think so.” 

“You're difficult.” 

“You're one to talk.” 

“How long have you been like this?” Your fingers combed through his hair, and his eyes fluttered shut. “A vampire. Or whatever you are.” 

“Lost track,” he said, sounding too honest. “I have records. Notes. From experiments. The dates on those are close to when it happened.” Experiments? Colour you intrigued.

“So you weren't exactly practicing white medicine?” You tilted your head in thought. “You were doing something more–” 

“It wasn't black magic,” Miguel scoffed. “It was science. Genetics. Studying how other organisms function, learning about them.” His expression darkened just the slightest bit. “Trying to…recreate them.” 

Your head spun a little trying to fill in the blanks. It wasn’t too hard, but it was hard to accept as reality. But if anyone were to unlock the damned secrets of immortality, of course it'd be this man. This cocky, genius, charming man. God really did have favourites, though they always did seem to disappoint him.

“I see. So you're telling me you're a genius who rebirthed vampires,” you summed up, letting your hands melt down his body, below the water's surface. “How is it you only get more and more impressive, Mr.O'hara?” 

A smug smirk bloomed across his lips. “It's just in my nature.” His head tilted back with a pleased sigh when your touch finally landed on that annoying thing prodding your thigh. “I have no choice but to succeed.” 

“Tch. Americans are so arrogant.” You hummed and leaned in, ghosting kisses along his vulnerable neck while your hand pleased him slowly, teasingly. His talons screeched against the tub again. “But maybe you have reason to be, hm? Given how accomplished you are.” 

A dark, scarlet haze like the sky of the blood moon illuminated Miguel's eyes in the few moments they slipped open to catch a glimpse of you. You wondered if he needed a reality check. Maybe he thought he was hallucinating, maybe he thought that you weren't really there despite being pressed up against him and murmuring useless quips into his skin. You'd be sure to leave an impression on him; your hand quickened, gripping tighter and pulling the way he directed you to far too many years ago, but his barbed hand caught your wrist. 

“Stop,” he gasped. His chest rose and fell with his light panting as he stared you down. Want radiated off of him like an animal starved. You knew what was rattling around in his mind before he even spoke. 

“You want to fuck me, is that it?” 

Miguel's breath hitched. 

–

You made him ravenous. You were the only thing he wanted to feast on, delicacies and sanguine temptations be damned. 

One of his large hands held your waist in a death grip while his other hand held your head down, forcing your incoherent ramblings into the soft, silken sheets as he rammed you from behind like a beast in heat. You took it well, too, not that you hadn't before–he always held back, appeared to you as human when he fucked you previously. But now that you knew the truth, now that you knew what lay hidden in the dark nooks of his bones’ marrow, he felt complete. And that meant he could completely lay claim to you, too. 

He matched the curve of your back with his chest when he leaned over you, burying his nose into your neck and shoulder to indulge in your scent. Your vampire's desire to breed slowed and steadied into deep, thoughtful rolls of his hips. Perhaps his mind had caught up with him and ushered him to slow down, to abandon some of that reckless excitement. 

Miguel heard the slightest mumble of his name on your lips and leaned down further to touch his own to your cheekbone. One arm looped underneath your throat in a benign chokehold of sorts, while his other hand threaded through your hair–if he wasn't fucking you like an animal before, this makeshift mating lock he had on you sealed the deal. 

“You feel good,” Miguel murmured, voice tickling the shell of your ear. 

“Hah. I, ah, always feel good,” you tried to quip back, but your expression betrayed the fraying threads of whatever self-control you still desperately clung to. “You’re, uh…unhinged, hey?” Miguel scoffed. “Like a…a wild beast.” 

“Oh?” A purr hummed through his chest, piercing your body and rattling through your own lungs in seismic pulses. “A wild beast? Flattering.”

“Really, darling, you don't have to be such a sarcastic asshole when you're–” a hard snap of his hips sent you spiraling for a moment, “--in my ass.” 

“Maybe you should watch your mouth,” he suggested. 

“Maybe you could watch it for me,” you countered. 

The warmth of his laugh sent chills scattering across your skin. He pulled out of you and turned you over, dragging your hips back against him before his powerful body engulfed yours again. Miguel liked this more. He liked the feeling of your hands grabbing and clawing at him, the way your thighs attached to his waist, how you bit your bottom lip while your eyes screwed shut from the overwhelming feeling of your partner destroying you.

And of course, his lips could meet yours like this. The sweet tang of copper and berries, a taste so familiar and so you, was shared between tongues, kept secret in the crevices of teeth. It amazed Miguel how much one little kiss could push him over the edge and make the bed creak and groan with you as he loved on you and made sure to send the message straight to your core. 

Your hands fisted in his hair when you came undone. That lovely voice of yours poured into Miguel's eager mouth, and you tightened, pulling him to the edge and pushing him over with the might of a wild stampede. Claws nipped your skin, fangs pierced deeper, yet his rutting hit deepest, and burned you alive with unbearable, liquid heat.

–

“Why me?” You asked into the stillness of the room. 

Calm silence answered you for a long moment. The sun bloomed beyond the thick curtains, you noticed in your wait, and you wondered if you would ever miss the sight. England never truly had bright, sunny days from what you recalled; stretches of smokey, grey overcast clouded the skies and your memories more often than not. Could your vampire walk amongst the living like this?

Miguel sighed, leaning into the hand carding through his hair. “Figured you’d understand.” 

“I’d understand what?”

“Killing to survive.” 

“How long have you known?” You wondered, unsurprised. 

“Blood tells stories,” he whispered. Long, dark eyelashes fluttered a moment before crimson eyes peered open the slightest bit. “Your story’s long. Complicated. You’re too young for it.” 

A smile twitched onto your face. You adjusted in the bed, getting more comfortable on your side in those pooling, satin sheets. “So you thought I’d be an easy target for sex, then? Desperate and young as I was.”

He found your eyes, his gaze earnest and bleeding. “I–you–fine, at first it was like you said. Maybe. But after enough time, I decided you weren’t like the rest. You’re as supernatural as I am.”

“Supernaturally handsome? I agree.”

“Stop.”

“You didn’t think I’d be afraid of you.”

“I’d hoped as much.” 

“And you still didn’t tell me.” Your fingertips danced along the arch of his cheekbone, leaving pleasant sparks against his skin in their wake, unbeknownst to you. “Were you scared?”

“I’d rather have you as a man for whatever time we had together than to lose you to a beast,” he explained, cryptic as one would expect an old legend to be. “I’ve lost too much already because of…this. Because of me. I didn’t want to lose more.” Miguel’s dark brows furrowed. “If you ended up fearing me to, I–”

You silenced him with a hand over his mouth. “Enough. I understand.” You palm smoothed back up to cup his face. “You needn’t be afraid of me–well, being afraid, I suppose. I’ll stay.” You took a deep breath and leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. “This bed’s too comfortable to give up, after all.”

His breath fanned against your skin as he chuckled, tired and perhaps tinted with disbelief. “Well, you can stay here as long as you want.”

“Brilliant. Would you even let me drink your blood?”

The rumble of a growl, or perhaps a purr, rolled through his chest into yours. You searched his eyes, wondering, hoping, and found mere slices of ruby peeking out from behind eclipsing pupils. 

“We’ll see.”

[devnmon]

𝐝𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐠𝐨𝐥𝐝𝐞𝐧 𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧 𝐡𝐜𝐬 ♡

𝐩𝐨𝐯 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞 𝐦𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐡𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐬𝐡 𝐨𝐧 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐧. [𝐚𝐟𝐚𝐛 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫] 𝐬𝐟𝐰/𝐧𝐬𝐟𝐰 𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐮𝐭 𝐱𝐱

𝐚𝐥𝐬𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐛𝐨𝐭𝐡 𝐦𝐨𝐝𝐞𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐫 𝟏𝟖𝟗𝟗/𝟏𝟗𝟎𝟕 𝐣𝐨𝐡𝐧 [𝐢 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐝 𝐫𝐝𝐫𝟏 𝐲𝐞𝐭]

First off, John is one to not realize his feelings for you until a certain point. He's oblivious to his OWN feelings. That's how long he's liked you. Perhaps you were captured by one of the local gangs or got severely hurt... his heart dropped when he found out. John is a real overthinker... so obviously his mind went right to the worst case scenarios. Though, when Arthur got back to camp with you in tow, he was so damn grateful.

He's taught you to ride a horse, but absolutely flushes when you clutch onto his waist tighter than usual when he picks up speed on the back of his.

His morning voice is almost too sexy to reply to the g'morning he sends your way as he huddles over the campfire, coffee in hand.

John doesn't understand why out of all the more honorable men in the world, you chose him to love and care for with your whole heart.

He's the first to initiate hand holding, especially in public– oh my god. Maybe there's a random man in the bar looking your way... and John, well he just couldn't take someone thinking you were up for grabs. You feel his grip around your hand as his fingers intertwine with yours, the glare he held as cold as ice watching the man turn away from you.

John is reallyyyyyy fucking good at five finger fillet. You're surprised he's not lost all his fingers with the way he moves his knife so swiftly. It's one of the things that made you realize your feelings towards him.

John started crushing on you after you stitched up his face in Colter. Checking his scars every day to make sure they weren't getting infected; the close proximity was just another factor that made his heart race around you.

He becomes comfortable with touch as he falls for you. At first it's just a touch on the arm that has sparks flying, then you're touching his shoulder or back– his cheeks all but flush bright red every time. [Arthur teases him about it. It's adorable.]

John often takes you on rides outside of camp just to get some air from everyone. He really appreciates having alone time where the two of you can talk and bond and wink wink ;))

He also lets you wear his hat when the both of you go out riding together. John tries to get you your own but you think his suits you just fine.

When you tell him 'i love you' for the first time, it takes him a minute to register it. But when he does, he goes "say it again" and just kisses you before saying it back.

Calls you "Miss" around camp, but in private he prefers to call you honey and sweetheart. He feels like calling you your name is something to be kept private too. John Marston is a sucker for closeness with you.

Sometimes you catch him staring from across camp, and you tried so damn hard to hide your smirk from Sadie and the other girls... that you had to excuse yourself from the group.

He cannot be normal or stay still when your hands are on him. You're laying on his bedroll with him, lightly tracing your hands up and down his body and he's all but begging for you to keep going until you can't.

John can never have you close enough; being too close isn't a thing for him. If he could be glued to you, he would.

John would love to learn to cook together. He gets his kicks out of placing his hands on your waist while you're preparing the food, feeding him bits and pieces of veggies you're chopping up.

NSFW

Here's the thing about John. He's suchh a touched starved boy that he absolutely cannot get enough of you from the time you get together. And obviously he's grabby too. Loves putting his hands everywhere on you. Like– everywhere. So much so that he leaves marks mostly every time he gets more than half an hour with you.

His love language is words of affirmation, so of course he basks in the glory when you say "you feel so good" or "right there" . Basically amps him up x10000.

Also John is a cocky little shit and mocks your cries in the bedroom. Then he'll go "Yeah? What ya screamin' my name for? Feels good huh?".

You don't know where he's learned it, but John has such a talented tongue– like, toe curling, back-arching, messy and desperate to please you without ever coming up for air.

John loses all ounce of shame in bed with you. He knows how to please you and if he's letting you be in control... he will beg and pleadddd for you. Like I said– no shame.

Loves when you pull his hair. The first time you did it he went "Atta girl..." with a groan– and you all but came right then and there from the gravel in his voice.

Is such a praiser;; gets off on hearing you whimper underneath him. Stuff like "doin' good for me, doll" and "such a mess for me, huh? look at you..." GOD.

That's another thing with John, he's always on top. Prefers missionary to observe the way you sing for him– and he's smitten all over again.

You're able to convince him to let you be on top– to ride him like the cowboy he is. He even puts his hat on you [mid ride might i say].

Is also a definite cuddler afterwards, he loves hearing your heartbeat steady while he’s pressed up against your back. He’ll suggest the two of you get cleaned up before you fall asleep.

a/n: heyy so i know this is not a lot of hcs but they're the best i got for rn while i ponder on how to write my silly little drabbles :))) stay tuned for those heheh

[cowgurrrl]

cardigan

Pairing: Joel Miller x reader

Author’s note: *gasp* a stand alone drabble

Summary: “You can have my heart if you have the stomach to take it.” - Yves Olade, from Bloodsport; “When rome falls” aka you and Joel talk about scars [1.6k]

Warnings: talks of Joel’s attempt, grief, talks of self-hatred, feeeellliiinnnggggsss, learning to live despite it all

"Tell me bout this one." He asks as he traces over the jagged scar on your bicep. It always started with one, and then, before you knew it, you were mapping out each other's bodies like cartographers with sacred valleys and mountains never seen by another. You laugh and move your hair out of your face to see Joel better. He looks gorgeous in the calming orangish light of your room, his eyes bright and his muscles relaxed.

"I got into a fight with a tree branch and lost," you say, and he laughs, burying his head into your neck to hide the sound. You smile and shove at his shoulder. "I don't know why you're laughing at me. It was very scary."

"'M sure it was." 

"Alright, asshole," you say as you grab his hand and trace the scar littering the space between where his thumb and pointer finger connect. It's long and silver and barely noticeable, but it looks like it would've hurt when it happened. "How'd you get this one?"

"Workin' my first job."

"What was your first job?"

"Mechanic."

"Your first job ever was being a mechanic?" You ask, and he nods like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "How old were you?"

"Sixteen. Maybe seventeen." He says. You try to imagine a much younger Joel with softer features and darker hair. That little creature of habit probably wore the same things he wears now, but with more Texas paraphernalia. Cowboy boots and a hat. Maybe even one of those absurdly large belt buckles. Just the thought of a skinny, sixteen-year-old Joel wearing a huge belt buckle makes you laugh. 

"I bet you had all the cute girls coming in to get their car fixed, huh?"

"Somethin' like that." He smirks, and you roll your eyes.

"So, how'd you get the scar?"

"I cut it tryna fix an engine in an old car. It barely ran as is, and my boss wanted me to just gut the whole thing, but my dumbass wanted to see if I could fix it, and I cut my hand open on something. I still don't know what. Got blood all over the shop and had to get one of the guys to drive me to the hospital," he raises his right hand and traces the scar. "Ten stitches all through here, but other than that, everything was fine. Scared the shit outta my mama, though."

"D'you ever figure out what was wrong with the engine?"

"Nope. Boss replaced it before I could come back." 

"Bummer." You say, and Joel hums, reaching up to feel for the thin scar on your neck. His fingertips are warm and gentle as he traces the bumpy skin like braille. Like he could know every piece of you through touch alone.

"Another fight with a tree branch?" He asks, and you chuckle.

"A fight with a pissed-off client. Held a knife to my neck because I didn't give him his usual supply." 

"And is he still with us?"

"You're cute," you say as you brush some hair from his face. You try to smooth it down so it doesn't look as crazy, but your fingers catch on the scar on the right side of his head. You pause and let yourself memorize the feeling of the raised skin. It's long and rough as it peeks out of his hairline. He must've needed a lot of stitches if it's still so prominent all these years later. His breaths get shallow, and his eyes search your face. "Can I ask about this one?"

He takes a deep breath and nods. Wordlessly, he grabs your hand from the side of his head and kisses your fingertips. He traces circles into the back of your hand and stares at the ceiling. You watch his face change ever so subtly as he thinks, a quick pursing of his lips or a muscle in his jaw jumping when he glosses over the memories. You're convinced no one else in the world can read him like you can. You're a little smug about it, but you'd never tell him that. God forbid he try to school his microexpressions too.

"It happened the day after Sarah died." He starts, and your heart sinks. He swallows thickly and shakes his head. "I didn't care anymore. She was gone, and there was nothin' I could do to bring her back, but I thought... I don't know. I thought I could make the pain stop. So, I tried," he mimes pointing a gun at his head. "But I flinched. Still don't understand why. Tommy hauled me off to a FEDRA medical tent, and they patched me up. Scared him half to death findin' me like that." Your eyes flutter shut at the image of a frantic Tommy trying to get Joel medical help, both choking on their grief as they stumbled through. Joel always told you how much he worried about Tommy and made sacrifices for him. You wonder how many nights Tommy stayed up and watched Joel sleep so he wouldn't reach for his firearm again. You wonder how much pain they were in and never talked about it. When your eyes open again, Joel stares at the scar on your neck to avoid your gaze. You reach out to trace the shell of his right ear.

"That's why you're deaf in that ear." It was meant to be a question, but it comes out as a breathless realization, and he nods.

"It's why I'm deaf in that ear." He mumbles. You look at the scar with a new understanding and sadness. Your fingertips graze the rigid skin again, and his eyes fill with tears. He's waiting for you to flinch and pull away. He's waiting for you to ask him to never talk about this again. He's waiting for you to get angry at the past like he is. In slow, precise movements, you sit up until you're half on top of him, your eyes heavy with emotion. Then, so slowly he thought he dreamt it, you lean down and kiss the thing he hates the most about himself. 

You linger for a few seconds like you're trying to repair the skin with your touch alone before moving to kiss the ear he's deemed useless. You kiss his forehead, nose, cheeks, and jaw, catching his tears as they fall. He holds you close and tries to bury his face in your neck to hide from the love he doesn't think he deserves. You put your hands on his cheeks to keep him in place and stare down at him. 

"I'm so fucking happy you flinched." You whisper, struggling to keep your voice steady at the thought of him being gone before you could meet him. Then, you obliterate his world. "I'm so happy you're alive." You say.

In all his years on this earth, nobody has ever told Joel Miller they were happy he was alive. He doesn't know how to react. He just catches your lips and tries to press the words he can't find the strength to voice into you. I'm sorry. I won't do it again. It's okay if you can't love me like this, but Jesus fucking Christ, I hope you can try. I won't be weak anymore. You make me want to live. Nobody's been able to do that in a long time. Please forgive me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. You let him flip your positions and hover over you, tears still falling down his cheeks as he kisses you. 

Rays of early morning sunshine filter through the dusty window and cast shadows across the room. You both have to get up for work soon. You know what'll happen if you don't go, but you also want to get lost in the cartography of Joel. It's okay, you think. We have the rest of our lives. You rest your forehead against his, and he takes a shaky breath, thoughts crackling loudly in the quiet room. You grab his chin and turn his head so you can kiss the scar one more time before forcing him to look at you. 

With determination and longing in your eyes, you say, "Stay with me." And you both know you're not just talking about the crisp October morning. Like so much of your lives, intention slips between the cracks for the other to pick up and examine like a long lost earring you find and wonder, "Where have you been this whole time?" He kisses you again, feeling his eyes prick with water before nodding.

"Okay," he says. "I'll stay with you if you stay with me." 

"I'm not going anywhere, Miller." 

"Good." He smiles. 

The grief will never go away. It will never be fair that Sarah died that night. You can never go back to the people you were before that day. But you can do this. You can find ways to live not despite the pain but because of it. Because he loved Sarah. Because you were kind and empathetic before Cordecyps wiped that from memory. Because grief is a conglomeration of memories so jumbled together you can't tell them apart anymore, but you can still feel the love left behind. So, you'll continue to kiss the tears away and soothe the nightmares and stitch the wounds that will heal over into nasty scars with nastier stories. You'll endure as long as you can have more mornings like this. 

And little by little, step by step, you'll learn how to do more than survive with him. You'll learn to stop waiting for the darkness to find you. You'll learn to be kind again, and he'll learn to forgive himself. Together, you'll make something whole and beautiful and worthy from your pile of broken pieces. It can't change the past, but goddammit, if it doesn't make the future look pretty good. 

[tibby-art]

Given how much Scar’s character knows. (From him connecting series that we don’t think he should know about to his character. And him knowing things he shouldn’t…) I’m on the band wagon that Scar is some sort of Eldtrich God.

Righttt like, my best guess is he's some sort of dimension-hopper or something... a traveling trickster god.. mentally i'm at a corkboard w/all the red strings connecting to different scars trying to piece it all together, holding my head in my hands

It's like. Okay. He had an encounter with s8 tycoon scar where he stole his hat, and he killed him (?) but today he said he simply broke a wheel on the wagon and stole the hat? He says each hat has a story. Does Jellie's hat also have a story. Jellie obviously travels with him across every universe. He seems not to mind when people don't remember who he is but he gets VERY upset when people don't know who Jellie is; just thought that was interesting

Did P!Scar travel to the hermitcraft season 8 universe? After the moon hit the server? Did tycoon scar travel to the pirates universe? Or are they the same person and it's just a lie? When he first spawns in Pirates SMP he makes it a point to mention a mysterious flower crown in his inventory. He says it's an important crown, and it's the only one on the server. Buttercups??? (Sidenote he also spawns with some blocks of cyan glazed terracotta. Not sure what that's about but it's dangerously close to being light blue glazed aka the vex magic. I would have lost my mind)

At the very beginning Scar says his ship was called the Flying Jellie. The Flying Jellie. What if it wasn't a boat. What if it was a space ship. He calls it a pirate ship but that doesn't necessarily mean a boat, ti could be a space pirate ship. (He's done loopholes with his phrasing like this before, like today when he sold michela a sword that was "nearly full" durability, only to later clarify it was "nearly full-y depleted"). He says he won an important battle with the ship, but he lost the ship and the crew. I've seen people say that the crew is supposed to have been boatem, not sure if that's canon? Is the ship story even true?

He made references to both Pearl and Grian today, are they his Pearl and Grian from the pirates universe or is he referring to the hermits? He mentions Pearl by name to Sausage, who says he doesn't know who that is (and yet Sausage goes on to casually mention the moon at the mention of Pearl, either Sausage is also a dimension-hopper and he's bluffing or he has a subconscious connection to his other lives). He doesn't say Grian's name but he talks about a man on his crew who sunk with the ship that's very obviously meant to be Grian (says the man's head looked like a loaf of bread, that he wore red, would have been a Kite). He doesn't seem too upset about the loss.

He greets Cleo, Scott and Martyn when he first sees them even though they don't know who he is. Cleo flat-out says "I don't believe we've met" after he greets her by name. Interestingly enough when he first calls Martyn by name, Martyn doesn't question it (I know Martyn also has some Lore going on, maybe he recognizes Scar too) Also I saw someone point out that his pants resemble mayor scar's pants. Possible season 7 reference, season 8 reference with tycoon scar and a possible? season 9 reference?? with that flower crown???

I literally can't tell if he has this planned-out intricate lore that connects all of his minecraft SMP characters like Martyn does or if he's literally just saying random stuff for fun. His character could be lying about his entire backstory, we don't know. i have no idea what's important to the lore and what isn't. this man is such a trickster god its not even funny. tldr WHAT IS GOING ON

[themushroomofdeath]

zoro x reader | rotten fluff just a short one, for me and the stinkers @sleepymarimo @zoros-ball-sweat @bby-deerling having a shitty day, just wishing zoro would hold me against his 110cm tatas. 😔

Outside, the rain pours down the ship's deck, like icy curtains, cold and mean, unforgiving. Matching your early mood. But now, you can feel only warmth and safety, loved and protected, as strong arms hold your form against a sturdy body, skin to skin, head pressed to the expanse of scarred chest, focused on the gentle rhythm of a heart that was entrusted to you, and you only. 

You couldn't sleep, but still felt completely in peace, comfortable in this position - never happier than now. The downpour outside turned into music when combined with his heartbeat and even breathing, your favorite kind of song. 

It was significant to be trusted enough to rest so close by him - bodies almost mingled into one. First-Mate of the Straw Hats, Pirate Hunter, a man used to be always on high alert to possible danger around him and his loved ones, now fallen into deep slumber, lulled by the safety of love, holding you in his arms like he was only a complete piece with your heart close to his.

Roronoa Zoro is not a man of public displays of affection, by any means, never one to pour his heart's content into the open, always private to this fragile thing called love. But as his partner and confidant, you could feel and see it just as clearly, an open book that he was for you, the one who was able to decode his language - the one who he allowed to, heart yearning for yours. 

And how you loved this man, words not enough to express the warmth spreading through your limbs, pure affection and tenderness pouring through your veins, by being in his close proximity. Safe and protected by his arms, love and devotion clear by the simple act of existing together, a reminder his love was yours as well.

You hadn't noticed how fondly you were gazing at his features all this time, till a raspy voice vibrated through your connected bodies, waking you up from your daydreams. “What'cha staring at?” A slurred question, from a sleepy man. You haven't noticed he was awake till now, so relaxed he was in your embrace, but with a fond smile, you could feel the slight increase of his heart frequency. Such a shy man, even after all those years.

“Just thinking about how much I love you. Adore you. Admire you. Want nobody but you. You know… Nothing much.”

With a giggle escaping your throat, you had earned a large calloused hand covering your eyes, in exasperation for how soft you made him. “Shut it, 's too early” As much as he tried to hide, his cardiac rhythm gave his secrets to you, experience with his reactions enough to know how a fine blush probably dusted his tanned skin now. Adorable, you thought.

“It's true, though. I love you, so so much.” Reaching to take his hand in one of your, you busied yourself by deliberately kissing each of his scarred knuckles, nuzzling his calloused and warmth palm. And he allowed it, as he always did - in the privacy of your quarters, quietly melting to your displays of affection, heart bursting with so much love, unable to contain all of it, despite his bashful nature.

“Yeah… Love ya too.” 

Sleep was lost to you both now, but none cared to go back to it. The awake world was better, when you had someone like Roronoa to hold and kiss your worries away.

[jekacatrina]

Thanks to my lovely Pink @thatpinkbetch I have the plot of my Bakudeku fic for August 9th (Pink does not aprove of the reason for this day to be Bakudeku day but I think is hilarious).

I know the ending of BNHA might steer in another direction, but nobody is taking my Delulu hat while I write what could have been, and here's what I've written so far:

"Is Round Face okay?"

Izuku looked up abruptly. He hadn’t seen Kacchan on his way down. He had left Uraraka to deal with her grief for a bit before she could come down, but his friend apparently hadn’t lost his touch to hover around the right places.

"She is..." Izuku trailed off.

Nothing about Uraraka said okay. Not the way she had clutched her side as she finally snapped, or how the sobs seemed to be ripped from her with every breath. Her words as she clutched at Izuku and trembled in his hug 'I couldn’t save her. She saved me and now she's gone, and nobody but me seems to be broken by that'.

"She is not, but I think it’s okay not to be," Izuku settled on.

Kacchan frowned for a moment before he sighed and looked away.

"It's fine, I guess. Nobody else is exactly peachy," he said, gripping his right arm, stiff and unresponsive.

Izuku's gaze went immediately to the scar crossing his face. Clad in his winter suit, it was the only visible mark of the war, and yet, Izuku could trace the rest of the scars that marred his body from memory alone. The ones in his shoulder and stomach from saving Izuku. The scar spreading across his chest from trying to win a fight for Izuku. The multiple scars in his arm from all the surgeries to fix it, an arm that had been destroyed all because of what Kacchan meant to Izuku in particular.

Uraraka's cries came back to him as he stared at Kacchan. She had lost someone she cared about because Toga had chosen to save her, but nobody had tried to save Toga.

Izuku had been luckier than her. Ridiculously lucky. Lucky that Mirio and Best Jeanist were there to keep Kacchan out of harm's way. Lucky that Edgeshot had been ready to sacrifice himself for his friend. So lucky that Kacchan had perfected his quirk to the point he restarted his own heart and kept Izuku’s own heart from stopping as well.

Overwhelmed by the weight of his luck, his body moved on its own. Kacchan stayed put despite the frantic way Izuku was crossing the distance between them. He threw his arms around him, mindful of his wounded arm.

"I'm so happy you're here," Izuku whispered into his neck, hugging him harder.

Kacchan returned the hug with his good arm, clutching his back and pushing Izuku closer.

"Right back at you, nerd."

They had lost so much in the war, but they hadn’t lost each other, and that was enough for Izuku to start healing. As long as he had Kacchan, everything would be okay.

[allmyworth]

I was silenced by the last episode.

IT. WAS. SO. GOOD.

MONSTA DID SUCH A GREAT JOB??? THE ANIMATION, THE OST, EVERYTHING.

I was so caught off guard by the fact they killed Garumbang. I didn't expect death in something directed towards kids. But then again, many kids have experienced lost. Kuputeri crying over the general was another punch to the gut. Genuinely teared up. And Gempa kind of got his redemption so, that's nice lol

I'm gonna go on a small rant. (Not a bad one) Might not be organized, but who cares.

Despite the comics being more teen rated, I was kind of surprised by the darker themes of the animated version of BBBG Windara. And I'm happy about it. I'm so glad they didn't make light of anything that had happened in Windara, nor the death of General Karumbang. He's not coming back, no "Gotcha" moment. I love the effects of the death were red, mimicking blood. The way the scars on Reramos's face healed with that red effect.

Reramos was evil, through and through. I'm glad they were able to show that other than the things he had already done. To be able to show his greed for power right before people and not off screen. To show that he's willingness to do more for more.

If that's just Windara, I'm quite excited for Gentar's.

Don't even get me started on Beliung's appearance. I was skeptical, especially the design change. BUT GOD. IT WAS AMAZING. THE FIGHT???? OH MY GOD.

Gopal pointing out BBB Beliung became a butterfly was adorable. And when Beliung used Maripos's technique of illusion- THE SMILE HE GAVE???? THE "Peniru." UWAHHHHHHH.

Of course, we can't leave out BBB losing control of Beliung. The scenes they changed were EVERYTHING. Also, detail- When his eyes turned that bright colour along with his sclera, there were literally crack(?) like marks spreading out from his eyes to his actual face. It was so cool. The wing weapon was dead amazing.

At least we got to see him without his hat! I was worried they wouldn't remove it at all. Which, now that I think about it, is unlogical. With the storm surrounding the castle, it wouldn't make sense if he didn't lose his hat.

THE FLASHES OF RETAK'KA IN THE BACKGROUND? GOD, I WAS GRINNING NONSTOP. The amount of fics of Windara angst I could think of is legendary. Monsta fuels the writer in me each and every time.

Also, the way my jaw kind of DROPPED... WHEN KUPUTERI PUSHED BOBOIBOY OFF??? She planned it, of course. But that scene of BBB getting pummelled by rocks, losing his head piece, AUGRH.

I dig the way the butterfly board/weapon actually flapped while Beliung was in the air. Man's an actual butterfly and I'm here for it.

BBB wanting to give the tempest element back in the end was less emotional than I thought. But, I think General Karumbang was enough emotions, so I guess I'm not that upset by it. And we got a scene with the full 7, our beloveds. That's a good amount of happy chemicals for my brain.

If there's anything more I missed, I would love to hear someone point it out. I wanna show my appreciation for this silly little show. Changing my brain chemistry and whatnot, you know?

I hope BBB doesn't get time to heal before Gentar, that would be fun to watch.

[lollytea]

Imagine if Willow sprinkles Hunter with pixie dust, and she's about to explain he needs to think happy thoughts to fly, only to see he's already floating off the ground.

"Whoa, what happy thought were you thinking?"

"Well, nothing really, I was just listening to you."

Her just being there is his happy thought.

[Now on AO3]

"It doesn't work on me," He claims, like the Know-It-All he is.

Willow is already coaxing a daisy into existence as he says it. It pokes through the forest floor, unusually exuberant for dusk hours, dimly illuminated by a fairy's magic touch.

"Are you calling my dust faulty?" She scoffs, plucking the flower out of the ground and twirling it teasingly beneath her chin. "How presumptuous."

"No," Answers the pirate. If you could even call him that right now. He's shed his immaculate gold coat and that large and ridiculous (but oh, so funny) hat of his.

He's taken every measure to be as inconspicuous as possible. Nobody aboard that ship can know about his little late night rendezvous with a fairy. Especially not if he doesn't intend to bring her back in a jar.

He has long since retired that ambition.

"It's no different than any other fairy's dust," He says, slow and cautious. "The crew has....obtained it a few times in the past...."

Willow doesn't say anything but her presence still makes him squirm. She already knows what becomes of fairies that pirates get their hands on.

"And it doesn't work on me...." He concludes.

"You sound disappointed."

"I'm not."

He's a liar, among other things.

Willow opts to not mention how transparent he is in his longing to get tangled up in the stars, to test the feel of foamy cloudstuff in his hands, to soar the way the Lost Boys do.

He's so enraptured with winged creatures, she notices.

This boy wants to fly. This boy wants to become Lost in a way that matters on this island. And the only thing stopping him is his own stupid heart.

He's my uncle, he had whispered the last time she begged.

"I refuse to believe you're immune to dust," Declares Willow. "You are no different from any Lost Boy."

She means that in more ways than one. He even looks like one tonight. Young and sloppily dressed, his bare hairless face spotlighted by the fat silvery moon hanging overhead.

It bothers him that it's so difficult to grow a beard. It makes her heart sink a little every time he laments how impatient he is to grow up.

"I'm nothing like a Lost Boy," He retorts for the billionth time.

If she felt a little more argumentative, she'd ask him to state their exact coordinates on the map. And he'd flounder for an answer, because he's never been in this part of the island before. Willow led him into the depths of the forest by the hand in the dead of night.

He's a boy.

He's lost.

It would make him all mad and huffy if she pulled that on him. Which would be funny. But she doesn't want to make him mad and huffy right now.

Willow shimmies closer, rustling the leaves underneath her. "I think you just never learned the trick of dust. It's not like fairies to give the secret away to just anyone."

He's not looking in her direction. Which is annoying. She could get drunk on how it feels to have his eyes poring over the sight of her.

It was once an impish sort of delight. A delicious satisfaction that he found her such an irksome creature yet he was unwillingly attracted to her shape, to her smile, to her eyes.

It's different now. Less unwilling on his part. And at some point or another, she found herself blooming pink roses beneath the skin of her cheeks when he looks at her like that.

She likes being looked at. But she now understands that she likes being looked at by him. She wishes to hear the thoughts in his head as his eyes hang off her bare shoulders.

"So..." Willow croons, her fingers finding the sharp bend of his jaw. She brushes the skin, gingerly avoiding the sensitive edges of his scars.

"How about...." her palm connects to his cheek and she still marvels over how perfectly fitted her hand is for cupping his face. She guides his gaze towards hers. The eyes that she finds pretty to settle on the face that those eyes find pretty.

"You trust me on this...." Her soft spoken utterance is emphasized with an affectionate rub of her index finger on the sweet spot behind his ear.

He likes being touched there. She found out back when he was trying very hard to not like her.

Once his eyes are set on hers, confused but hopelessly soft, Willow lifts the daisy to her lips and blows.

A string of glowing pollen rises from the buttery pistil and drifts in his direction. It's as though it already knows tonight's assignment is proving a Know-It-All wrong. It's the only way to needle a big pretty smile outta him.

Willow is gonna get that smile, whether he likes it or not. She's a rascal like that.

Dust clings to his cheeks, spilling down his neck and sinking under skin.

"I promise you're not immune to dust," Says Willow, because she won't allow him to be. If he wants to fly, he'll fly.

He's staring at her with wild eyes now, every blink an agonizing interruption of his beholding.

She hasn't realized until now just how close their faces are. Nose to nose.

Feeling the tickly heat of his breath makes her smile.

"All you have to do is..."

He gasps.

Willow gasps.

They are no longer nose to nose because he is jerkily rising off the ground.

Amusingly, once he's a few inches into the air, he awkwardly tips forward and his feet continue to ascend. He's floating upside-down now, startled and confused yelps erupting from his throat. Willow stands up, trying to swallow her giggles as he desperately stretches his arms out to claw at the ground for some sort of anchor.

He's wobbling further and further away from her now and with a flutter of wings, she rises to meet him by the heads of the trees.

"Hiiiiiii~" She singsongs in an imitation of something he said to her so very long ago when things were so very different.

His flipped body has caused his shirt to hitch. It hangs in a baggy pool at his armpits.

Willow cannot help herself. She pokes his bare belly with a silly sounding "boop!" making him squeak ("Willow!") and scrabble to yank the fabric back over his figure. His legs are kicking erratically, attempting to put himself to right.

She doesn't indulge in the antics for much longer, instead opting to take pity on him. Lost Boys are like this sometimes too. But only in those first few minutes before they realize that they're perfectly safe, just a little inexperienced.

"Don't you worry," Says Willow, taking him by the waist and flipping him rightside-up. "You just haven't got your sky legs yet,"

She lets go of him once his position has been righted but he is not having it. Willow lets out an embarrassing noise herself as a pair of arms awkwardly throw themselves around her. His breathing rattles in her ear, his heartbeat a thick pound against hers.

Willow blurts out the first thing she can think to say. "First time?"

"Obviously!" He snaps, though there's a tremor to his tone.

She laughs to hide her brain's stubborn fixation on how defined the arms around her are.

"Hey now, I gotcha," She says comfortingly. With a bit of effort, she manages to rearrange their entangled bodies so it's not so...so much.

They now float at the respectful distance of any two teenagers having their first dance, complete with his arms loosely looped around her neck and Willow's hands rested against his hips.

Hm. Well. It's no longer so much but...

Now it's not enough.

To right that wrong this instant, Willow hums mischievously. "After all...."

Those respectful hands slide up his sides,

"I finally got my diabolical little fairy hands on a pirate."

They linger on his ribs.

His breath gets caught.

"I'm not gonna let him go."

They travel back down to his hips.

He's frozen in the way he tends to freeze, but it doesn't deter the heat. It blotches his face, his ears, even seeping down his neck.

He used to slap her touch away when she got playfully handsy with him. That stopped a lot time ago.

Instead, his grip around her tightens, though his gaze falls bashfully.

Willow grins.

He liiiiiiiiiikes it.

"How does flying work?" Asks the pirate.

"Well, it basically means not being on the ground," Answers Willow intelligently.

"No. I mean....why am I flying right now?"

Oh.

Right.

She had forgotten that he went blasting off before she could even explain the trick of it.

He looks troubled, a little bit on the scrunched up side. She expects that the reality of his situation will sink in sooner or later but...he needs answers first.

He's wanted this. He's wanted to fly. But it isn't like him to be satisfied without knowing the How and Why.

"Well," Says Willow. "What were you thinking? Before you began to fly?"

His eyebrows shoot up. "I-I wasn't thinking anything specific."

He's out of his depth and it's making him panic.

"Why? What was I supposed to be thinking?"

She smiles. "Your happiest thought."

"Oh...."

"Why?" She asks, leaning into his space. "What were you thinking?"

His brain is bizarrely shaped and she's obsessed with the idea of rummaging around in it.

She likes it when he allows the makings of the contraption to sputter out through his lips.

What are your happy thoughts, pirate?

But he never gives her an answer.

He doesn't need to.

What that boy does instead is give her a look. It's a strangely quiet look for such a loud face.

She can't gather together the words to describe that look because it feels too much like a secret. What she will say is that it's hers. It's all hers.

Her secret pirate.

His secret fairy.

"Oh..." She doesn't like how her voice shakes but what can she do?

He makes her feel so very fragile sometimes.

It's happening.

Aw thorns, it's happening.

Willow's wings speed up without her say-so and the two bodies shoot higher into the sky, the pirate howling in surprise.

She laughs. What else can she do but laugh?

But now that she's laughing, it's very difficult to stop. It's getting to the point of hysteria.

She's his happy thought.

She's his happy thought.

She's his happy thought.

And you know what? He might be hers too.

The sudden lift has made him lose his grip on her and he's now paddling through the sky, reaching out his hand to hers.

Willow takes it.

And while she's at it, she takes his other hand and gives him a giddy twirl.

He's accustomed enough to the weightlessness by now that he doesn't react with horror. But rather, it surprises a giggle out of him.

Terribly encouraged by the bubbling sound, she spins him again and he laughs harder.

He makes those dumb snorty noises.

She's going to spin him unconscious if he keeps doing this to her.

It's in his eyes now, she can see it. Something is beginning to kindle, the realization that this is it.

He can fly.

He can fly.

He can fly.

His smile is gold.

She never would have taken the air above the forest for a dance floor but there's nothing conventional about anything she does with this boy.

Their bodies rotate across the stars, like the little dancers in that music box she found once.

They try to imitate the grown-ups in those books he likes to show her. It's his idea.

Two hands, one small and round with short fingers and a cushiony palm, and one long and narrow, fingers all lean and knobbly. They find each other and the mismatched fingers intertwine.

Willow's other hand is on his shoulder while his is on her waist. It's loose, no longer fearing his life up here.

He can't dance while standing on the ground, so he certainly has no footing in the sky. But that's alright, floating and touching is enough.

He tells her stories.

She listens.

She flirts and she jokes.

He blushes.

Sometimes he responds with something just as immaculately phrased.

She blushes.

Her cheek is resting against his chest when she utters the words. "Guess what..."

"What?"

"There was a fairy ball tonight."

She wasn't supposed to tell him that.

The subsequent silence leaves her to wonder why she told him that.

"So why are you here?" He asks, which is even worse.

Willow doesn't give him an answer.

She doesn't need to.

It's her lips buttoned in an pointed 'You know why' sort of way that spells it all out. As wrung tight with nerves as she is, her lips quirk up with amusement as that heart of his begins to riot against his ribcage.

"Oh..." He says.

"Oh..." Willow responds.

The night dances on. The stars observe with indifference.

Neverland itself doesn't care if a fairy waltzes with a pirate.

Its only those with a pulse that take issue.

He doesn't say the words. Not exactly.

Instead, he says "Willow. I think...I think there might be a problem...."

The warmth of his body is soaking into her. It's making her sleepy.

"And what's that?" Willow asks, looking up.

After a moment of contemplation, she adds "Hunter,"

The pirate's name is Hunter.

She likes that his name is something that's allowed on her tongue.

She feels his shoulder stiffen beneath her hand at the mention of that name. It seems to tangle up the words he already had on the tip of his tongue.

She squeezes the spot she's holding, hoping to relieve a little of the tension.

"I..." The hand holding hers is damp. She can feel it tremble. "I don't think I can get down,"

"Is that so?" She teases with a tilt of her head.

Like she's forgotten. He's her happy though. It's so cute she almost wants to let loose an undignified squeal.

But the lines of Hunter's face only tighten. Every worry etched into his features is naked underneath the moon's glow.

"I don't think I can ever get down again," He states, simple and soft.

His eyes are on her and they burn like always. She doesn't know what kind of fire Hunter was born in but his eyes never stop burning.

Willow's mischievous smile dips as his words pierce her through with the viciousness of a dagger, yet her stomach doesn't fill with blood, but warm liquid gold.

You don't fall in love in Neverland.

You don't fall at all.

You fly.