#in a perfect world he would be in the blood spin off

[calbeloved]

thinks of gal and starts taking poison damage

[luv-lock]

⸻ ᴛ ʜ ᴇ ᴅ ʀ ᴀ ɢ ᴏ ɴ ᴋ ɴ ɪ ɢ ʜ ᴛ ⸻

Pairing: Dark Aemon Targaryen x Fem Reader

Summary: Aemon was sworn to the Kingsguard, bound by vows to serve the realm. But his heart, his mind, and his soul belonged to one person: You.

Warning: Obsession, Targcest, Abuse.

Notes: English is not my first language. Hope you enjoy!

Y/N was born screaming, a tiny bundle with silver-gold hair and violet eyes, so much like his own. Aemon had stood by the door of their mother's chambers, watching through the crack as maesters and midwives bustled around. When the first wails reached his ears, a peculiar emotion lodged itself in his chest—something fierce and consuming.

As they grew, Aemon shadowed her every step. In the gardens, he held her hand to keep her from tripping over roots. In the halls, he stood between her and the brash court boys who sought her attention. When she cried, he was the one who wiped her tears and whispered soft promises of safety.

He was her knight, even before he swore the oaths.

“Stay with me,” she’d whisper during storms, her tiny fingers clutching his. “Don’t leave me alone.”

And he never did. Not when their father looked to wed her off, not when their elder brother Aegon sneered at her defiance.

When Y/N fell from a tree at the age of six, breaking her arm, it was Aemon who carried her all the way back to the Red Keep, tears streaming down his face as he whispered over and over, "I’ll never let you get hurt again."

While their elder brother, Aegon, taunted her and treated her with disdain, Aemon stood by her side, always her shield. To him, she was the only thing in the world worth protecting, the only light in the grim reality of court life.

But with time, his devotion deepened into something darker. Aemon began to watch her in ways he shouldn’t. When she laughed with other boys, his hands clenched into fists. When she danced in the Great Hall, her skirts spinning, he felt a possessive pang in his chest. He told himself it was just brotherly love, but in the quiet hours of the night, he couldn’t lie.

When Aemon took his Kingsguard vows, Y/N thought it would grant her some freedom. Surely now, as a sworn brother, he would focus on his duty and leave her be. But instead, his obsession deepened.

She could have ignored it, chalked it up to his overbearing nature, but a part of her—curious, wicked, and far too aware of her own power—began to toy with him.

At first, it was subtle: a brush of her hand against his arm, a smile that lingered a moment too long. But as the years passed, she pushed further. She let her gowns dip lower, allowed her laughter to ring louder, and relished the way his fists clenched and his jaw tightened.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that, Aemon,” she whispered once, leaning closer than propriety allowed. “It’s unbecoming of a knight.”

He stiffened, his cheeks coloring, but his voice was firm. “You’re my sister. My duty.”

“And yet,” she murmured, her lips grazing his ear, “you burn for me, don’t you?”

Aemon rationalized it as chivalry. He wasn’t breaking his vows, he told himself. He was merely protecting her virtue, her honor. When men looked at her too long, he would make them regret it. Sometimes with a glare. Other times with blood.

He began to visit her chambers late at night, his armor clinking softly in the darkness. He never touched her—not at first. He simply sat by her bedside, watching her sleep.

One night, when she was fast asleep, her lips slightly parted, Aemon found himself by her bedside. The moonlight spilled over her face, highlighting her beauty, her perfection. His heart thudded painfully as he leaned closer, so close he could feel the faint warmth of her breath. He lowered his lips to hers in a featherlight kiss. It was fleeting, but the taste of her lingered, burning into his soul.

“You’re too beautiful for this world,” he would murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face. “The gods made you to torment me.”

Y/N was sixteen when her marriage was announced—a political alliance to a powerful lord with no love for the Targaryens.

He stormed into the royal solar, his hand on the hilt of his sword, and demanded the match be annulled.

“She belongs here, with her family, your grace.” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Aegon laughed cruelly, mocking him for his attachment. “Perhaps you’d like to take her to your bed instead, little brother? The Kingsguard vows be damned?”

The words hung heavy in the air. Aemon’s knuckles turned white around his sword hilt, but he said nothing.

On the eve of her wedding, Aemon found Y/N in her chambers, staring at the gown laid out for her. She turned to him, tears glistening in her violet eyes.

“I don’t want this,” she whispered. “But what choice do I have?”

Aemon stepped closer, his gloved hands trembling as he reached for her. “You always have a choice,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “Come with me. We can leave this place. We can ran away and never look back.”

Tears spilled down her cheeks as she shook her head. “You know we can’t...”

And then he left without another word. Because she was right. They couldn't.

He watched her walk down the aisle in a gown of silver and gold, her face pale but resolute. Her new husband was tall, brutish, and unkind.

Aemon stood by as they exchanged vows, his chest tight with rage and despair. When her husband kissed her, Aemon turned his head away, his fists trembling.

The first time he saw her bruises was a week after the wedding. She wore long sleeves to hide them, but Aemon caught a glimpse when she reached for her goblet at dinner. His stomach churned. That night, he cried silently, helplessness consuming him.

When the tournament was announced, Aemon saw his chance. Disguised as the Knight of Tears, he won every bout with ferocious determination. When the time came to crown the queen of love and beauty, he rode to Y/N and placed the crown of winter roses in her lap, their eyes met, and for a moment, the world stood still. It was a silent promise—a vow unspoken but understood.

“You shouldn’t have,” she whispered, her fingers brushing the roses as she tear up.

“I would do it a thousand times,” he replied.

Her husband was furious, but Aemon didn’t care. In that moment, she was his.

“He is not worthy of you,” he said once, his voice tight with barely restrained anger. “He don’t see you as I do. He never will.”

She laughed sadly. “And what do you see, brother?”

“My world.” he answered, his tone so soft it made her heart skip.

One night, Y/N came to him, her face streaked with tears. Her husband had accused her of barrenness, blaming her for their lack of an heir, though she confided in Aemon that he had been unable to perform most nights. He had beaten her so badly she could hardly stand.

Aemon held her with trembling hands, his tears falling silently onto her blood-matted hair as she wept. “He said it’s my fault,” she whispered. “That I’m barren.”

Aemon’s jaw clenched, the flames of rage barely contained within him. He didn’t trust himself to speak, so he simply wiped her tears away, his touch as gentle as a prayer.

“Please,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Make me feel something other than this pain.”

That night, his vows shattered like glass. He touched her with reverence, his hands tracing every bruise, every scar, as though he could erase them. Her moans were soft, broken things, and tears streaked his face as he worshipped her. “Forgive me,” he whispered over and over, though he wasn’t sure if he was begging her or the gods.

After that night, there was no going back. They met in secret, stealing moments between court duties and battles. Aemon would ride to her chambers under the cover of darkness, shedding his white cloak at her feet as he sank to his knees before her.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he murmured one night, his forehead pressed against her stomach as she ran her fingers through his hair.

“Then die for me,” she replied.

And he would have. Without hesitation.

When Y/N bore a son, his son, Aemon’s heart swelled with a mixture of pride and sorrow. The boy looked so much like him that it was impossible to deny the truth, though no one dared to speak it. Aemon spent every possible moment with them, pretending they were a family. He taught his son to wield a wooden sword, read him tales of noble knights, and watched as Y/N smiled at the boy with a love so pure it made his heart ache.

But their happiness was fleeting.

Her husband found out. The confrontation was brutal. Aemon returned from a ride to find the halls silent, too silent. Servants cowered as he passed, their eyes avoiding his.

He arrived just in time to see the man toss something onto the cold stone floor—a child’s head, small and unmistakable.

“He cried for you,” the man spat, smirking. “Just like his whore of a mother.”

The world turned red.

Aemon didn’t remember unsheathing his sword. He didn’t remember the screams or the sickening crunch of bone as he hacked the man to pieces. When it was over, he stood in a pool of blood, his chest heaving, his vision blurred by rage and tears.

He ran to Y/N’s chamber, desperate to find her alive, to cling to the hope that she had survived. “She’s alive,” he muttered to himself as he stumbled toward her chambers. “He was lying.” But when he found her, he fell to his knees. Her body was unrecognizable, broken beyond repair. The monster had robbed her of her beauty, her light, and her life.

“No,” Aemon whispered, his voice cracking as he crawled to her. “It’s not you. It can’t be you.” He cradled her lifeless body, rocking back and forth as the weight of his grief crushed him.

“This isn’t real,” he whispered. “It’s a trick. You’ll wake up.”

But she didn’t.

He couldn’t bear it. He couldn’t live in a world where she no longer was alive.

Aemon pressed a final kiss to her cold lips, his tears falling onto her bruised skin. “Wait for me,” he whispered. “In the next life, wait for me.”

He drew his dagger and plunged it into his chest, collapsing beside her. His last breath escaped in a whisper of her name, and when the servants found them the next morning, they were entwined in death, their silver hair mingling like threads of moonlight.

@ʀᴏᴛᴛᴇɴꜰʏʀᴇ 2024. ᴅᴏɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏᴘʏ, ᴛʀᴀɴꜱʟᴀᴛᴇ ᴏʀ ᴜꜱᴇ ᴀɴʏ ᴏꜰ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ ᴏʀ ᴀɴʏ ᴏᴛʜᴇʀ ᴡᴇʙꜱɪᴛᴇꜱ

[deathlooksgoodonyou-if]

It was the summer of 2010 when you found Jules Hawkins by the lake. But it didn't look like Jules Hawkins.

After all, how could it? Jules Hawkins was a god. And as you know, gods like Jules are unbreakable. If you knew anyone death couldn't touch, it was Jules. And yet, somehow it felt like you had never seen Jules look more like them than they did, that day, dead by the lake. Plump cherry lips, now parched and blue, dirt on their perfect knees, golden hair sticking to their forehead, exquisite clothes matted and muddied, skin, ghostly pale.

Even in death, even as Jules became a child of soil and dirt and ruin, Jules managed to look like art. How could this creature of beauty be anyone else but Jules Hawkins?

A string of murders follow the passing of Jules Hawkins and in the desperation of avoiding being tangled in the web of this cold blooded murderer, you end up right in the thick of it when you find out the killer may have set their eyes on you next.

Of course, you ended up in the killer's radar. You had always been a child of misfortune, after all.

• Customise your mc. Choose your appearance. Play as male, female, non-binary or trans; straight, gay or bisexual etc.

• Play as an emotionally scarred individual. Escape the hell you call your mind, alone or with the help of allies. Or succumb to the voices.

• Find your predator before your predator finds you. Or keep running. How far will you run? Do you even want to run?

• Befriend, antagonize, manipulate or romance fellow residents of Ravenwoods.

• Heavily character driven.

• The lake calls out to you. Will you listen?

JULIAN/NE "JULES" HAWKINS. [he/him or she/her] [semi ro]

You knew Jules in the way you wish you never did. Jules is embedded into your very bones. Jules is a part of you. You wish you could escape them.

Jules may be no more for the world but they are alive and breathing in your haywire brain and they are not very kind. Not that they ever were. But the Jules that haunts you, plagues you like a disease is ruthless with their words in a way the old Jules could never be. Not to you.

Description : Pale skin. Rosy tint to cheeks. High cheekbones. f!Long wheatish blonde curly hair with bangs. m!shoulder length curly wheatish blonde hair. Almond shaped brown eyes. Arched eyebrows. Long, thick lashes. Bow shaped lips. f!willowy frame. 5'11. m!broad back, narrow waist, long legs. 6'2.

CHAE WARREN. [he/him]

There are few you consider friend and Warren is one of them, alongside Sujin. He is revolution in a glass jar. A little rough around the edges, with bullet holes in his paper heart. Lately, the air becomes laced with awkwardness when its just the two of you around. You wish you weren't fairly perceptive. Perhaps that could have made you oblivious to the way Warren's adams apple bobs and his throat tightens when you are around, the way his fists clench when his tongue slips or the way he glances at you thinking you didn't notice.

Description : Sharp jaw. Medium complexion. Monolid chocolate brown eyes. Straight eyebrows. Thin pinkish lips. 5'7. Athletic figure. Short dyed dark red hair.

JESSICA HAWKINS. [she/her]

Jules' twin. You never bothered to acquaint yourself with her. She had always seemed too saintly and your mother had taught you well to stay away from that kind. Those who hide their tainted souls behind rosemary lies, platinum smiles and bright eyes stitched from sunshine. Beware of them, your mother had told you. But is that what she truly is doing? Spinning honeyed tales from saccharine lips?

You would never know. Unless you choose to. If it helps, Jules lips always quirked upwards and the crease in their brows mellowed whenever her name rolled off their tongue.

Description : Kind almond shaped brown eyes. Long, thick lashes. Bow shaped lips. Arched eyebrows. High cheekbones. Straight blonde hair, reaching her back. Pale skin. Willowy frame. 5'10.

DYLAN JEANE. [he/him]

Jules' boyfriend, Dylan. Well, ex boyfriend now. He seems to harbour a deep dislike for you. No matter how hard he denies it— the slight tensing of the muscles in his jaw always give it away.

You had always been curious about him. Jules and him were an odd pair. How could Dylan be what Jules desired? They were polar opposites. Jules was tidal waves and traditional typhoons. He is ruddy sunsets and roseate dawns. He is habit, he is routine, he is rigid, he is never changing. A sad strange kind of tragedy. Jules was anything but that. Jules was everything at once. Jules was never the same. Jules was uneven. Jules was hurricanes and tsunamis.

There is a natural downwards turn to his lips, his shoulders always a little hunched as if the burdens of life have dripped down from the ceiling and chosen to settle like dust upon his shoulders. You wonder what weighs him down so terribly. He talks as if every breath he takes from his lungs rattles him to the core. Perhaps it does. He seems to have taken Jules' death as hard as you, if not worse.

Description : Short slicked back midnight black hair. Heavy lidded hazel eyes. Slender built. Wears rimless rectangular glasses occassionally. Angular face. Sharp lips. Upwards eyebrows. Fair skin. 6'1.

AIDEN HAMILTON. [he/him]

The second child of the sleazy mayor. Boy of many faces. You don't trust him one ounce. For good reasons. It irks you to watch his eyes glimmer as if you are a specimen that intrigues him. You don't trust the myriad of unhealthy secrets he hides behind his charming gaze, the sly smile that tugs off the corner of his lips or the disarming lilt of voice as his salty tongue rolls off silken threads of honeysuckle lies frictionlessly. It comes to him as naturally as breathing. The impurity of his father's gold taints him, it runs in his veins and he embraces it willfully.

He is hiding skeletons in his closets and everybody knows that. What it is however, is a different story.

Will he let you in on a secret?

Description : Unruly brown wavy hair, in a middle part. Luscious lips, heavy lower lip, a small faint and old scar at the corner of his mouth. S-shaped eyebrows. Sea green hooded eyes. Tanned complexion. V-shaped jaw. Toned build. 6'4.

HEATHER HAMILTON. [she/her]

Eldest child of the mayor. You are not particularly friends but she is not a bad company to have around either. You like her. You have met in passing and she always has a quick smile reserved for you. You know she is a dreamer with a pomegranate heart. She has also somehow inherited her mother's love of parties. Hers tend to be a little more wild and carefree, though. Just like her.

Uncharacteristically, she is also fond of painting. Will you be her muse?

Description : Straight brown hair in a bob cut. Hooded brown eyes. Heart shaped lips. Soft arch eyebrows. Skinny frame. Tanned complexion. Dimples on both cheeks. 5'7.

MIA MORGAN. [she/her]

Mia Morgan is the kind of girl who will rip your heart out, eat it raw and call it love. With midnight eyes of catlike grace that could rival any godforsaken abyss and lips richer and darker than the blood running in your veins, she's the kind of girl that would skin you alive and chew on your fickle heart but then kiss your eyelids and tell you 'good night, baby' and you would like a lovesick dog spiral back to her, yearning for more.

Why? Because you are a fool? No. Because she was Mia Morgan and Mia Morgan was born for seduction and playing with the strings of childish hearts. A holy ruination. Destruction in its most, enchanting, enrapturing form.

Will you let her destroy you?

Description : Wispy bangs, short hush cut, black hair. Dark cat eyes. Beauty mark on upper lip. Soft jaw. Chubby cheeks. Crimson pouty lips. Fair complexion. Curvaceous figure. 5'2.

KIM SUJIN. [she/her]

She considers you a close friend, sharing every secret with you.

Description : Bronze skin, wide set brown eyes with gold flecks, button nose, freckles, curtain bangs, medium length chestnut brown hair. 5'3.

ARTHUR MORRIS. [he/him]

Aiden's friend. He's an asshole.

Description : Mahogany complexion, hollowed cheeks, has a stubble, ebony eyes, buzzcut, brawny. 6'1.

PARIS HILL. [he/him]

Local heartthrob. He looks handsome till he opens his mouth.

Description : Sunkissed complexion, wide lips, honey brown eyes, blonde hair in a fringe. Buff arms and broad back. Has an unhealthy obsession with shades. 5'10.

AUNT AUBURN MACKENZIE. [she/her]

She loves you dearly. There is nothing she wouldn't do for you.

Description : Brown hair, generally tied in a loose bun. Wrinkles near eyes and smiling lines around her mouth. Thin lips. Stout and a little hunched frame. Brown complexion. 5'1.

MOTHER. [she/her]

A woman with a twisted understanding of love. You haven't seen her in years and while you may have forgotten her face, her voice still rings crystal clear in your mind, like an old cassette on repeat.

FATHER. [he/him]

A man you knew but never quite understood. It is his face that stares back at you everytime you look in the mirror.

MAYOR JOHN HAMILTON. [he/him]

The mayor of Ravenwoods. It would serve you well to have him as an ally. Having strong connections has always proved to be useful.

Description : Beige skin. Hooked nose. Green eyes. Bushy brows. Short hair, close cropped. Smooth blonde hair. Plump frame. 5'8.

MEERA CHAUHAN HAMILTON. [she/her]

Wife of the mayor. She may be a little snobby but she means well. Most of the times. After all, who isn't a little selfish?

Description : Tanned complexion. Almond brown gold eyes. Brown hair wavy reaching her mid back. Slender frame. 5'10.

LAWRENCE HAWKINS. [he/him]

Father of the Hawkins siblings. You would rather not get involved with him.

Description : Pale skin. Blonde slicked back hair. Blue eyes. High cheek bones. Sharp jaw. Wears frameless rectangular glasses. 5'11.

AURORA HAWKINS. [she/her]

Mother of the Hawkins siblings. You would rather not get involved with her.

Description : Blonde hair, generally tied in a tight bun. Pale skin. Brown eyes. 5'9.

OFFICER RYAN DOUGLAS. [he/him]

He's a good man. He tries his best.

Description : Rosy complexion. Dark brown eyes. Short brown hair. Average build. 5'8.

DEMO. (DECEMBER OR SOONER!)

COG FORUM. (DECEMBER OR SOONER!)

EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. (TBD!)

FAQ.

> Rated 18+ for mature themes such as (heavy spoilers ahead!) explicit language, sexual themes, questionable behaviour, toxic relationships, murder, elitism, child abuse, domestic violence, insomnia, toxic relationships, manipulation, transphobia, racism, internalised transphobia and homophobia, death, childhood trauma, mild nudity, feelings of being watched, stalking, infidelity, hallucinations.

Reblogs are appreciated! Thank you for your interest! <3

[si3nn4]

Couple of the Year: In the End, Love Overpowers Fame.

As the years passed, Katsuki's fame grew steadily. His name quickly became known in the charts, and despite not being the number-one Hero, his contributions were never overlooked. You, too, had your share of fame as an ever-rising supermodel. Despite the massive recognition both of you received, your private lives remained untouched.

"DYNAMIGHT!"

"DYNAMIGHT! OVER HERE!"

"ONE QUESTION, DYNAMIGHT! JUST ONE INTERVIEW!"

The Met Gala was always a spectacle, and every year, the crowd of paparazzi seemed to grow larger and more relentless.

"You know, with all your fame, I can't help but wonder when you're finally going to fall and fail."

Katsuki’s posture didn’t change, but his eyes shifted to the source of the voice. His anger flared at the sight of the man standing next to him, grinning smugly at the cameras. Yoshiki Kenai was tall, brunette, with perfect teeth and an annoying level of confidence.

He worked in the same modeling industry as you, and ever since you’d entered the scene, he’d made it his personal mission to flirt with you at every opportunity. Fortunately, this year, his advances were more restrained.

"I question your logic, Bakugou. Should you really be settling down so quickly when your job is so risky? It's a selfish decision, really. Your fame is honestly undeserved, a selfish wannabe hero is all you are." Yoshiki now turned his head toward Katsuki, his smirk widening as he awaited a response.

Katsuki knew his job was dangerous. Every mission carried a risk. But for Yoshiki—of all people—to lecture him? His blood boiled as he fixed the man with a scowl.

"What about you? Do you hear the crowd? You’ve got a lot of confidence for someone who’ll never gain recognition unless your in my presence. The people need me. I can't be replaced. You, on the other hand, can be." Katsuki spat his words through gritted teeth, his face twisted with anger. Despite his fury, his posture remained casual, hands tucked into his pants, stance relaxed.

Yoshiki’s smirk faltered, and his face reddened in a mixture of anger and embarrassment. Before he could fire back, Katsuki continued, his expression now calmer, though his voice still held a trace of irritation.

"At least you're smart enough to talk to me in front of the cameras. You know damn well that if you said this anywhere else, your ass would already be halfway across the world."

Katsuki turned his gaze back to the paparazzi, scanning the crowd slowly as he continued speaking.

"Smile bright, Kenai. Take advantage of this privilege. Maybe then you'll get some recognition just from being seen with me."

Yoshiki quickly walked off, his forced smile back in place, but his posture was stiff, and his cheeks were still burning with embarrassment.

"That was interesting," Kirishima said, appearing beside Katsuki, his expression a mix of amusement and mild concern. "Wonder how the paparazzi will spin this little interaction."

"Who gives a fuck?" Katsuki muttered, the faintest smile tugging at his lips as his earlier annoyance began to fade. His gaze shifted to you in the distance, gleefully interacting with the crowd. He was only at this event for you, and now, seeing you so happy, he didn’t regret it in the slightest.

"As long as that little fucker knows his place and stays away from me and my wife, the paparazzi can say whatever they want." You glanced over at your husband just as his eyes locked with yours, filled with affection.

You smiled at him, your eyes gleaming. No matter how many fans or events you attended, it was only Katsuki’s gaze that could disarm you so completely. Katsuki, too, realised how easily he folded when you smiled at him. Despite his fears about dangerous missions, it would always quickly disappear the moment his eyes met yours.

The next day, the cover of nearly every magazine and website featured you and Katsuki. You both stood a little apart, with Kirishima standing next to Katsuki. The crowd and flashing lights surrounded all three of you, but no matter the chaos, your eyes always seemed to find each other.

The headline read: Couple of the Year: In the End, Love Overpowers Fame.

Kirishima texted Katsuki in playful annoyance at being portrayed as the third wheel—though, in truth, he was always more than happy to play that role.

[themareverine]

hello!! have never tried asking yet so hope this is fine with you, but old man logan! oh my days, domestic life with old man logan makes me so weak in my knees

oh absolutely, I could write domestic Old Man all DAY. ✧˚ · . ˚

A King & His Castle | Under Daylight | oldman!Logan x fem!wife!reader drabble

series summary: Breadwinner. Bring-Home-the-Bacon. King of the Castle. He's heard it all before, but it's never been true of the Wolverine. Until her. Coming home to her is the only thing to live for, the only thing keeping the heart behind his ribs spinning.

synopsis: Logan's wasted too much time — and that's right, wasted. Alive a century without purpose, floating in and out of perceived "callings," looking for meaning and direction that only really ever came years before this moment, this heartbeat. Logan — the Wolverine — had found everything he'd never truly been looking for. Wrapped up in bows and curls, swaddling clothes and blood.

warnings: drabble series, day-in-the-life, dad!Logan, mutantwife!reader, angst, domesticity, pregnancy, babies, children, Logan is a boy dad because I said so, reader has curls, slight ⚠︎

navigation | series masterlist | previous let me know if you want added to my tags! ♡！

Fuck daylight savings.

Sun begins to slip away the same time it always does, these days — too early before he arrives home, he misses that glorious little span when it gets cool. The sun sinks, sunlight more like ethereal gold as it stains the sky colors bold enough to make God blush. Years before, fading sunlight would kiss his face, taking him by the hand to say goodbye as hours tick closer and closer to the witching hour, to nightmares.

Countless hours he'd spent under the fading light of the sky, magnificent canopies of colors. All of them spent with her, mostly smiling. Always radiant. In years before the poison slipping through his veins stole more than he'd be willing to admit, they'd walked hours in the genesis of stars, the cool air of coming darkness. He'd held her hand, she'd whispered sweet everythings. They'd danced, fought — made a spectacular kind of love that was as wild as the earth, as free as the sky.

Today they did little of that. Such conveniences lost in the modern world of the concrete jungle, the age of social media. A plague not soon to die, if you asked Logan. Nobody did. A rotten cancer eating away at humanity's finest qualities, it demanded more than creation was ever designed to give. Relationships more anorexic than ever. Pressure of the grind was a mere diagnosis of a time bomb counting down years, eras, to explode. Logan saw the writing on the wall, it wouldn't be long.

He doesn't dwell there, in that hell of thoughts, often, though.

It's enough to kill a man, adamantium bones aside. A poison of another kind, he staves off the wolves of the world beyond his four walls at arm's length, away from the things that matter — what has become, for the first time since his youth, his home. His life. An unspoken, largely undeserved reward for a life under God, chasing graves and death that never arrives. Of spilling blood and cursing air in his lungs. Those things he cherishes, holds as close as a paralyzed, shell of a man with boneless, spineless fingers, can.

Logan's wasted too much time — and that's right, wasted. Alive a century without purpose, floating in and out of perceived "callings," looking for meaning and direction that only really ever came years before this moment, this heartbeat. Logan — the Wolverine — had found everything he'd never truly been looking for. Wrapped up in bows and curls, swaddling clothes and blood.

Their life together wasn't beautiful. Farthest thing from perfect — the kitchen floor was stained with refinery oils and grease, the linger scent of smelt and steel carved deep into the fibers holding the place together, old appliances hobbled together. Their windows were broken, spidering cracks taped over and draped with Look, Lo! This is perfect! tapestries discovered along the way. Stains on thrifted rugs, chipped plates. Bathroom facilities lacking everything to make it more than an industry standard, but somehow perfect for fucking her in the way he loved. Constantly on the alert for trespassers, prying eyes — wolves looking to steal away the "two Wolverines," the myths and logos had popularized.

She was like him in every physiological way, — right down to the bones they gave her. And that was a responsibility Logan had never taken lightly, would never stop fortressing. Stalking the lines like a snarling guard dog, slavering away at the world pressing into what is his, he'd never let her see the world for what it is, what it has become. What she fears in nightmares it will be, but already exists —

What, at some genetic and fearful level, Logan worries his child, in days coming soon, will enter.

Headlights cast milky beams of light against the chain link caging the front door, seven-odd foot sentinels that he knows she's already unlocked for him. It's the same routine every dusk — she unlocks the cage, the front door. Turns on the light above the doorway, waters the plant she's inevitable forgotten, but loves, potted beside the entry to their humble, dark castle.

He kills the lights on the Chrysler. Pops the shift into park a breath from the gate, Logan slips out, goods from his stop at the store under arm like the proud bring-home-the-bacon, breadwinner he isn't.

Slipping into his home with a practiced phantom years of peacetime can't quite shake, he shrugs off his suitcoat. Draps it over the makeshift foyer table and cracked mirror she took such pride in at that garage sale the first year they'd lived here. Bright, passionate roses give him pause, quaintly organized into a makeshift Campbell's soup can vase, giving the space a sort of color that makes the muscle in his jaw twitch with amusement.

If she didn't at least try to make this place theirs, a home, she'd be damned. He's sure of it as he makes his way in, groceries at hand, stepping into the low lights cutting across the kitchen floor. It smells good, like food — like bread. Meat. Protein. His gut spins at the thought, suddenly ravenous despite the junk he'd consumed on the road an hour ago.

Passing by the makeshift island, which is not ironically, a welding table, he spots dinner. Salad, warm bread. Chicken. Logan could chuckle at the bowl of Jell-o, if the idea of it being scratch-and-dent clearance didn't roil his blood. It's dinner, provisions — in some ways, better than they've had in beforeyears. They'd survived together on much less, much, much less.

But the idea doesn't quite land like he wishes it to — she deserves so much more. His child deserves a life out from the confines of hideaway secrecy and the stay-alive, a chance at life. To taste independence and experiences not those of the one's who gave it life.

Logan pops a crouton from the salad into the pocket of his cheek, the zing of dressing just enough to make his entire mouth salivate with hunger. Setting his wares on the table, his gaze cuts around the open floor — it's quiet. She isn't here.

The air doesn't move and crack like a whip with her presence, his entire body isn't on fire like it is when she's near. Weird.

But then, movement down the corridor, where their room is located, produces a nod from him. Of course. Naturally she'd be there, either room or bathroom, the two places she hadn't been able to stay out of since the start of this trimester. Throwing up or nesting, that's what the doc had called it, occupied most of her business hours. He was relegated to mere appointment appearances, sidebarred in her otherwise gestational state.

It's easy to slip into the room when she's not looking — one would think an impending child would heighten a mother's senses, but it doesn't. Not truly. Maybe for some people, maybe even for animals but not things. Creatures, like them. Science experiments clawing their way through freedom, a special kind of torture that doesn't land them in either camp. Forever limbo between fully human and fully thing, today she's more human than he ever remembers. And Christ alive, is she stunning.

Logan had never fully come to terms with the idea of being a father, of the responsibility of rearing another human being. If you'd have told him it was the best decision of his centuries of life, settling into fatherhood, breeding, he'd have laughed in your face. Drank away the idea, maybe. Drowned it in his own sorrows of survival and displacement. Lobotomized that idea right out of him, the labs had.

Hell no I don't want kids, it was a common question when courting the interests of the opposite sex. Earned him his fill of meaningless fucks and tit, that was fact. It was only ever until he'd met her that he'd high-tailed away from the idea of peace, of life not so unlike this one. There'd always be an element of danger, of suspect — even if he weren't what he was, if she weren't what she is.

And she'd come along and knifed him between the ribs, carved into him the idea of living that didn't hurt. Didn't rip apart his guts. She'd shown him what it meant to be alive, what it meant to be human — how being more than human was not the curse he'd made it to be. Loving the ugly parts of him, the raw and bleeding animal of the Wolverine, had stitched back together his soul. His purpose, his reason for walking under starlight.

She'd given him hope, faith. Purpose.

And now, a child.

Standing in the doorway of what is the farthest thing from a master suite, but suits him fine, he leans against the doorway. Watches the pretty of her across the room, rooting through opened bins on the floor for clothes.

Spiral curls pulled lazily into a clip, fallen pieces wild around her shoulders in a way that stirs fire in his belly that is so far from hunger it hurts, but produces a smile. And it isn't uncommon, seeing her this way — an oversized shirt and underwear small enough to be sinful. So few of her clothes fit, anymore. He'd never bothered to notice. Enjoyed look at her.

As natural as God designed, especially these days.

If she notices him, she doesn't say, but allows him to slip up behind her all the same. At one time, Logan trembles to think how this would've ended for him — on the floor, adamantium claws in his guts, blood on the floor. Pre-maternal her. Since Texas, since the swell of his seed filling her to a plump round that drove him within an inch of his composure, she'd become so much more docile. Content, at peace. Domesticity had changed her, a child had knit her back together.

What had once become a weapon had been reborn, became living, again. And that, Logan thinks, is the purpose of life — watching the ones you love become whole, again. Watching life restore purpose, rebirth that which once had died. Maybe not life in the general sense, but the purpose of his life.

His hands land at her hips, squeezing lovely the softness of her curve that feels so right, familiar in a way that should be frightening. And may she has been aware of him all along, because she doesn't jump. There's no spike of adrenaline in her blood, just a soft gasp of surprise. A giggle, as her hands find his on her hips, the little graze of her nails a kind of lovely he can't find words for.

"Logan," her airy laugh carries through the space brightly, lands right at home in his chest. "You're home," she leans back until her head rests against his chest, tucked securely in the frame of him. "Dinner is parked, if you're hungry. Chicken and salad."

He chuckles, lips twitching into a faint smile. Brushing a kiss to the shell of her ear, "Well stone the fuckin' crows," his taunt isn't genuine, but filled with mirth and sarcasm as he tuts over her ear, "What else is new?"

It's been chicken and salad every day for the last week, a craving he will never understand. "You're such an ass!" She swipes at his hand, trying not to laugh. It makes him smile against her skin, angling his head to gently suckle at the pulse in her neck, "I can't help it. I swear, if this kid doesn't come out feathered —"

Wrong kind of coat, Wolverines don't have feathers. The idea is, at its base, amusing. Lights him up in a way Logan isn't sure he can ever surrender. He's been enchanted with this entire journey since the moment she'd popped, and low parts of him haven't reconciled that he can't keep her this way, not forever. There will come a time she isn't swollen with his seed, fat and pumped fill of him.

Makes his cock ache in a way that will haunt him, probably forever. A high he'll only ever chase.

Tugging her back against him, his hands dip forward, fingers splayed over the curve of her belly. Warmth he can't describe slips from him, a yearning to feel snaking deep into his bones. He felt this child, his child, a dozen times. More, probably. Never had stopped feeling like the first time, he was high on it. Her scent, her heat, didn't help matters.

He could salivate just thinking about her wrapped around him, tight and so, so full.

Logan's not sure if it's the open-mouthed kiss to her neck or his hands lifting away weight of her belly that pulls a trembling, filthy grown from her chest. She falls back against his chest, slack like a doll, and his world spins for all of a heartbeat, accepting her weight. Her mewling little cry, the breathy gasp — her hands finding his, encouraging him not to let go. It all works together to take him apart in a way he isn't sure he wants to recover from.

"Oh my god, yes," he nuzzles his nose into her hair, that wild smell of peach and flowers so there, it makes him a little breathless. Adding a little more pressure into his hands, he lifts more, and the way she all but moans is just short of pornography. He wishes it was captured, somehow, for replay. "Logan, baby — oh, god." Hips bucking forward, her back arching so far, he feared she'd break.

His chuckle is low in chest, fingers gently kneading against her belly, probing. "Feel good, baby?" His hand grazes up her hip, knuckles kneading at the pulled muscle and heat absolutely buried into her softness, the curve of her.

"Mhmmmm," Nodding, Logan doesn't miss the sparkle of relieved tears behind her lashes, brow knit together in a ball of tension that makes him almost break. "Feels incredible," her nails dig into his hands, encouraging more, "shit, I could almost —" laced with wonder, it falls away under a shaky breath. "Oh, Logan —"

"I know, darlin'," he smiles against her skin, pressing a desperate kiss to her cheek, "I know." It's only a few more weeks, he knows. By their guess, by gut instinct from everything he knows about babies. It can't come soon enough, but it could be farther away.

If she never stopped loving him like this, it would be too soon.

Relishing in her warmth, in the tremble of her muscle, Logan finally releases, slowly. Hands on her shoulders gently coax her to face him, lazily. Bliss on her face pinks up her cheeks, has her eyes hung to half mast, and she almost glows as her hands find his face.

Fingers tease through his beard, encouraging him into a deliberate, slow kiss.

He lowers his forehead to hers, his lips brushing against hers in a tender, unhurried way. She asks him if he's hungry, and truthfully, he could eat. Food, of her, of this — he's a starving man for anything she'll provide, forever well fed but also never enough.

"Okay," her whisper is soft, a hand lowering to cradle their child. "It's conditional, though," she chastises, pulling back to quirk a brow at him. "Entirely dependent on what you're about to say, Lo."

He'd pull the moon from orbit, if she asked. "What's that?"

"We talk about what you're actually hungry for, after supper."

He doesn't need told twice.

taglist: @sidkneeeee @thevoicefromanotherworld @misscrissfemmefatale @eternallyfrustratedwriter @permanentlyexhaustedpigeon88 @laaadygisbooornex3 @itsafullmoon

[snowballseal]

Cauterize

Rafayel X Reader (LaDS)

Summary: An outdoor date gone wrong leads to Rafayel needing to find a way to save your life. The only solution - he has to use his evol to stop you from bleeding out.

Word Count: 2591

Warning: mentions of blood, injury, violence, Rafayel uses his fire evol to cauterize your wound. Don't know why my brain needed so desperately to write this...not going to think to hard about that honestly.

It's a whole lot of angst with a comforting ending.

---

It was meant to be a fun adventure.

That was all. Rafayel had admitted he hasn’t had many chances to explore the mountains around Linkon, always too busy with up-coming exhibits or commissions. You, of course, couldn’t let that stand.

So you did what any partner would do. Plan a picnic at your favorite hiking spot. You found it while you were still training for the Association, driven outside by the stress of your studies. When you stumbled upon the little lake, it became your safe place, your sanctuary from the chaos of life.

It was a perfect plan. You made the lunch, packed plenty of water, you even convinced Thomas to push everything off for a day so that Rafayel wouldn’t have to think about any of it.

It was perfect.

But little seems to stay perfect in your life.

“Watch out!”

Rafayel ducks just in time to avoid the energy blast from the wanderer. You raise your twin pistols, getting a few shots in before it darts into the trees. Heart racing, you dart over to the artist, your eyes tracking the rustling leaves as it moves around you.

“You okay?” You ask, voice tense.

“All good, cutie,” Rafayel huffs, brushing off his pants as he gets back on his feet. With a flourish of his hand, a dagger appears, glinting in the dappled light coming through the trees. “Let’s finish this quickly so we can still enjoy our picnic, yah?”

With a terse nod, you focus back on the eerie growl rumbling through the trees. Both you and Rafayel brace yourselves. Everything goes absolutely still for a mere moment.

Then the wanderer lunges.

The two of you fight with a practiced harmony, taking turns attacking, defending, moving in tandem like a dance between the trees. The leaves rustle under your boots. Your guns warm against your palms. The sound of Rafayel’s fire crackling in the air, followed by a pained roar from wanderer.

You get so caught up in the pace of it, in the instincts driving your muscles, pulling the triggers, spinning you round and round and round as the wanderer tries to evade you in the trees. You don’t notice the rock. A small rock. A rock that shouldn’t have mattered.

Except you step on it just right to have your ankle twist and give out under you.

Except it gives the wanderer just the right opening to take one last, desperate shot.

You can hear the energy sizzling through the air. You can see it, almost in slow motion. Yet you don’t have time to think before you feel the pain searing through your body. The blast slams you back into a tree, your body hitting the bark with a harsh ‘crack’.

And you crumble.

“(Y/n)!”

Everything freezes. Blood. So much blood. The dark vermillion stains the fallen leaves littered around you. And you’re not moving. Rafayel feels stuck, eyes wide, panic curling like a noose around his lungs, so tight he can’t breathe.

Please. Please. Please.

It feels like an eternity before you let out a low, pained groan.

The tiniest flicker of relief sparks in Rafayel’s chest. It lasts only a moment, though, because you don’t get up. The sight of you lying there, stark pain tightening your features, makes all the blood in his veins freeze over, an icy cold washing over his senses.

It’s not slow or drawn out. In an instant, all emotion slips from the Lemurian’s face, leaving nothing but an apathetic god, eyes smoldering with a vicious kind of anger. An anger that would burn the world down if it meant keeping you safe.

It happens in the blink of an eye. A mere flick of his wrist. The wanderer howls as flames consume it, burning it and its protocore to mere ash to be carried away by the breeze. Not even a single leaf is left singed in its place.

And Rafayel is at your side before the ash can even dissipate.

“(Y/n)? Hey, come on, open your eyes for me, cutie.”

You let out a low whimper, bleary eyes barely opening to meet his concerned gaze. Well, what you assume is his concerned gaze. It’s hard to make out, everything blurring before you, your head spinning. It makes you feel sick, and all you want to do is close your eyes again, to escape all of this. But you can feel his warmth, feel his fingers insistently pressing against your cheek, anchoring you, giving you something to focus on besides the pain searing up your side.

Rafayel mutters a curse. You’ve already lost a lot of blood. He takes a quick survey of your wound, a wide gash along your side. It wouldn’t be life threatening. As long as he could stop the bleeding.

Another curse passes his lips. Rafayel turns desperately back to your face, cupping both your cheeks with steady hands despite the panic digging into his chest. His heart squeezes at the pained whimper you let out.

“Hey, shhh, it’s okay, it’s okay.” His voice, another anchor. You focus on his low timber, his words reaching you as if through a thick fog. Still, you try to understand him, eyes set on his lips. “We just need to stop the bleeding, then you’ll be okay. I’ll call the emergency line after. We just need to stop the bleeding.”

But how? Rafayel racks his brain, trying to think of something, anything that might help. He can’t fail you, not when you’re looking up at him like all you care about is him being there. Not that you’re hurt. Not that you could be dying. His eyes flicker briefly to the side.

They catch on a tree, the bark burnt from one of his attacks.

Rafayel pauses.

What a horrible idea. And yet-

Those ocean eyes flicker back to you, pained. You stare back at him, brow knitting together, chest heaving, a question on your bloody lips.

“I’m sorry.”

Rafayel holds a hand to your wound. And then you’re screaming. Eyes clenching shut, your body nearly lurches off the ground as a new pain sears through you, hot and sharp like a blade digging into your flesh. Tears race down your cheeks as you try to draw away from it, away from him, but Rafayel presses his other hand to your shoulder, pinning you to the ground. 

You let out a shaky sob, fingers wrapping desperately around his wrist, and Rafayel almost breaks, almost stops. The smell of burning flesh is not an unfamiliar scent to him, but knowing it’s you, knowing he’s causing you pain, makes him feel sick to his stomach.

He leans over you, as if he can somehow shield you from the pain, forehead pressing against yours. You let out a soft keen and his lips trace across your cheeks, whispering between kisses “I’m sorry, please hold on just a little longer, my love. I know it hurts, just a little longer. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

It takes what feels like an infinity, but as soon as the blood stops, Rafayel snatches his hand away, his fire disappearing. You all but sag against him as the pain finally dwindles, more tears pooling along your lashes, sweat clinging to your forehead.

“All done,” Rafayel murmurs, voice unsteady, hands returning to hold your face. “All done, I promise. You’ll be okay. The emergency responders are coming. God…-”

He sounds close to tears himself. 

You let out a trembling breath, giving his wrist a soft squeeze, “S’okay, Raf…I’m…’kay…”

But everything is fading again. The shock. The pain. The adrenaline. You try to keep your eyes open, try to fight the sudden exhaustion that weighs down your eyelids. Rafayel’s lips quirk into a false smile, smoothing his now trembling fingers over your brow.

“Get some rest. Your body needs it right now.”

“But-” You try to argue, but your mouth feels like it’s full of cotton.

“I’ll keep you safe until they arrive, so rest. Please.” He says the last word so softly, so pleadingly, that you can’t help but give in. Not that you could put up much of a fight anyways.

You keep your eyes locked on Rafayel until the darkness slowly pulls you under.

Your fingers never once leave his wrist.

---

The next thing you hear is the quiet beeping of a heart monitor.

It’s an odd feeling, waking up in an unfamiliar room, most of your body numb from a plethora of painkillers. Your eyes slide open groggily, taking in the white ceiling above you, the gray walls around you, the sleeping Lemurian curled over the edge of your bed, fingers wrapped tightly around your own, as though you might disappear if he lets go. A slight smile pulls at your mouth.

Silly fish...Even in his sleep, he carries the weight of his emotions so clearly. Brows furrowed, lips pursed in a deep scowl, eyelashes fluttering from uneasy sleep. A soft, fond sigh passes your lips, and you slowly reach your free hand to brush a rogue curl from his face.

The moment your fingertips brush his skin, though, Rafayel is awake. He jolts up like he’s been electrocuted, eyes wide, darting everywhere with a panicked urgency. Until they land on you. You blink at him, hand lingering in the air between you. Waiting. You can almost see his brain processing, the colors in his eyes flashing like little buffer signs. Until he realizes you’re awake, actually awake, and it’s like watching a drowning man finally fill his lungs. Then he’s surging back in like a raging ocean wave, fizzling into soft foam as he nuzzles into your palm.

“You’re awake.” His voice is rough and low, thick with disbelief.

“I am,” you rasp and rub your thumb lovingly over his cheek.

Rafayel shudders. He missed this. Your touch. Your warmth. You were so cold when you were sleeping, too cold. But now you’re warm again, so warm. He wants to bury himself in you, to be enveloped by your touch. He needs it. He desperately, desperately needs it.

And yet he holds back.

Because he can’t forget it. 

The sound of your scream still echoes in his ears. It’s like a chain around his body, keeping him locked in place, unable to do anything except nuzzle his face into your hand. It’s like having a pup cowering before you, begging for a scrap of affection but too scared to come closer.

And of course you notice.

“What’s wrong?” You press, fingers drifting down to hold his chin. Your eyes narrow with that look, unrelenting and calculating as they scan his face.

Rafayel flushes under the intensity of your attention. Seems not even a major injury dulls your sharp senses. And he knows there’s no use trying to hide it from you.

“How are you feeling?” But that doesn’t mean he can’t try to evade your question.

“I’m fine. Whatever drugs they have me on are working,” you hum, eyes narrowing further, “Now tell me what’s wrong, Rafayel.”

His eyes look anywhere but at you. Your grip on his chin grows firmer, forcing him to meet your gaze. And it’s awful. Here you are, laying in a hospital bed, dressed in a flimsy hospital gown, worrying over him. How pathetic…

“I’m sorry.”

You frown, “What for, fishie?”

Rafayel’s throat bobs. Wetting his lips nervously, his voice cracks as he whispers, “I’m sorry for putting you through that. I just- I didn’t know what to do and you were bleeding so much. I thought I was going to lose you.”

Oh. Your heart nearly fractures at how broken he sounds, the distress painted across his pale face. He blames himself. For either you getting hurt, or how he had to save you. Maybe both.

What a silly, silly fish…

Expression softening, your fingers return to tracing his cheek. Rafayel quivers under the tenderness of your touch, long lashes fluttering against your fingertips. He soaks up every ounce of your affection despite feeling wholly undeserving of it. His own fingers press desperately into the bed, resisting the urge to reach out, to touch you, to make up for the pain he caused. And that only breaks your heart more.

 “Rafayel, you did nothing wrong,” you murmur eventually, disrupting the heavy silence in the room.

“But-”

“No,” you insist firmly, voice not unkind, but leaving no room for argument, “You saved me. I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t done what you did. I wish you didn’t have to experience that, but you made the right choice. You saved me.”

He hesitates. Rafayel wants to believe you. You would never lie to him, afterall. Not about this. But still-

“Rafayel,” you call, brow perking up, “if you don’t come here, right now, and give me, the living person in front of you, a kiss, then I’ll be mad. I’ve been through a lot today, don’t make me go without my fishie, too.”

That’s all it takes to weaken what little resolve he has left. Rafayel’s lips meet yours in a starving show of affection, those trembling fingers finding your face as if to anchor himself. Every thought, every breath of yours belongs to him in that moment, his body leaning over you, his teeth tugging gently on your bottom lip, his fingers curling possessively through your messy hair. Still drowning. Still aching to breathe you in as if you’re the air his lungs so desperately need.

Yet it’s all impossibly tender.

Restrained in a way you’ve never experienced from Rafayel. And that alone is enough to make your heart melt. How could you possibly love this man so much?

When he draws away, forehead resting gingerly against yours, there’s a smile on your reddened lips.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you want to eat me alive with a kiss like that,” you tease, a little breathless, your eyes practically sparkling up at him. “Are you holding back because I’m injured, fishie?”

His ears go bright pink, embarrassment tinging his cheeks, and your smile only grows. Maybe it’s the drugs making you a little bolder, but you can’t help but reach out and swipe a teasing finger under his lips. Rafayel’s eyes narrow at you, bleeding into something dark that makes your chest flutter.

“Guess you’ll have to be patient, huh?” You don’t relent for even a second, though. It’s a good distraction, from both the minor discomfort starting in your side, and the blame he’s trying to carry. “Do you think you can handle it, fishie? I know how hard waiting is for you.”

“You know, when I gave you permission to call me that, I never thought you would use it so condescendingly.” That adorable pout returns, only making his flushed face look even cuter. 

“Oh, I’m just teasing you,” you hum, tone softening with unadulterated fondness as you reach up to fuss with his curls. “But, okay, I won’t use it like that if you don’t want me to. You know I love you, my sweet, little fish.”

Your words are accompanied by a chaste kiss that has Rafayel weakening again. He lets out a little huff, eyes fluttering shut as he basks in your touch once more. This is what he needed. You. Just you. And now that he knows you don’t hate him for what he did, he can focus on one thing.

Making sure you recover and reminding you just how much he cherishes you. And never letting something like this happen ever again.

---

I literally have no idea where this came from. I just got the thought, and I couldn't NOT write it. I love writing fluff, but man, angst just hits different.

Hope y'all enjoyed it! Keep sending in requests, I promise I'm working on those too!

[darlingdreadwrites]

I love reading your works!! I'm really curious to what you would think of EJ with a darling, except that instead of her being a final girl he walks in on her accidentally killing someone? I apologize if this is weird!!

don't ever apologize for making a request, i live for them. i hope you enjoy!!

pairing: Eyeless Jack x GN!Reader

summary: Jack is hungry, and you seem like the perfect target while you're hiking all alone. When he sees that you're in trouble, the small part of humanity he has left keeps him at bay.

contains: jack finds you yummy, sweet and gentle jack, he helps you

warnings: jack literally wants to eat you, cannibalism, gore but not really

word count: 1.3k

masterlist

Hunger gnawed at Jack’s insides and the world was a blur of heat signatures and sound. He hadn’t eaten in days, and he was starting to lose control of his senses. But Jack had spotted you hours ago, picking up on your soft footsteps against the forest floor. Your heartbeat was steady, and you were unaware of his presence. Easy prey. He wasn’t exactly thrilled, but a man’s gotta eat, right?

He would treat you right – take you out immediately before he sunk his teeth into your plump flesh. His mouth watered at the thought before the taste of tar and blood forced him to control himself. Jack wasn’t one to kill impulsively, but he was very close to doing so. He couldn’t believe he would let himself get this hungry – it was too careless and messy. He preferred to take his time and cause as little problems as possible. Which was ironic for a cannibalistic demon.

Your warmth invited him like a lighthouse, and he was your ship; lost in his sea of hunger. He liked your scent; he had never smelled anything like it. Despite being a few good feet away, he could smell, hear, and taste you like he was inside of you. He’d be disgusted with himself if he wasn’t so hungry. He could barely think past the pulsing pain in his stomach.

Every breath he took was all you – your blood, your flesh. That’s all he saw you as: meat, pulsing with life. He wanted so badly for you to fill the tastebuds of his tongues with your sweet flavor. And he could tell that you would be sweet. He felt almost guilty for letting such a nice meal go to waste so quickly. Maybe he would have enough self-control to save pieces of you for later –

Shit. He lost track of you.

Jack seems to have gotten clouded by his hunger. He stilled, attempting to locate the faint beating of your heartbeat again behind all the trees and rocks. He took a deep breath, preparing himself to a pulse of sound and pinpointing your location. But he didn’t need to.

A scream tore through the woods – loud and sharp. His instincts snapped back, and he was grounded in an instant. He rushed toward the sound, his heavy boots snapping twigs in half and crunching leaves underfoot. Were you hurt? Did someone get to you before him? He growls, using that to bounce off his surroundings in case the screaming doesn’t take him directly to you. He slows when the echo comes back to him faster. Found you.

He stays hidden in the trees and focuses on the heat that emitted from you. Oh. There was someone else - you were standing near someone else. He could smell the man, lying motionless. The vibrant hues of red and orange clung to the life pulsing from the bodies. Well, at least you were pulsing with life. Your figure was warm while you stood over the duller, fading heat of the other. The blood that oozes out of him makes Jack’s head spin.

He could tell you were tense, your heat shifting in jagged bursts of breaths. You were right within his reach and vulnerable, but he stayed hidden. He hadn’t thought of you as a killer – you certainly didn’t look it. And, with the way that you shook, he guessed he was right.

He should leave you to deal with that on your own, he thought. It’s not his problem. However, his hunger pulled him to step closer to you. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but you quickly turned around to face him. You were breathing fast, and your heat pulsated strongly from your face and your hands. You were scared of him – of course, you would be. You had just committed murder, and a tall, masked man walked out of the shadows. He wasn’t exactly a pretty sight.

Even without eyes, he could tell that you were shocked, but ready to fight if he got too close. He could feel in his bones the electric blend of fear and instinct you felt. Jack could easily overpower you, but he caught the scent of something. Your blood: you were hurt. A foreign feeling bloomed in his chest. His curiosity was piqued, and he felt a rare sense of concern.

Jack isn’t a stranger to tending to people’s wounds, but he had never cared this much about a potential victim before.

You’re frozen as you stare at the man in front of you. Not only had you been attacked and consequentially killed someone, but now you were faced with another challenge. He stood eerily still, wearing a featureless mask. The holes where his eyes would be were black voids, and they seemed to be leaking some type of black substance.

You stagger backwards when he reaches for his black leather crossbody bag. He stops immediately, and, slowly, raises his hand as a silent gesture of peace. You keep your guard up and watch as his other hand eases the bag over his head and onto the forest floor. He kneels beside it, and you’re confused. You are about to run when he speaks up.

“You’re hurt,” he says, pointing to your arm.

You look down, and sure enough, your sleeve is torn, with an angry streak of red running down it. You glance back at him as he pulls out what seems to be a medical kit. Was he..?

“Just here to help,” he reassures. “Nothing else.”

You hesitantly step toward him and drop to your knees – watching him closely. You’re sure this is all a dream. You’ll wake up in your room, having never stepped foot in these woods. You were never attacked, you never killed someone, and you weren’t getting treated by some man wearing a mask. But it all felt too real.

With gloved hands, he gently held your torn sleeve and inspected the gash. The two of you were quiet as he reached for a bottle of antiseptic and gauze. You wince as he dabs at your wound – it was a sharp, biting sting, but he was gentle. He works with a tenderness that surprises you as he cleans you up. He doesn’t speak, and the silence presses heavily onto you.

“I’m-I’m so… so sorry,” you stumble over your words and your lips tremble. “He came out of-out of nowhere – “

He shushes you, momentarily taking his attention away from your gash. “You don’t need to explain.”

His voice was firm, and it calmed you. After the wound is clean, he bandages your arm with care and secures it with medical tape. He starts to reach into his bag again and pulls out a hoodie, one of his spares. You’re surprised when he holds it up to you. He notices your hesitation and nods, urging you to take it. You do, and stand up, catching sight of the body you forgot was there.

“What do I do?” You stammer, feeling your pulse spike and nausea build. “Shouldn’t I be… turning myself in or..?”

“Don’t,” he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. You go home.”

The calming timbre of his voice was unnerving, yet grounding. His presence soothed you in a strange way. You want to protest – you knew what was right and what was wrong – murder was wrong. But he seemed to settle the panic in you with his semi-hushed tone. You let out a shaky breath and nod. For reasons you couldn’t name, you trusted him.

You cast one final glance at him over your shoulder as you leave. He just stares at you, and you wish you could know what he’s really feeling – what expression his face carried.

You’re unaware that Jack has silently thanked you for providing him with a free meal.

[tteokdoroki]

*ੈ🌩️‧₊˚— playing defence + yoichi isagi.

૮˶ᵕ ༝ᵕ˶ა synopsis — you bitch slap kaiser for talking smack about your boyfriend. perhaps isagi is rubbing off on you.

⭑ warnings — please read + mdni ! characters aged up to 20s, crack, fluff, suggestive towards the end, violence, smack talk, mentions of injury, mentions of blood, established relationship, pro player!isagi, fem!reader - not beta read !

⭑ words — 2.2K.

⭑ notes — greetings all! isagi brain rot is so real rn, i swear i have like six wips for him... anyways this was a silly little idea that popped into my head lmao kinda cringe but i had fun with it !! enjoy ! - m.list ✩

your boyfriend is somewhat of a conundrum.

the world knows yoichi isagi as the ruthless heart of blue lock’s success. a man that’s unrelenting on the field with his strategic mind and frightening air of dominance poured into his every play. every movement he makes is calculated meticulously, the greed for a goal simmering in his blood. isagi as a pro player is foul mouthed and messy — taunting his opponent until they crumble into nothing but dust before his very eyes.

the media thinks he’s cocky, but rightfully so. after all yoichi isagi is the catalyst for a new generation of japanese soccer. the girls love him, he’s charming in interviews without meaning to be — they like how he talks about you. as if you’re a gem that’s worth millions. precious.

the isagi that you know has a tender touch and his soul warm, he wears his heart right on his sleeve and never lets you go a moment without knowing you’re appreciated. the isagi that you know is encouraging, he’s always on your side. if he needs to, he’ll sweet talk you with honey glazed words and kiss you until your thoughts fizzle out into stardust.

isagi is good.

he’s good to his friends, his teammates, his parents — he’s almost too good to be true. as if he’s been peeled from the pages of a shoujo romance manga or ripped from the silver screen of a perfect Hollywood romcom. a literal walking green flag. you’d say that you were lucky to have him, and yoichi would spin it on you — using strings of sweet words to express just how deep and profound his love is for you, praising you just enough to melt you into a love sick puddle of goo. and he’d mean it, sincerity swirling in his whirlpooling blue eyes. he swears by it.

so when someone pisses your isagi off, when they hurt him — you can’t help but lose your shit.

it happens during a practise match with a few of the players that joined during the neo-egoist league. although it’s been years since then and the blue lock project has become a formidable team, it keeps the boys on their feet to play with those with other worldly styles of soccer. the match had been going well, isagi trailblazing across the pitch and leaving nothing but a trail of destruction and despair behind — you were proud of him, amazed by him and the talents he possesses. to see him in his element makes your heart swell.

you don’t know kaiser very well — just that he’s super big and plays for the german team that gave isagi his leg up in the soccer world. you’ve heard from others about how much of a dick he could be and the intense rivalry he had with your boyfriend back when the blue lock project first started. you don’t know kaiser well but that information alone was enough to get your back up whenever he was in close range of yoichi.

and rightfully so. because you see the way he prods and pokes at the beautiful, sensitive parts of your lover as they race across to the penalty area. you notice how it rattles isagi, gets him all up in his head. you hear kaiser say something along the lines of:

“what’s with your shitty plays, yoichi? surely if you’re the heart of blue lock then the future of soccer is bound to be doomed.” he skirts around your boyfriend, intercepting a pass he was meant to receive from nagi. “pathetic, to see how much this star has fallen. i should crush you.”

you’ve heard all the insults the blue lock boys throw at each other before but this is nothing like usual. rin itoshi has said much worse to isagi right in front of your face (and isagi right back, foul mouthed motherfucker) but you know that’s a defence mechanism to how rin truly thinks and feels.

michael kaiser is just an asshole, plain and simple.

and that kind of behaviour doesn’t fly with you when it comes to yoichi.

you storm onto the pitch from the sidelines before your mind can even catch up to your body. the other players working around your boyfriend and his rival stop their movements as you stroll past them, snapped out of their egoist state by the referee whistle that calls for you to stop.

“m-ma’am! you can’t be on the pitch!”

you walk right past ness, weave between kurona, bachira and hiori, and right up to the blonde haired perpetrator himself. you’re polite about it too, tapping him on the shoulder to interrupt the narcissistic monologue he’s giving to isagi and showing him your sweetest, kindest smile.

there’s a split second before the blunt force of your fist collides with michael kaiser’s cheek and he’s knocked to the ground from the weight of it.

“you better watch who the fuck you’re talking to, you clownish freak.”

“babe?” isagi jumps into action despite his shock and the sniggers from other players on the field. he wraps his strong arms around your middle and tugs you into his chest with a winded laugh. “precious, what are you doing here?”

“he can’t talk to you like that!”

“but baby, you can’t be here—“

“this isn’t good.” bachira sings from a safe distance.

“fuck! what the actual fuck?” kaiser swears, using the sleeve of his jersey to wipe the blood from his bruising nose. “who’s crazy groupie is this?”

another wave of anger crashes through your veins, your blood at its boiling point as his words register within you. “excuse me?” isagi snarls, clearly unimpressed, loosening his hold on you while you struggle against your boyfriend’s lean frame.

“so what? you get your girlfriend to play defence for you and then act like i’m in the wrong? i said, get this groupie away from me—!”

before anyone on the pitch can realise, you’re free from isagi’s hold and you’re on kaiser like white on rice — fisting his sweatshirt between the same pretty fingers that treat isagi like he’ll break with too much force. “you wanna say that again, shitstain?” you run your tongue over your teeth, the menacing glint to your eye making you look like you’re a predator about to hunt down her prey. the blonde shakes underneath you as you pin him to the grass — an insult rolling around on his tongue. “i wouldn’t waste my words. you should just lay down and die before you take another sucker punch from this groupie.”

“do you have any idea how much this face is worth? i should—“

“gimme a break michael kaiser,” to your left you can hear bachira chanting something about ‘no violence’, bouncing around excitedly and a wicked grin tugs on the corner of your lips. “you’re not worth shit to me. so keep fucking around and find out, pretty boy. you talk smack about yoichi again and i swear your face won’t be the only goods i damage.”

“jeez, you’re just as crazy as that wanna be protagonist over there—“ is all he can muster before he flinches back from your fists that raise a over your head.

isagi moves quicker this time, scooping you up from underneath your armpits despite how you huff, puff and protest. “alright, alright, you’re done here. let’s go, princess.” he says sheepishly. maybe he’s been rubbing off on you a little too much.

his comforting touch slides down to your hand, grabbing at it to drag you off the pitch for the sake of kaiser’s safety, keeping everyone else out of harms way. and isagi just about gets you off the green before you set your sights on your next victim — ness, who can’t help but make faces at you as you trudge after your boyfriend.

drawing a line over your throat with your thumb, you make direct eye contact with him. “you’re next, shitty little meat-rider—! ow! ‘ichi!” you bark, but isagi quickly scoops you up again like a cat holding her kitten by the nape.

you have no choice but to back down for now.

“yanno, you really didn’t have to do that.”

isagi let’s you go once you’re back in the locker rooms to check on your hand. he crouches before you (where you sit just a level above him on the metal bench), holding an ice pack to your knuckles with the trace of a smile on his lips, only lifting it to see if the swelling has gone down. isagi reads you like an open book, he’s got you all figured out so he leaves you with the space to react and have your little tantrums.

besides, it’s cute that you get so pissed off when it comes to him. watching your nose scrunch up and your lips twist into a pout while you fight your own outburst just makes his heart beat for you a little faster.

“oh i fucking did! he was being so horrible to you and i couldn’t just let it slide!” you huff as your temper flares, shoulders sagging and arms crossing over your chest. he says nothing for a moment and lifts the compress from your hand to check the damage.

“look at you, precious girl. you’ve only gone and hurt yourself,” even when you’re throwing a fit like this, yoichi can only see the beauty in you — his cheeks flushing at how much you care for him. the dark haired striker flips through a first aid kit that rests at your feet, looking for disinfectant to clean up your split knuckles. “and, as for kaiser… well, he’s always like that.”

“well, i don’t like kaiser. i hope a bird shits on his head and both sides of his pillows are warm.”

“bird shit is supposed to be a sign of good luck, baby.”

“don’t test me yoichi isagi.”

he dabs at your wounds with a cotton pad and a brownish liquid that smells like the dettol your mom would keep in the cabinet under the kitchen sink for when you got yourself into similar situations like this as a kid. but instead of scolding you like she would, yoichi tends to your cuts and scrapes either upmost care. still smiling to himself. smiling at you. resisting the urge to burst with affection.

“you’re gonna have to apologise, precious.” he mutters absentmindedly, wincing when you do.

“i-i’m not going to, he deserved it!” that much is true, kaiser is clown who needs to be put in his place but it shouldn’t have been by you and at the expensive of your precious hands getting hurt.

you’re in more pain than you’re willing to show, and it bothers isagi just a little bit that you’re experiencing it because of him.

“well he did, but ego won’t be happy.”

“did ego make you apologise for all those times you beat the crap out of your teammates for even looking at me? for stealing your goals?” you roll your eyes, leaning away from your doting boyfriend in protest.

isagi grabs at your wrist firmly, tugging you back into place so he can start wrapping your hand up — ignoring the way his face and the tips of his ears start to burn up in embarrassment. “well no… but that’s different. friendly competition.”

“hardly! may i remind you that shidou literally couldn’t walk for a week straight after he commented on my ass? because of you?”

“i was defending your honour! and keep still!”

you give isagi a pointed look. hypocrite. “okay, but what about when rin said you couldn’t fuck for the life of you and then you proved your point. using me. in front of him. was that about honour or about your ego? mister egoist.” isagi’s big blue eyes instantly shoot up to meet yours and blushes a crimson that could rival the shade of the older itoshi brother’s hair. “itoshi couldn’t look at me for weeks!”

“point taken.” knowing that he won’t win this argument (if you could even call it that), isagi finishes up with bandaging your hand and takes a seat next to you, a comfortable silence settling over you both while he attempts to piece together why you love him this much. to play knight in shining armour to his damsel in distress.

“are you…really going to make me apologise yoichi?” you ask him sheepishly after some time, leaning into him for comfort.

“not if you don’t want to, precious.” he hums, fondly brushing a thumb over the back of your bandaged hand. a silent thank you. a hidden i love you.

“good,” you whine now that all of your adrenaline’s worn off and you can really feel the consequences of punching a world class striker in the face. “now kiss my knuckles. they hurt.” holding up your hand to isagi’s face, you shake it as if to rid yourself of the painful ebb to it.

“better?” isagi complies, his lips soft against your skin.

“much.”

“so spoilt,” he adds. your boyfriend’s voice stays low while he plays with your bruised fingers and checks them over, resting his head against your own affectionately. “next time you throw a punch in my name, tuck your thumb into your fist to minimise the damage. i don’t like seeing you get hurt.”

“so you did like seeing me punch kaiser.” you giggle, squirming when isagi drops your hand to pull you into his lap possessively. his loving grin spreads even further when your eyes widen at a certain…hardness poking your inner thigh.

“oh yeah, super hot. i love it when you get mad ‘n start talking shit for me.”

isagi doesn’t make it back to practice, too caught up in showing you just how much he loves it when you start fights over him.

[kushnovice]

Spinning My World

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Stark! Reader

Synopsis: Reader tends to the avengers wounds constantly and when Tony opens an emotional wound in the reader, Bucky is there to help.

wc: 2.4k

Warnings: my first bucky fic, medical, wounds, tending to wounds, sibling rivalry, mention of dead parents, fluffy love, slow-burn, hurt/comfort

AN: Female reader, fluffy, lots of mistakes, self indulgent (Pictures are not mine nor are any characters part of this)

What makes the earth go round? to most people it's money, to others it's family. To me, it's love.

I grew up with Tony Stark, my older brother. He was never that big on affection which was something he picked up from our parents and because of that, Tony and I aren't as close as we once were before our parents died. I spend most of my time making sure the house is always put together and cooking food for Tony and Pepper. I always feel a little guilty as I haven't achieved as much as my older brother and living with him and all of his fancy things just rubs it in. I also spend a lot of time studying. Since we have the money, I am attending an Ivy League school online. Unlike Tony, I don't like robots and technology, I prefer to help people. I am majoring in Medical Science as well as minoring in Psychology, which the amount of work is unbearable.

I sigh as I close one of my textbooks, my notebook, and my laptop, leaving them on the desk in my room. I make my through the long winding halls and into the kitchen, the tiles on the floor leaving my feet cold as I walk. I flick on the light as I walk in and take a deep breath, finally feeling at peace. The kitchen was always my safe space since Tony never cooked for himself, neither did any of the avengers. It was my own tiny world of peace.

I smile softly to myself as I make my way to the sink, I start to wash my hands while humming a song. "Friday, can you play (song name)?" As the song starts playing, I feel more comfortable as I start pulling what I would need from the fridge and the cabinets. I then fill up a pot of water and put it on the stove to boil and preheat the oven before I start separating and seasoning the chicken. I then start to cut up some veggies before checking on the pasta that I am making. After everything is cooking, I take the time to dance in the kitchen, just enjoying the music and how it flows through my body. That was until I heard the door open. I jerk my head to see who it is, only to be stunned by the sight in front of me. There he was, the most beautiful creature this world had ever created, but he was drenched in blood. Without thinking, I walk right up to him and start to examine him from what I can see. "Oh buck, what happened this time?" I ask as I eye him up and down for injuries, feeling better after not finding any serious ones. Bucky sighed deeply, "The mission was hijacked. I'm not the only Injured one." I sigh deeply as I take the food out of the oven and put the veggies and sauce into the pasta. Then, without a second thought, i make my way to the medical clinic, which I pretty much run.

I put my coat on and wash my hands again before putting on gloves. I make my way into the emergency room that we have to see Tony laying on a gurney. I immediately start to cut his shirt and pants off as I examine his body, the deep wounds showing no mercy as they continue to bleed. I sterilize the wound and start stitching him up and taking my time to make sure it's perfect.

After a few hours, I was done with making sure Tony was alright and had checked out all of the other team members. I look at the clock and sigh deeply when I realize that it is close to 1 in the morning. I make my way through the winding hallways again and I stand outside of Buckys room. "Hey Buck, are you awake?" I ask softly knowing his super human hearing can pick up my voice, and sure enough because the door unlocks and slides open revealing that he had just got out of the shower. I blush slightly as i try not to stare at his bare chest, "oh um...sorry I was just coming to give you a quick check up..." I shuffle awkwardly at his door but he nods softly and lets me in his room.

The smell of Axe Body spray and Midsummers Night circle the room. I sit Bucky down as I start to stitch up a few of his wounds. It stays mostly silent, neither of us knowing what to talk about until Bucky speaks up, "aren't you tired?" I furrow my eyebrows, "why would I be tired?" Bucky sighs deeply, "we go on these missions almost daily and you're the only one who gives us medical help, isn't it tiring?" I look up from his stitches to smile softly at Bucky, "No, it's not tiring. If anything, it gives me a purpose and makes me a hero like you guys." I giggle to myself at how corny that sounded before going back to stich bucky up.

After I am done, I make sure I didn't miss any dry blood before I stand up, "make sure you eat dinner, I don't know if the others did yet but you need to eat." I smile at him to which he gives me a small smile at the end of his lips. "I did eat already, it was delicious." I smile at him as I watch him put his shirt back on, "good good, I tried a new recipe today so I'm glad it is good." I smile to myself thinking about how Bucky enjoyed my food. "Did you eat yet?" Bucky asks with a furrowed eyebrow and I'm left shocked, normally i'm the one asking that question. "I was about too, then all of that happened," I smile at Bucky but his facial expressions don't change this time. "You really should eat." I nod my head and start to make my way into the kitchen to see a huge mess of plates and bowls and forks all over the place and all of the food gone. "at least they liked it" I smile to myself as I shrug off my coat and take off my gloves, "Friday, some music please" I speak as I start to pick up the plates and bowls and utensil's and place them in the sink. I then pick up all the trash and wipe down the counter while dancing around the kitchen. I spend a few hours cleaning, until it is spotless before I turn off the music and realize I wasn't alone. As I go to grab my coat and turn off the light, I hear a voice, "Aren't you going to eat?" I whip my head around, looking for where the voice came from until I can see Bucky, just outside the door. "there was no more left, i'm glad everyone enjoyed it." I smile at him but he doesn't smile back, he makes his way into the kitchen and starts grabbing stuff. "woah woah woah what are you doing?" I ask as I watch him start up the stove. "You need to eat. More than any of us." Buckys voice is stern and emotionless but I can tell that he cares. "I'm alright, I'll be up in a few hours to cook breakfast anyways." I look at the time and then at Bucky who then turns to me with furrowed eyes again his eyes studying me and trying to figure me out as he looks me up and down. "Why do you cook for everyone? Why do you go out of your way for everyone? I don't get how that benefits you." I sigh deeply, "I don't do it for me, I do it for you guys. You guys are heros and are saving the world every day. the least I can do is cook you guys a warm meal and make sure you guys don't get too hurt." "But why?" Bucky asks as he cracks open an egg and starts to cook it. "You guys deserve it, you deserve the best." I smile at him softly, watching his movements while I think. "Why do you save the world?" I ask while watching his movements. He seems relaxed and calm "Because if I can help save the world then there's hope to save myself." He speaks in a quiet whisper, "why do you save us? why are you so interested in medicine?" He asks with seriousness, trying to understand me better. "I was never taught self defense so I save the world in the only way I know, medicine." Bucky turns to look at me, "you don't give yourself enough credit, no one does." I can hear how he sighs softly. I let myself smile, knowing this was his way of showing he cared. Bucky finished cooking the food and he made two plates, setting one in front of me while he sat across the table from me. He immediately downs his food within seconds leaving me to take awhile to finish my food. When I'm finished eating, I grab our plates and put them in the dishwasher. When i make my way back into the dining room, Bucky is watching me as soon as I enter the room. "What? Is there food on my face?" I jokingly ask, with a smirk on my face as I make my way back to sit down. Bucky snorts softly at my comment, "No, I just don't get how someone could look so pretty after working for so many hours." Buckys voice is soft but his eyes are full of emotion as his hands fold on the table. I feel myself melt under his gaze as my cheeks start to burn, "Oh, uhm...thanks..." I giggle lightly, "You aren't too bad looking for someone who just got stitched up." I reply causing bucky to be taken aback.

"Why are you two up at 2 in the morning?" Tony asks as he walks into the dining room in his black robe that is barely covering his bare chest and his blazers. Tony somehow still has his shades on as well as his slippers on as he sets down some coffee and a sandwich at the table and sits down. "I was just making sure your sister ate after giving everyone medical exams." Bucky replied as he stared blankly at tony as he ate. "Interesting." Tony replied quickly as he started to eat. "I'm glad that your mission didn't go to badly, not many people were injured." I smiled at Tony as I recall the injuries that everyone had got. Tony sighed as he swallowed the food in his mouth, "Do I get bonus points if I act like I care?" I roll my eyes at how immature Tony still is after all of these years. "Somebody's cranky." I snort to myself, Tony glares daggers at me. "Somebody needs to shut up." I smile at Tony, now enjoying fucking with him. "I don't have enough middle fingers to let you know how I feel." I smirk at Tony, thinking I got the better up. "Frankly, I don't care. Just like how he never cared about Mom and Dad. You know who killed them right?" Tony asks as he glares between Bucky and I. "If you're insinuating that Bucky killed our parents then fuck you!" I yell in Tony's face, not able to control my anger as I get up and storm off. Bucky looks at Tony as Tony finishes his sandwich, not purposefully glaring but staring deeply at him causing Tony to get uncomfortable and scramble out of the room.

Bucky sighs deeply as he makes his way to my room, thinking of the right words to say as he ends up right outside of my door. "Hey...I know Tony's words really hurt but I'd like to tell you my story, not what you've heard from files but my life the way I lived it, when I had control of my life." Bucky expected no response honestly, who would want to talk to their parents murderer? Surprisingly the door swung open as Bucky looked in at my small trembling figure on the floor, a pang in his heart caused him to lose his breath seeing her in such pain.

I lift my head to meet Buckys soft eyes as he moves to sit on the bed next to me. His voice was kind but also firm as he told me all about his life, from his time in Brooklyn with Steve all the way through Hydra, he spoke about my parents last almost as if to save me the pain. "Your parents...they were a mission I had to carry out while apart of Hydra, or else I would have died as well as them...I wish I never had too..." Bucky sighs deeply as he looks at the ground. "You don't have to be my friend or even be nice to me, but I just wanted you to know that I never wanted to hurt anyone." Bucky softly got up, expecting to be kicked out before he felt my hands wrapped around his human arm. "I want to be your friend. It hurts knowing that you did that to my parents and I don't think that hurt will ever go away, but I do know that it wasn't you, that you didn't do it on your own will. I forgive you, Buck." I speak softly as I wrap my arms around Bucky's human hand, taking his warmth from him as it comforts my shaking body as I am able to relax into my bed and into Bucky, feeling safe and comfortable for once. I don't remember what happened after that other than my eyes forcing themselves closed as Bucky's mechanical arm softly strokes my hair.

I wake up to the sun shining brightly in my eyes causing me to instantly rub my eyes. I stretch with a small groan, wishing to be asleep still as I reach my arms above my head. I hear a rough chuckle beside me and open my eyes to see Bucky smirking down at me, "Morning, Doll." I feel my face go red at the nickname. I roll over to face him in the bed, "I'm sorry that I kept you here all night." I apologize softly as I yawn the sleepy feeling away. He smiled softly down at me, the golden sun reflecting off of his eyes making it look like tigers eye. "You have nothing to apologize for, darling." He used his fingers to swoop the stray strands of hair out of my face. "It was the best sleep I have gotten in awhile." He confessed as he pulled me a little closer, his body heat keeping me warm as he smiled down at me cheekily. "Don't smile at me like that, you know it drives me crazy..." I giggle at him softly as I place my hand on his face before leaning in. Bucky closed the gap as he took my lips in his, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me in closer as he chuckles into the kiss.

"How else would I make your world spin?"

[eepwtf]

UPCOMING BOTS / BOT DUMP!!

i’m a sucker for the fall season, every and any season CANNOT top the fall season at all. which is why i’m making (some) horror/halloween inspired bots—even if there’s like 70 something days till halloween. along with a few random bots i've done and going to do.

tvdu ☆彡

Kai Parker: 𓏲ּ ghostface au! 𓂃

after you caught his eyes, he had an inexplicable curiosity over you. every step you took, every conversation you had with other people, he was there, watching you from afar. of course, that didn’t sedate his curiosity over you. so, when someone in your orbit ventured a little too close, he took matters into his own hands—quite literally. he gutted the perceived threat, the world around him narrowing into a singular focus: you. to him, it wasn’t just a crime; it was an artistic expression, a violent confession of his feelings woven into a tapestry of blood and chaos. He crafted his work with meticulous care, each stroke of the blade a declaration of his affection. yet, in the heat of his actions, a twist of fate caught him off guard—there you were, witnessing it all. Elena Gilbert: 𓏲ּ halloween costumes 𓂃

caroline's halloween party loomed on the horizon, a spectral deadline that demanded perfection. every cobweb, jack-o'-lantern, and plastic skeleton needed to be meticulously placed. the entire event had to be flawless, a masterpiece of festive horror. you, however, felt a different kind of dread. social gatherings weren't your forte, and the thought of navigating a sea of costumed strangers made your stomach churn. but elena, with her infectious enthusiasm, had other plans. she'd already amassed an army of costumes for you to try on, each one more outrageous than the last. as she twirled before you in a dizzying parade of personas—from sultry vampire to whimsical fairy—her eyes sparkled with anticipation, silently demanding your opinion on each piece of clothing she’d modeled on herself. Elena Gilbert: 𓏲ּ cookies and kisses 𓂃

elena passion for baking was palpable, even if she wasn't a seasoned expert. what truly brought her joy was your presence in the kitchen, your willingness to join her culinary adventures. she cherished those moments when you'd sample her latest creations, those little baking treats she'd present with such enthusiasm. as you took that first bite, elena's eyes would light up, watching intently for your reaction. the moment you'd let out a contented groan of approval, a proud smile would bloom across her face, warming her from within. in those sweet instances, she felt a sense of accomplishment that went beyond the mere act of baking—it was about the connection, the shared experience, and the simple pleasure of making someone she cared for happy through her heartfelt efforts. Bonnie Bennett: 𓏲ּ season of the witch ( witch!user ) 𓂃

bonnie had gone to your place for witchcraft lessons, bringing some herbs you had specifically asked for, and of course, she brought the most important thing she needed for the lessons. herself. she knew that the lessons you were teaching her were more advanced, and that she needed to pay attention but as you began to explain the complex theories and gestures, she found her concentration wavering. your shoulder pressed against hers as you demonstrated a particularly intricate hand movement, the warmth of your body so close to hers, the subtle scent of herbs that clung to your skin, the intensity in your eyes as you spoke of each spell - it all combined to make her head spin.

Damon Salvatore: 𓏲ּ lost in your iris 𓂃

damon tried to fight his feelings for you, but you were his weakness. he sees you completely, and he’d do anything to have you near him. every glance you exchanged pulled him deeper into a world only you inhabited, where his heart raced and his resolve faltered. he yearned to lose himself in those captivating eyes, longing to feel the gentle spark of your existence beside him. Klaus Mikaelson: 𓏲ּ so confusing 𓂃

klaus wrestled with uncertainty, his feelings for you a tangled web of emotions. some days, he was convinced you harbored a deep-seated dislike for him, your every glance and gesture seeming to confirm his fears. other times, he caught himself nurturing a grudging resentment towards you, though he couldn't quite pinpoint its origin. despite all of that, he persistently suggested grabbing drinks. it had become his go-to solution, a way to bridge the gap between you two–or perhaps to blur the lines of your complicated relationship. so, inevitably, you'd find yourselves perched on barstools in some dimly lit establishment, nursing your drinks, surrounded by the hum of stranger's conversations. the atmosphere was always thick with unspoken words and lingering glances. sometimes, you'd manage to fall into an easy rhythm, laughing at shared jokes and swapping stories about your day. in these moments, the confusion would recede, and a genuine connection seemed possible. but more often than not, an awkward tension would creep in. silences stretched too long, laughter felt forced, and both of you would become hyper-aware of every word and gesture. ( this is actually my fav rn!! )

Klaus Mikaelson: 𓏲ּ his muse 𓂃

klaus always found himself getting lost in the dance of his hands across the canvas, transforming the lifeless white expanse into a vibrant masterpiece. the studio was his sanctuary, a world inhabited only by his artistic vision and you—his ethereal muse. in his eyes, you were the embodiment of perfection, and his brush strokes captured your essence without flaw. the art, a mirror of his perception, revealed no imperfections, for in his mind, you were utterly flawless.

spn ⟢

Dean Winchester: ๑ ︵ angels and halloween ( angel!user ) ᵎᵎ

you were an angel, which meant that you had no idea about humans, especially in their tradition of halloween. so when dean catches you staring at the halloween decor, and costumes in a store, he goes out of his way to make this a memorable halloween for the angel. he planned an elaborate evening, starting with pumpkin carving. your first attempt at pumpkin carving was... unique. the face you created had a lopsided grin and mismatched eyes, one comically larger than the other. next came costume selection, where the two of you went to the nearest halloween, a warehouse-sized space filled with endless racks of costumes and accessories. you browsed through countless options: superheroes, movie characters, mythical creatures. dean suggested a sexy devil costume with a mischievous grin, but you firmly declined, not finding the humor in it. ( i think this is my top 2 fav! )

Dean Winchester: ๑ ︵ insatiable ( vamp!user ) ᵎᵎ

dean’s fangs throbbed with an insatiable hunger, a primal urge he struggled to contain. every pulse of blood rushing through nearby veins called to him like a siren's song. the warmth radiating from human bodies sent shockwaves of desire coursing through his undead form. but resistance only seemed to intensify the craving. his heightened senses picked up on every nuance—the slight sheen of sweat on exposed skin, the rhythmic thump of hearts, the tantalizing scent of life itself. through it all, you observed him drinking in his struggle like a fine wine, with a knowing smirk playing at the corners of your mouth. your eyes sparkled with amusement, fully aware of the internal battle raging inside dean. you knew exactly what he craved—what he needed. and yet here you stood, taunting him, daring him to give in to his darkest impulses.

Dean Winchester: ๑ ︵ dark magic ( witch!user ) ᵎᵎ

dean wasn’t that awfully nice when it came down to witches or anything surrounding the supernatural. everything he stood suddenly disappeared when it came to you, logic fled and instinct reigned. your very existence seemed to weave an enchantment around him, bending his iron will as easily as a whisper bends a candle flame. in your orbit, he became a different man—softer, more open, as if you alone held the key to unlocking a hidden part of his soul. but your influence was not without cost. your magic, steeped in shadow, left a trail of upheaval in their wake. chaos bloomed wherever you tread, a dark garden of your own making. ( not sure i might stick with this plot, but am so hhhng im lazy )

Dean Winchester: ๑ ︵ might say somethin stupid ᵎᵎ

after a long, exhausting hunt, dean heads to a nearby bar to unwind. weighed down by the night's events, he orders a drink and surveys the room. his attention is quickly drawn to a stunning individual sitting a few stools away. intrigued, dean moves closer, captivated by their effortless beauty and presence. deciding to engage, he buys them a drink and leans in, confidently flirting with a playful question about their relationship status, hoping to shift the mood and distract himself from the tension of the hunt.

Sam Winchester: ๑ ︵ bloody date ᵎᵎ

it was catastrophic. sam knew, deep in his bones, what you truly were. he might have chastised himself for harboring feelings for you, convinced he was teetering on the edge of insanity as his heart clenched painfully within his chest at the mere thought of your presence. but fuck, you were worth it right? this date, however, shattered any remaining illusions. it was meant to be an intimate affair—small, meaningful, a cherished memory in the making. well, you sure as hell made it memorable for him to ever forget it. there you stood, fangs sunk deep into your helpless victim, crimson rivulets painting the edges of your mouth like some macabre artwork.

slashers ☆彡

Brahms Heelshire: ୭ ∿ i'll be good ∿

you had reluctantly accepted the nanny position, despite the suspiciously high salary. the isolated manor and eccentric heelshire family raised red flags, but desperation silenced your misgivings. nothing, however, could have prepared you for the absurdity of your charge – a porcelain doll named brahms. initially, you played along with the charade, following the strict rules set by the heelshires. but as days turned to weeks, an unsettling truth emerged. the real brahms was no doll, but a grown man, which in hindsight would be something to be freaked out about but for you it was fine, however the fact that the brahms could be a little too clingy was the problem. simple errands became ordeals. attempts to leave the property triggered tantrums, brahms clinging to you not wanting you to leave him.

Patrick Bateman: ୭ ∿ touch starved ∿

patrick never considered himself a touch-starved person. in fact, he often thrived in the artificial perfection of his meticulously curated life. he relished the combination of power suits and high-stakes finance, his existence orchestrated with a calculated precision that left no room for vulnerability. but from the moment you entered his life, everything changed. he found himself drawn to you like a moth to a flame, craving your touch in a way that defied his logical mind. in the upscale restaurants you frequented—places with starched tablecloths, crystal stemware, and prices that made most people wince—patrick's behavior shifted noticeably. while he once sat rigidly across from his dining companions, maintaining a respectable distance, with you he couldn't bear even that small separation. he'd guide you to the plush booth seating, sliding in close enough that your thighs touched beneath the table. as you perused the menu, his arm would find its way around your shoulders, fingers absently tracing patterns on your skin. during the meal, he'd lean in unnecessarily close to murmur observations about the food or other patrons, his breath warm against your ear. as the evenings wore on, patrick found increasingly creative ways to maintain contact. he'd reach across the table to adjust your napkin or brush an imaginary crumb from your cheek. Patrick Bateman: ୭ ∿ feeling bratty? ∿

patrick felt more on edge as time passed, a tightening coil of frustration that wound ever tighter within him. when the tension reached its boiling point, he reacted instinctively, striking out like a stray cat cornered and threatened, hissing and baring its tiny fangs. in that moment of vulnerability, his anger found an outlet in the nearest target—unfortunately, that target was you. deep down, he recognized his own insufferable behavior; he could feel the weight of it pressing down on him. he watched as you scoffed at his provocations or simply ignored his taunts, and each dismissive reaction stoked the flames of his irritation. the more you turned away, the more desperately he sought your attention, despite knowing the fire he was playing with could easily burn him.

misc ⟢

Soldier Boy: 𓂃 ꒰ freak show ꒱

Ben never imagined he'd find himself at the entrance of a peculiar circus, its weathered sign proclaiming "freak show" in faded letters. for weeks, vought's pr team had hounded him relentlessly, insisting that this appearance would be "good for public relations" and "humanize" him in the eyes of the masses. ben had scoffed at first, but their persistence wore him down like water on stone. now, here he was, surrounded by wide-eyed gawkers and the constant buzz of excited whispers. as the show began, ben found himself oddly captivated. each act was more outlandish than the last - contortionists twisting their bodies into impossible shapes, fire-breathers painting the air with flames, and strongmen hefting weights that should have been beyond human capability. but then, as the ringmaster's booming voice announced the next act, the tent fell into a hushed silence. a single spotlight illuminated the center ring, and ben's breath caught in his throat. there you were. the aerialist.

Stiles Stilinski: 𓂃 ꒰ favorite monster ꒱

stiles was well versed when it came down to the supernatural, he read every book, myth, and stories when it came to the supernatural. was well aware of the dangers of ghosts, werewolves, vampires the whole gist, you name it he undoubtedly knows it all. of course, you were a different case, a unique case that even though he knew the dangers about being a vampire he couldn’t for the life of himself get away from you. every late-night conversation and shared secret made it harder for him to keep his distance. as the two of you walked through the forest, discussing everything from pop culture to existentialism, it was at the very instant that your sudden laugh made his heart race. the warmth in your eyes and the way you would brush your hand with his rendered him utterly transfixed. he wondered how it was possible to feel so electrified and safe in the presence of someone who was, by all accounts, a threat. Stiles Stilinski: 𓂃 ꒰ you're ghostface ꒱

stiles didn’t know what to expect when the rumors of a serial killer began circulating in their small town. the gossip, dripping with fear and intrigue, shattered the fragile peace of beacon hills. as he stumbled through the dimly lit alley, the unmistakable glint of a knife illuminated by the flickering light from the nearby streetlamp caught his eye, and as the scene grew clearer, every hope he'd entertained shattered like glass. you, standing over a crumpled figure on the ground, the knife still gleaming in your hand, ghostface mask perched above your head. stiles had known you—i mean, really known you. the fact it was you, who was said killer made his stomach churn. he felt as though the ground had been pulled from beneath him, leaving him suspended in disbelief.

Madison Montgomery: 𓂃 ꒰ bitchy!user ꒱

madison's initial reaction to your caustic demeanor was a blend of irritation and intrigue. it catches her off guard; she's unaccustomed to having her façade challenged so directly. your unwavering stance and refusal to be cowed gnaws at her composure, chipping away at the armor of superiority she's cultivated. yet, beneath her outward indignation, she finds herself grudgingly impressed. your razor-sharp retorts and quick wit present a novel challenge—one that simultaneously infuriates and exhilarates her.

Madison Montgomery: 𓂃 ꒰ tobacco lips ꒱

before her death, madison was already dead inside. numb to the world, she craved to feel—anything. she chased oblivion through a haze of flesh, drugs, and alcohol, desperately seeking to drown the echoes of her past. each indulgence was a futile attempt to erase the memories: her mother's absence, her asshole of a father, the relentless scrutiny of the press, and the string of lovers who had taken pieces of her without leaving anything in return. she had found her way to the nearest bar, her face, heavily caked with makeup, felt like a mask weighing her down. her once-pearly teeth, now tobacco-stained, hid behind a sneer. the dress she'd chosen, meant to turn heads, only succeeded in making her look cheap rather than alluring. she navigated the crowded gathering with a practiced arrogance, projecting an aura of superiority she didn't feel. a fresh cigarette dangled from her lips, the filter stained with lipstick—a silent testament to her desperation. her words flowed freely, empty promises spilling from her mouth to the eager ears of men old enough to know better. then, through the haze of smoke and poor decisions, she saw you. beautiful, poised you—the coven's rising star, their future supreme. you stood surrounded by distinguished men, everything madison's admirers lacked. everything madison herself lacked. shame crashed over madison, as darted out, trying to get away from your sight.

might fix some of these but …. probably not anyway! @eppwtf on c.ai 😛

[solxamber]

Could you perhaps give us a little peak on what are the nect fics you'll post? The holiday event placed it on hold for so long😔

i'm in the kitchen and the kitchen is on fire

I have some i'll be posting soon but also

i have like 20 active drafts rn and the editing is rougher than the writing itself for me so it might a little while till they see the sun but here's a few sneak peeks: (I'll probably change some parts but anyways!)

1. Concept: Stuck in a timeloop with Idia

“This can’t be happening,” Idia was saying, his eye twitching erratically. “It’s just like World Recoil 2.0! The DLC that no one wanted! The algorithm hates me. I must’ve angered RNGesus—why else would I be cursed with infinite suffering?”

You stared at him blankly, your mind about ten steps behind his spiraling panic. “We’re... what now?”

He stopped dead in his tracks, spinning to face you with the kind of manic energy you’d only seen him use when trying to win a rare gacha pull. “A TIMELOOP. We’re in a timeloop. It’s a classic scenario!”

Your brain struggled to process this declaration. After a long moment, you let out a hollow laugh and sank into the nearest chair. “Okay. Sure. We’re in a timeloop. Makes perfect sense. What do we do now? Call Bill Murray?”

2. Concept: Mafia au (Vil x reader)

You answered, leaning back in your chair. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end was distorted, trying—and failing—to sound intimidating. “We have your man.”

You blinked. “Uh… what man?”

“Don’t play dumb! We have Rook Hunt—and if you ever want to see him alive again, you’ll do as we say!”

Rook. They kidnapped Rook. Oh no.

“Oh, no. That’s terrible. He must be so scared.”

The person on the other end hesitated, clearly caught off guard by your mild response. “Uh. Yes. He’s terrified! Screaming! Definitely regretting all his choices!”

Vil frowned, tapping a perfectly manicured finger against his wine glass. “Lying,” he mouthed.

“No kidding,” you muttered, before raising your voice again. “Listen, uh… person-who-definitely-has-Rook. You might want to double-check who’s the hostage here.”

“What?” the kidnapper demanded. “We tied him up! There’s no way he’s—”

A blood-curdling scream cut through the phone, and in the background, you heard someone shout, “Help! He’s unstoppable!”

You pressed your lips into a thin line to keep from laughing. “Yeah. That’s Rook for you. He really likes a good game of cat and mouse.”

The person shrieked again, and you thought you could faintly make out Rook’s laughter—a terrifyingly cheerful sound considering the context.

“I’m going to hang up now,” you said pleasantly. “Good luck, though!”

“WAIT!”

Click.

You set the phone back on the table, and Vil sighed dramatically, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Of all the insipid people… kidnapping Rook?”

“Should we warn them he carries extra knives?” you asked, half-serious.

“No need,” Vil said, taking a graceful sip of wine. “They’ll figure it out soon enough.”

3. Hero / Villain AU except the hero (Rook) cares more about flirting during the fights

“You’re supposed to fight me, not flirt with me!” you snapped, dodging his unnecessarily elegant sword swing.

“Ah, but why can’t it be both, mon magnifique nemesis?” Rook countered, parrying your staff with a flourish. “Tell me, have you ever considered conquering a restaurant menu instead of the world? Perhaps… over dinner with me?”

You blinked. The constructs you summoned waved tiny “YES” flags behind him. Somewhere, thunder awkwardly stalled.

“I… what? NO.”

“Très bien,” Rook replied, grinning. “Then I shall vanquish you with charm instead.”

For the first time in your villainous career, you started considering early retirement.

[glassrowboat]

Can You Trust Me Blind? Dottore.

Summary: Dottore brings a woman home for the night.

Warnings: Smut, blood, Dottore

Word count: 2,100+

Hair twirled around his finger, spinning round and round in circles the same way Dottore would take his own bangs as they slipped out of the multitude of clips and pins he tried to use to wrangle them up and out of the way, only for those two strands to inevitably fall in his face again. It was annoying. A hassle dealing with it as he tried to scrawl out notes between the blue stands blocking his vision, but the locks in his hand seemed far easier to tame as he played with them.

Soft, well taken care of, and a complete mess as it sprawled out across the pillowcase. It wouldn't be a surprise if there was a knot or two jumbled up in there.

His fault, of course.

Dottore was the one who slid his hands into her hair, tangled his fingers in it like he was grasping at a knitted scarf being slowly wrapped around someone in the dead of winter as he tugged her head back. The length of her neck exposed without a hint of shame. A perfect canvas. Just like snow after it fell, painting the world anew.

Every footstep tainting the pure landscape that went on for miles.

To taint. To mar. To ruin.

The scent of perfume had overwhelmed his senses at the time, even had Dottore halting for a moment to burry his nose into her collarbone where she had no doubt dabbed it before heading out for the night. Flowery, feminine, with a faint hint of vanilla to it that was quickly masked over by iron.

Red on his teeth, on her neck, on the sheets below as he rocked into her.

A scream filled his ears.

This wasn't like him, taking a woman back home, let alone to his bed. It had to have been over seventy- maybe even eighty- years since Dottore had gone off and done something as stupid as this. Breaking all rules of common sense (something he had once considered to be a good friend of his) and welcoming her in with little to no trepidation even as the door slammed behind her.

She had looked around curiously, eyes going over the place like she was trying to suck in every last detail of the liminal space. He never was one who bothered with decorations, so there wasn't much to recall. Maybe a photo here, a trinket there, or a jar full of something no one truly wanted to question Dottore about. Nothing out of the usual for him. However, it was nice to see someone showing such a good trait, a healthy one in this wretched world, rather than glancing back at the door like they were already having second thoughts.

She wouldn't have even been the first if that were the case.

This woman had spent a good hour by his side before his sudden...impulse. Yes, that was a good way to put it, he thought as the strands of hair fell from Dottore's fingers.

One of Pantalone's parties Dottore had only agreed to go to because the banker had stuck his foot down and demanded that he come and talk to possible sponsors for the lab himself rather than having the Ninth do all the lip service. A shame, truly, seeing as that's what the man was best at. Might as well do what you're good for in this world. That's how Dottore saw it, anyway.

He had stumbled across this one along the way.

Dottore had been grumbling to himself about having to deal with it all, especially after having to explain the current project he was working on in a way that could only be explained at a kindergarten level of intelligence for the third time as this oaf of a man kept asking the same question in different ways (like changing the font would give it meaning anew), when she had made a snide remark as he passed by.

“I'm sure your little friend there is the type to attempt putting a square peg in a round hole.”

And oh, he couldn't have agreed more.

She wasn't a sponsor herself, or hadn't seemed to be one. Actually, she waved off most of Dottore's questions about her with what could only be described as practiced ease, instead choosing to fixate on his earring. Eyes locked on the thing as she tried to figure out what was in it. Making a guessing game of it. Primordial water? Sap from the leylines? Ligma? Gatorade? …Whatever that is.

However, she proved to be preferential company over the people who were better off waving their wallets in the air than even attempting to listen to his grandiose ideas. Not even the jingling of mora in hefty sacks had been able to keep him from sharing a glass of whiskey with her. The sound of ice clinking against glass and her voice proved to be far more entertaining.

Digs at Pantalone's ‘friends’ as the banker liked to call them, making fun of their outfits (mainly on her end), and insulting their intelligence proved her to be a great way to spend the otherwise dull evening.

Decent company.

That's all it was.

That's all it was supposed to be, even as she toyed with his earring like she had any right to. Blue light reflecting off her skin.

Somehow, he couldn't bring himself to stop her.

Somehow, that hour passed by like it was nothing but a handful of seconds.

Somehow, he leaned in and kissed her as she was making another remark. Something about a Lord this or that ‘needing to let go of the fact he's bald, because we can all tell he's wearing a toupee’ when he could taste the drink on her painted lips.

Just like he could still taste her blood.

She had said right after “I don't think that shade is your color” with a laugh as her thumb brushed over his bottom lip. No doubt trying to smudge the lipstick off.

Dottore couldn't even recall his retort, no doubt he gave one, but right now his mind was running the same scene that just happened on his bed on loop rather than bothering to remember his own words. If it was truly important, he'd no doubt recall them later. After this film in his head stopped reeling, or the tape itself broke from overuse.

Thighs wrapped around his waist, squeezing him tight between soft flesh he couldn't help but worry about bruising under his touch that was urging him closer and closer as Dottore filled her to the brim. Her nails dragging along his back. Hisses of both pain and pleasure bubbling in Dottore's throat as he slowly stilled.

Her moans bordered on pornagraphic as this woman apparently had no issue being loud. Much less in his space of all things.

Their kisses as she tugged him closer. Rushed, frenzied, even when he wanted to take a step back, a big breath, and truly savor this moment as her dress slid off and onto the floor.

It all reeled back to when Dottore stood before her with the cravat he usually wore in hand.

Blue fabric hanging in between them as he pinched it softly.

The reason he didn't even get the chance to see her eyes roll back into her head from pleasure alone.

Dottore was the one who slid it off his neck. Untying it the same way he did every night after being enraptured by his research for days on end before coming home and crashing into bed. A practice so well memorized he could do so with his eyes closed. Ironic, being he was the one to ask to blindfold her.

Half of a sentence was spoken before she just stopped to stare at the cloth. Eyes darted from him and back down to it in a repeated cycle until Dottore had asked the question again.

Louder that time.

Clearer.

Leaving no room for doubt.

“Is this something you're willing to do?”

She had stumbled over herself as she got out an “okay” and “yes.”

That had to be the least sure of herself he had seen her all night.

She hadn't moved much as Dottore slid the cloth over her eyes, only reaching her hand up to rest on his arm, fingers playing with one of the leather bands on his arm as he tied it in place. Like it made it easier to take her mind off the fact she was, quite literally, going into this blind as he made sure to double, even triple, check it wouldn't budge. Not easily, at least.

But still, she let him do it.

A neat bow sealing the deal.

The idea to joke she was like a gift quickly passed as her hand fell back down as the sound of Dottore's mask being placed on the nightstand filled the otherwise quiet space. A soft, subtle click. Only their breathing and that. Echoing as if it were pans clanging against each other.

“Is that why you wanted me blin-”

“Yes.”

What she was going to ask was obvious. After all, if he was in her shoes, Dottore very well would have done the same. Asked questions. Pried into matters that don't concern him.

Red eyes had bore down on her, blue cloth covering away the chance of seeing her looking up at him with the possibility of fear crossing her face.

No panicked looks. Not this time.

It was better this way, he learned. Less chance of someone seeing the scars that plague his skin and….this was why he typically preferred doing this with someone he already knew.

Someone who already knew what to expect from him, who wouldn't suck in a sharp breath as Dottore's hand slid along the curve of her waist to reach behind and tug the zipper of that dress down for her. The little tag between bare fingers as she spoke up again.

Good, she wasn't trusting him blindly.

Maybe she was smarter than he thought, but that doesn't say much when she's in his bed.

“You know, people usually go for biting and scratching instead of something like this when hooking up with what's essentially a total stranger.”

“Yet you agreed. Why?”

“I'm already here, am I not? Would be a real shame to blueball the both of us.”

How crude, but he couldn't help but to agree as Dottore pressed a kiss to her lips even while chuckling against her skin.

And another as he slid his tongue over her lips and pushed her down onto the bed. A small grunt came from her as her back hit the mattress. The zipper already tugged down as she tried to shimy the dress off even as the mattress creaked under her with every move. Old springs that needed to be dealt with.

At the time, he had wanted to promise not to hurt her, not in a way she wouldn't enjoy, anyhow, but now she lay beside him clearly passed out. She has been for the past two hours, thirty-four minutes, and forty-three seconds now. Her back to him. Moonlight peeking in through the window, leaving dust participles visible in the otherwise dark space as the beams shone down on her skin. Lighting up the tiniest bits of blood as bright as an apple seeped through the bandage he placed on her neck after she fell asleep.

All the more visible like this.

He couldn't help but trace his fingers over the cotton.

She really just let some stranger, a harbinger, him of all people no less, do that to her. To feel her pulse under his lips and still dare to break skin. To leave her in the dark as his hands wondered.

Either this girl was incredibly stupid or had no self-preservation instincts.

Maybe both.

Dottore couldn't say he would be surprised either way. She sure did seem like the type that could go either way. Laying there like nothing was wrong even as he reached over her and picked up his mask again. Cold to the touch as a familiar weight filled his hands before it slid out of Dottore's fingers again as he set it back down on the table.

For now, this woman was asleep. For now, he wouldn't have to worry about her reaction to what lay under that mask. The scarred man she chose to tumble into bed with. So, for now, he wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close.

The scent of flowers, vanilla, and blood filling his nose.

He didn't understand this woman in many ways. A bit of a flirt, one who thought it far too entertaining to crack jokes, and who seemed all the willing to listen as he rambled on.

She stopped and listened to him.

And all Dottore could ask himself with this information was: what sort of woman was she that she would choose to lay with a monster?

[ryker-writes]

Sibling with a chronic illness (part 2)

This is a second part to one of my favorite things I've written! It's basically angst with the characters who have a younger sibling with a chronic illness and they keep it hidden from their older sibling because they don't want them to suffer more. The younger sibling ends up going into a coma and the doctor reveals to the character that they don't have much time left

First part here

Request rules and Masterlists

Characters: Riddle, Azul, Kalim, Vil

Riddle:

perfection

it was demanded of you from you and Riddle's mother and you were raised to eternally abide by that

anything less than the perfect life that your mother had planned was not accepted

but life always had a funny way of twisting things around

so when you got sick, you kept it hidden from everyone in fear of your mom finding out

and everyone included Riddle

you loved Riddle, and he was a very good brother, but he was...a lot like her and a natural worrier

Riddle had already been through so much with his overblot, and you didn't want to bring more negative feelings upon him

he deserved to be happy and you didn't want to disturb that at all

so you kept it from him

of course, it wasn't that easy

as time passed, you grew more sick, and even started coughing up blood

you were lucky enough that Riddle didn't notice how often you went to the bathroom to cough up blood

but he did notice once that you had a red stain on your clothing

Heartslabyul was often full of red paint for the roses and you were able to convince him it was just paint

it wasn't an act you could keep up forever

as the days went by, you could feel yourself growing weaker and weaker

the worst of it was at an unbirthday party

as usual, Riddle had pushed everyone to make sure this party was incredible

it was exausting, but you pushed yourself to get through it

...maybe you pushed yourself too hard

because when it was time to actually celebrate, the world started spinning and you felt your legs give out from under you before...nothing

Riddle nearly had a heart attack when you collapsed

of course, the party was immediately cast aside as he started shouting orders to the others before taking you to the infirmary

Riddle had never walked through the school faster, in fact he was running

A school rule was not to run in the halls, but right now, he didn't care

No one wanted to get in his way

but upon bringing you to the infirmary, he received the worst news

you were in a coma, and you were dying

Riddle felt stupid

how could he not know? How could he not see the signs?

His own sibling was dying and he couldn't do anything about it

he'd never felt so...helpless

his own mother was a doctor, he should've noticed sooner

he should've helped you

why? why would you hide it from him?

you two were supposed to be close and be able to tell each other anything

but you didn't tell him, and he could do nothing

Riddle had decided to remain by your side for as long as he could, even if it meant not attending classes

because you were more important to him than any rule could ever be

Azul:

Azul an you have always been very close as siblings

growing up, you were about the only one he had for a long time

you were his strength when he was sad and crying because of what others would say

even as you two kept growing and he grew stronger, you two were just as close as ever

he told you everything

you told him...almost everything

there was one thing you didn't tell him: you were sick

it wasn't any normal sickness either, this one won't go away

but you just couldn't tell Azul

you were his strength, and he had come so far from the octomer he used to be

he wasn't as sad anymore and he was doing really well for himself now

and you...you didn't want to ruin that

you'd hate to see him cry again

so you kept it to yourself and Azul was blissfully unaware

he never commented on how you would quickly run off to the bathroom to cough up blood

perhaps he was too buried in his work to even notice

not that you minded, it made it easier to hide

you just had to be careful around the observant eyes of Jade

he would likely report anything suspicious he saw about your behavior to Azul

since no one ever confronted you about it, you assumed that he didn't notice

however...there was no way Azul didn't notice when you collapsed onto the floor of the VIP room

it was right in front of him too

to say Azul was panicking when he saw you collapse was an understatement

he thought his heart nearly stopped, and he was desperately hoping that didn't happen to you

Azul was quick to abandon his current work to take you to the infirmary

it was there that he thought his heart actually did stop

the doctor told him that you had fallen into a coma after collapsing, and you didn't have much time left

he'd be lying if he said he didn't blame himself

you two were supposed to be able to tell each other anything, but you kept this big secret from him for who knows how long

now here you were, laying unconscious in the infirmary bed with Azul by your side

he wasn't going to leave your side, but he also wasn't just going to sit around and do nothing

the Monstro Lounge was being run by Jade during Azul's absence and Azul spent nearly every waking moment by your side studying and researching to find anything that could help you

he was determined there was some way to help you

the doctors just haven't found it yet

you were his sibling, and Azul needed you with him through everything

you were always his support, but now it was his time to be yours

and for you, he would pay any price and make any deal just for you to be awake again

Kalim:

Kalim was always so happy

Even as you two were growing up, his cheerful energy always brightened any room

he was an amazing older brother

whenever you were feeling down, he would do anything he could just to see you smile again

it was very rare to ever see him sad or upset about something

that's exactly why you couldn't tell him the truth

you were very sick, to the point that you were even coughing up blood

thankfully Kalim never seemed to notice

he was always lost in his little world, and trying to get others to join him

if you were being honest, seeing how happy he always was brought you comfort despite your illness

Kalim deserves to be happy

But telling him would mean getting rid of his smile, and you just couldn't do that to him

so you kept it hidden

Kalim was blissfully unaware of your growing sickness and how it seemed to get worse each passing day

even when you got to the point of coughing up blood, he never noticed

in a way you've very happy to have a brother who doesn't pay such close attention

but that would only last so long

after all, it's hard not to notice his sibling passing out at one of his own parties

and for once, the party was put aside regardless who or what it was thrown for

you were a bigger priority to him than any party

Kalim hated to leave parties, but he didn't think twice about it this time

he took you to the infirmary while Jamil handled the aftermath of panic at the party

the entire way to the infirmary, Kalim was fighting tears

he was just so worried

it only seemed to get worse once the doctor saw you, and gave Kalim the bad news

you had fallen into a coma, and you didn't have much time left

Kalim sat in disbelief for a few minutes after that

his sibling...was dying?

how could this happen?

how did he not know?

why didn't you tell him?

there has to be a cure right?

the doctor had told him there wasn't a cure, and Kalim was destroyed

Kalim was lost

he didn't know what to do, but he couldn't just carry on while you were there in a coma

so he waited patiently by your bedside for the day when you would finally wake up

he spent his days rambling to you about things he heard are going on around the school

and he spent his nights crying and quietly begging for you to wake up

Vil:

growing up as a Schoenheit, there was a certain pressure to always look and be your best outside your home

Your brother Vil, was always there to help you with that

he was always accepting of you and helping you whenever you needed it

and when you weren't your best in public, Vil always covered for you

even when you weren't in public, Vil was there for you

that's probably why it was so hard to tell him what the doctor said

the truth was that you were sick, and there was no cure

but how were you supposed to tell Vil that?

you knew that if he found out, he would deny that there's no cure and even cancel a lot of his appointments to find a cure or help you

those jobs of his and all his appointments...that's his career

it's what makes him happy

you couldn't bring yourself to tell him and put a stop to that

he would try to help you and take care of you all the time as kids, so you thought maybe this time, you can do what's best for him

but it was hard to keep it hidden

Vil was observant, and Rook being around all the time didn't help

you would often rush off to the bathroom only to cough up blood, but you had to be extra careful not to have a single stain on you or anywhere in the bathroom in case they notice

even if you were sure there wasn't a stain, one of them would often ask if you were okay

you were always quick to say you were, but you often wonder if they've caught on

maybe they should have

because as the days passed, your illness got worse

you could feel your body getting weaker, and everything seemed more bittersweet

something wasn't right with you, you could tell

and you should've said something

Vil had you come to his room like usual so the two of you could do his special skin care routine

it was usually a very nice time for the two of you to chat and hang out without other people staring at you

but Vil knew something was wrong the second your eyes started closing

"Are you alright? You shouldn't be tired so early."

Vil lightly shook you when you didn't respond before realizing that you were unconscious

without a moment of hesitation, he abandoned the skin care routine in favor of taking you to the infirmary

the students of Night Raven College were shocked

THE Vil Schoenheit was walking around with a halfway done skin care routine, and he looked slightly distressed

rumors were quick to spread, Vil didn't care

you were his priority right now

he didn't care what anyone was thinking, until the doctor revealed the truth to him

you were in a coma and you didn't have much time left

at that point, he only cared what you were thinking

how could you not tell him?

Why didn't you tell him?

He tried to think of many reasons, not a single one good enough

and how did he not notice?

Vil used to pride himself on knowing when you needed help and being there

it was part of your bond as siblings

but you needed help all this time, and he wasn't there

you kept him from helping

he was angry and heartbroken

even though you were unconscious, he spent a lot of time lecturing you about how stupid you were for hiding this from him

whenever Rook or anyone else was there to check on you or him, he would smile and calmly tell them that you were going to be fine

he didn't seem worried in the slightest

but it's only after everyone left that he held your hand and let the tears fall

he didn't care about the mascara running down his face, how his eyes would be puffy after, how horrible his posture is, or even how messy his hair and clothing looked right now

all he cared about was you waking up

[ripleyresonance]

First Bite

Vampire Hunter!Rhea Ripley x Vampire!Reader

Summary: How does a hook-up turn into an eternity with fangs. You may not know much about this world, but sometimes one bite is all it takes.

Warnings: Blood,Death, and a Creepy Frat Bro

The icy air clung to your skin, each breath hanging in the cold like an unspoken secret before disappearing into the night. Your heart pounded in your chest, a relentless, erratic drumbeat, each pulse a reminder of the hunger that gnawed at you from within. Every step you took felt heavier, more strained, as you tried to distract yourself from the crowd of humans swarming around you. But it was impossible. They were everywhere. Warm, alive, and oblivious.

You staggered down the sidewalk, eyes darting between the Halloween revelers, all dressed in their costumes. Harley Quinns, firemen, cops—it was all so mundane, yet something about it felt surreal now. You rolled your eyes, scanning the faces of people pretending to be monsters when you were becoming one for real.

Then, one man caught your attention. He was dressed as a vampire, fangs bared, fake blood dripping from his lips. On any other Halloween, the sight would have been laughable. But tonight, your own fangs throbbed, and the fire in your throat scorched hotter with every heartbeat you heard around you. His costume wasn’t funny. It was torment. And no one, least of all him, understood the agony of what it meant to actually be like this. Like you.

It had been a week since your life had changed, since that night when she turned you. You had locked yourself away in your room, trying to drown the hunger with food and water, but nothing helped. You were starving—truly starving—and the thirst was unbearable. You remembered the warning she gave you, her voice teasing, almost mocking.

Her laughter still echoed in your mind as you recalled how easily she had lured you away from the party, her flirty smile disarming you. You had no idea what was really happening, not even when her hands were on you, her lips on your neck, whispering, “I’m sorry... I’m just so hungry.” You thought she meant something playful, but then the bite came—sharp, deep.

You tried to scream, but the sound was caught in your throat, drowned by the growing dizziness as she drained you. You never even saw her leave. One moment she was there, and the next, gone, just like that. And then the pain came—the fangs, the burning thirst, the realization.

Now here you were, a week later, struggling to hold onto whatever was left of your humanity. But as your eyes locked onto the man in the vampire costume, everything else faded. His neck—so exposed, the veins pulsing beneath the surface of his skin—called to you. You could hear his heartbeat. The rush of blood beneath his flesh sounded like music, and it was getting harder to resist.

You didn’t even notice when he caught you staring.

“Hey hottie, like something you see?” His voice was cocky, dripping with arrogance as he swaggered over, oblivious to the danger.

You forced a smile, playing along. “Sorry, I’m just a little shy,” you murmured, your voice surprisingly steady despite the war raging inside you.

He grinned, clearly pleased with himself, and offered to buy you a drink. Normally, you’d blow off guys like this, but tonight you followed, your mind spinning with the possibilities. Maybe you could control this. Maybe you could feed, just a little, and stop before it went too far.

The shots went down easy, and with each one, your mind quieted, the hunger dulled slightly—but not enough. The frat boy’s hands roamed, growing bolder, but you barely noticed. All you could think about was the steady, rhythmic thumping of his heart.

When he whispered in your ear, “Let’s get out of here,” you smiled, but it wasn’t because of him. It was because you knew exactly where this was going to end.

He led you away from the crowded bar, into the shadows beneath a small bridge. Perfect. Isolated. No witnesses. As he rambled on about what he was going to do to you, you barely listened. Your focus was on his neck, the way it pulsed with every word he spoke.

Suddenly, you stopped walking, your eyes darkening with hunger. He turned, confused, as you stepped closer, wrapping your arms around his neck.

“You couldn’t wait, huh?” he smirked, thinking he was in control.

You leaned in, lips brushing his throat, your fangs aching, desperate to pierce the skin. “I think I need you now,” you whispered, and before he could respond, you bit down.

The rush was intoxicating. His blood flooded your mouth, warm and thick, and for a moment, you felt invincible. He gasped, a strangled sound of confusion and pain, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t. The more you drank, the stronger you felt, the fire in your throat finally extinguishing as his life ebbed away beneath you.

He struggled weakly, but you pinned him down, your strength overwhelming his. Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you knew you should feel guilt, but the pleasure, the sheer relief, was too much to deny. You drank until he stopped moving, his heartbeat fading into silence.

It wasn’t until the light of a flashlight blinded you that you realized what you had become. The taste of his blood still lingered on your lips, and as you looked up into the eyes of the stranger holding the light, you knew: there was no going back.

Your head snapped up, eyes locking onto the faint glow of a flashlight. A shadowy figure stood just beyond the beam of light.

“Drop him. Now!” The voice cut through the darkness, sharp and commanding.

Instinct screamed at you to run, but you barely had time to turn before you were slammed to the ground, and pinned to the pavement.

A woman straddled you, her jet-black hair falling like a raven's wing, parted to reveal the metal glint of gauges in her left ear. She held your wrists above your head with ease, her grip unyielding. The way she restrained you was so precise and practiced—it was clear this wasn’t her first time.

You thrashed, trying to break free, even with the vampire adrenaline pumping through you, but she barely flinched.

“You’d think a vampire would be smart enough not to kill on Halloween. I mean, come on—try not to be a walking cliché,” she said with a dry laugh, watching you struggle as if it were a minor inconvenience.

“And to kill him of all people?” she scoffed, glancing at the frat boy's body. “What are you, a newbie?”

“K-kill him? I didn’t—” You twisted to look at the guy on the ground. His lifeless eyes stared back, cold and accusing. A jolt of panic surged through you.

“I didn’t mean to... I was just so hungry. Oh my God,” you stammered, the realization hitting like a freight train. Tears blurred your vision, and before you knew it, you were sobbing. “I didn’t mean to kill him.”

The woman’s grip loosened, clearly caught off guard by your breakdown. “Goddamn, you really are a newbie.”

“I didn’t want to be like this!” you choked out, struggling to catch your breath. “I never asked for any of this. And now... now I’m going to prison. Forever. Because I can’t die.”

She sighed, standing up and dusting off her jeans, almost as if this whole situation bored her. “Calm down, kiddo. You’re not going to prison.”

You blinked up at her, still sniffling. “But I killed him... and you saw me—”

She waved it off. “Trust me, I’ve seen a lot of vampires kill a lot of people. You’re not special. You’re not the first, and you sure as hell won’t be the last.”

You slowly got to your feet, eyes wide with disbelief. “What are you, some kind of vampire hunter?”

She let out a short, sharp whistle. “Look at you, using those brain cells. Yeah, something like that.” She crouched down by the frat boy’s body, closing his eyes with a casualness that made your stomach turn.

As the absurdity of the situation sank in, you found yourself laughing. Hysterically.

The woman raised an eyebrow, glancing up at you. “What’s so funny?”

You wiped at your face, trying to calm down but failing miserably. “I’m sorry, it’s just... a week ago I thought I was going to hook up at a party, and now I’m standing in a tunnel after killing someone, talking to a vampire hunter. This is like some messed-up Vampire Diaries episode!”

She gave you a deadpan look. “That show’s offensive to our kind, you know.”

“Our kind?” you echoed, still reeling.

Before she could respond, the distant ring of a bike bell echoed through the tunnel.

“Shit, shit, shit,” you muttered, glancing around nervously.

“Relax, newbie.” She jerked her head toward the body. “Grab his upper half. I’ll take the legs.”

You stared at her like she was insane. “What? How am I supposed to lift this 200-pound frat bro and get him out of here before that bike hits the tunnel?”

She rolled her eyes, clearly unimpressed. “Didn’t it seem odd to you that five minutes ago, you managed to pin him to the ground? And that was when you’d barely fed.”

“Well, yeah, but—”

“And now that you’ve drained him completely, you don’t think you might be a little... stronger?” She shot you a look that could cut glass.

“So, what, I’ve got super strength now?” You scoffed, still not entirely convinced.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she said mockingly, “vampires are real, but superpowers are where you draw the line?”

The bike bell rang again, closer this time. Cursing under your breath, you bent down, grabbing the frat boy’s arms. To your shock, he felt light—like he weighed nothing at all. You blinked, processing the eerie reality of your newfound strength.

You quickly hauled the body away from the tunnel’s entrance, moving faster than you thought possible.

“Now what?” you whispered once you were out of sight.

The woman walked over to a car parked in the shadows, popping the trunk without missing a beat. “Now, we put him in here.”

You stood there, frozen, as she nonchalantly pulled out a large garbage bag, slipping on gloves like she’d done this a hundred times before. She slid the bag over the frat boy’s body, tucking every last bit of him inside. Efficient. Unfazed.

“Seems like you’ve done this before,” you said, your voice shaky.

She smirked, hefting the body into the trunk. “Well, have you ever heard of vampires before now? That’s because I’m damn good at what I do. Without me, this town would’ve burned to the ground ages ago.”

She slammed the trunk shut and turned to face you, arms crossed. “Normally, I stop vampires like you before you go feral, but hey, can’t save them all.”

You felt a chill crawl up your spine. “So... what now? You’re just going to leave me here?”

She rolled her eyes. “A thank-you would be nice. I did just take care of the body for you.”

“I mean... I just killed someone. Don’t you think we should talk about this? I feel guilty, and everything’s changing, and—”

She started her car, laughing under her breath. “Oh, sweetie, don’t lie to yourself.”

“What?” you asked, thrown off by her tone.

“You don’t feel guilty. You feel nothing,” she said, voice ice-cold. “You were crying because you thought you were going to spend eternity in prison. Not because you killed him. You. Feel. Nothing.”

You stared at her, stunned. But deep down, you knew she was right. The guilt, the panic—it wasn’t for him. It was for you.

She shifted into drive, her window halfway down. “Can I at least know your name?” you asked, desperation creeping into your voice.

She paused, giving you a look that sent a shiver down your spine. “Let's just say you never want to see me again and if you do…I won't hesitate to kill you.” 

And with that, she drove off, leaving you standing alone in the cold night air, heart racing.

The hunt had begun. Only this time, you were the prey.

Hey guys! Sorry, it has been a while. Life and everything blah blah. But it is October and I hope I can commit to a little mini-series. Let me know if you like it!

[syluscore]

I HAVE A REQUEST PLEASEE MAKE ONE WHERE LEON AND READER ARE ENEMIES TO LOVERS AND HAVE A SIMILAR SCENE WHERE LEON AND MARIA ARE FIGHTING IN DEATH ISLAND. I HOPE IT MAKES SENSE.

PLEASE YOU CAN IGNORE THIS IF YOU DONT WANT TO DO IT BUT PLEASEE IM BEGGING YOUUU

Demolition Lovers

~DI! Leon Kennedy x fem! Reader~

Leon and beloved Reader are our demolition lovers. Make sure you give that song by MCR a listen. I was worried about this one, but I fucking looooved writing it.

Word count: 2138

Content warnings: the girlies are fighting-physically and vocally, traumatized reader, villain reader, talk of death, attempted murder, knives, blood, strangling, choking, crying, screaming, angst, smut, sexual content, kissing, p in v sex, reader is riding, creampie, unprotected sex

!!!!!!MINORS DNI! GHOSTKENNEDY IS STRICTLY 18+!!!!!!

“Do you always have to get in the fucking way of everything, Kennedy?”

Leon scoffs at your remark. “What am I supposed to do? Let you end the world for some personal vendetta? Is that it?”

You laugh as you step further into the giant lab, having caught Leon meddling in your plans again. The man never fucking stops, does he? He’s been in your business, getting his hands dirty with your mess for years now.

It’s funny how much he still tries to protect you, keeping your treacherous actions a secret, regardless of how many times you come back to attempt the same thing. Somehow still believing there’s a good person inside of you, perhaps a person who could still empathize with him. Maybe if you coped with the trauma, your need for revenge would subside. You’re tired of his wishy-washy bullshit.

You’ll never be satisfied until the whole world knows your pain. Knows what it feels like to lose control of yourself no matter how hard you try to fight it. To watch the world from your own fucking eyes and being locked away somewhere inside your own head. A mere spectator as your hands are controlled by something else entirely.

Every last person left on the planet after everything is said and done will know what it feels like to watch your own hands kill the people you love while there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop it. 

You shake your head at him. “I’m sorry I have to kill you. It’s nothing personal, I promise.”

“I wish you’d been more creative. You guys always try to end the world. It’s getting repetitive if I’m being honest.”

You laugh loudly, your hand quickly grabbing the knife strapped to your leg and tossing it at the man’s forehead.

Your distraction is not nearly enough to stop Leon from dodging the hit.

He throws himself out of the way of your flying knife and you charge him, unsheathing another knife strapped to your chest.

You’re in front of him in an instant. You kick your leg up in an attempt to knock him off his balance again, but he grabs your ankle and pushes you around.

You recover quickly, spinning around until you’re back face to face with him. Your hand swings the knife towards his neck, but he grabs your wrist.

He goes to kick your feet out from under you, but you quickly jump, kneeing him hard in the abdomen. 

You both recover before either of you can even blink, both back in stable stances instantly. 

You fake out a hit to his face. When he reaches up to stop the blow, your other hand is jolting the knife towards his stomach.

His forearm stops your punch from connecting, while his free hand bashes down into your wrist brandishing the knife, forcing it to fall to the ground with a loud clang.

You pull your now knifeless fist back and go to connect with his jaw, but he arches his back, moving his face back from harm’s way.

In your frustration, you get sloppy, giving Leon the perfect opportunity to pounce.

He straightens his back as you lean down to grab your knife. When your back is curved down, he kicks his leg straight out, swinging it over top of you. His thigh connects with the back of your neck and sends your body crashing to the floor.

Before he can pin you to the floor, you quickly flip onto your back. You dig your nails into his thigh, allowing yourself to slide out from under him as his leg goes stiff. 

As you slide out, you pull his calf roughly, causing his leg to straighten out and him to lose his balance.

Before his chest can even make contact with the floor, you’re on his back. Your hands grab a fistfull of his hair and yank it back as he hits the floor.

You wrap your legs around his neck, locking your legs together as they cross at the front of his neck. 

You bring one of your forearms below his chin, pulling him up at an uncomfortable angle.

“It didn’t have to be like this, Leon.” You say in a fake empathetic voice.

He grunts and his voice comes out strained, “You’re a fucking puppet!”

“So are you!” You yell out. You can’t help but shake your head, “I guess we do have something in common after all.”

Leon flings his body, flipping you over.

Your back crashes into the ground as he straddles your abdomen, trapping your hands at your hips.

“I’m trying to fucking help you.” He gets out through gritted teeth.

Leon feels his irritation growing impossibly larger as you laugh, once again, “I didn’t ask for your help. You put yourself into this shit, that isn’t my fault.”

He stares into your eyes with a death glare and you send one of your own right back at him. 

You can feel one of your knives beneath your thigh. If you can just strain your arm enough, you could pull it closer with the tips of your fingers until you can get a proper grip on it. He’ll just think you’re trying to wiggle out, if you just stretch your fingers enough… there it is! 

In the blink of an eye, you wrap your hand around the weapon tightly and bring it up to Leon’s leg, slicing into his thigh. 

He grunts out and flinches at the sudden sting, and of course, you utilize the opportunity.

You push yourself out from underneath him, rising to your feet and he does the same, ignoring the pain in the back of his leg. 

He surges forward, reaching out to grab you. You jump up and grab a low hanging pipe swinging your legs over his shoulders. Your ankles lock behind his head, but he keeps moving forward, forcing you to let go of the pipe.

His arms reach out to try and push you off of him, but you grab onto his forearms to keep yourself from falling.

He continues forward until his hips make contact with a metal table, throwing your back against the cold surface. He wraps his hands around your throat and you pull your leg against your chest, pushing the bottom of your shoe against his face.

This doesn’t help at all, so you come up with another idea.

You wrap your legs around his waist, gripping him tightly between your thighs. His eyes widen in response and his grip on your throat loosens.

You’re able to gain the upperhand, changing positions and pushing Leon back onto the table. His feet leave the floor as you push him further down the cold metal, climbing up after him.

It’s your turn to straddle him and wrap your hands around his throat.

His hands shoot up, gripping tightly around your wrists in an attempt to pull them away from him. Your wrists feel like they’ll break between his hands, but you only allow that to fuel yourself, gripping his throat tighter.

“Why couldn’t you just stay out of my fucking way?” You yell out, frustrated and somehow devastated that it had to end up this way.

His voice is scratchy as he forces words out of his mouth despite his lack of air, “How–could I–do that? This is–just–too much–fun.”

“Just shut the fuck up!” You grit out through your clenched teeth, “I have to do this, Leon. I have to see this through.”

Leon continues to gasp for air, his face growing red and his mouth forced open. His eyelids flutter as he keeps trying to suck in a breath, but you just squeeze tighter. His hands are shaking around your wrists, his grip slowly loosening.

His eyes roll into the back of his head and a desperate, pathetic noise leaves his lips as the lack of oxygen to his brain takes over.

You don’t know what happens. You don’t know what comes over you, but you let him go. You pull your hands away from his throat and he sputters and coughs as he desperately sucks the air into his dry throat.

His eyes focus back on yours and you don’t realize you’re crying until you lick your lips and taste the salty tears on your tongue.

You’re overcome with so many emotions and for some reason, your frustration turns to pure rage. You ball your hands up into tight fists and start pounding them against his chest, hard. Over and over you punch him and he just lets you. 

You scream at the top of your lungs a banshee-like sound that you didn’t know you were capable of making. 

You don’t see him as your fists connect with his chest again and again. You see the people you lost while being controlled by a parasite. The people you loved dying from your finger on the trigger, your hand wrapped around the handle of the knife, your hands wrapped around their throats.

You’re pulled back to the present as Leon wraps his hands around your wrists and stills them. You’re panting, chest heaving as you struggle to catch your breath. 

His eyes meet yours and you squeeze yours closed, unable to meet him head on. 

“They don’t know the pain. No one knows how I fucking feel.”

Maybe you did lose your humanity to that parasite. Maybe it was too late and you’ll always be this fucked up.

You feel Leon’s warm hands cup your cheeks, “Look at me.”

You slowly open your eyes and see a concerned look in Leon’s eyes. You can’t bare it, can’t bare his worry to be about you. You can’t handle anyone worrying about you anymore. It makes them vulnerable, puts them in danger. Anyone who cares about you is immediately worse off because of the fact.

You just sit there, your face in his hands and your body straddling his hips, lost somewhere deep in your own head.

Your eyes widen when you register what he’s done.

He’s kissing you. Leon Kennedy is fucking kissing you. 

Why is he doing this? Why does it feel so fucking good? Why are you closing your eyes and leaning into the kiss? Why are you bringing your hands up to his hair and tangling your fingers in the strands?

You don’t know what possesses you to reach down between the two of you and palm his hardening cock through his pants. You don’t know what possesses him to reach down between you two as well and hastily undo his belt. You don’t know what possesses either of you and the actions you continue to take, furthering a situation that doesn’t make any fucking sense, but neither of you make any effort to stop. Quite the opposite really. 

He pushes his pants down his hips and you undo the button and zipper on yours and your fingers are shaking so much, fumbling with every move you make and all you know is that you can’t stop.

Not when you’re pushing your own pants and panties down your hips and off of your legs. Not when you grab his underwear and nearly rip them off of his body.

And especially not when you sink your wet heat down onto his hard cock and start bouncing up and down desperately as his fingers dig into your hips and make you go faster.

No. All you can think about is chasing your pleasure and his. It’s the first time in years that your mind has thought of anything besides revenge and forcing others to endure the same pain you feel every single fucking day.

You don’t feel the pain. All you can feel is the way your walls clench around his cock, trying to pull him closer, pull him deeper, until there’s not one single bit of your pussy left that hasn’t been speared on his cock.

And as you throw your head back, screaming out as your climax crashes through you, your mind goes completely foggy. You can’t think at all. All you can do is feel the tingling relief coursing through your body from your powerful release.

You feel his come flood your pussy and it feels so fucking good. Everything feels so good right now. And after nothing feeling good, not even close, for years, you know you’re addicted. 

You don’t have to give your pain to others to somehow release yourself from it. No. You’ve found a way to release it from yourself over and over and fucking over again.

God fucking dammit, Leon Kennedy. Always so determined to find a way to help you and by the grace of God or some other holy intervention, the prick has found it. He’s found it and you’re going to keep giving it to him willingly.

~masterlist~

[librababe99]

hey veronica :))

i was wondering if you'd want to do a follow up for the friends to lovers fic. maybe something a little smutty? in my head it's just slow and sweet and she's reassuring Wade that yes she really does want him and he's just who me ??? whAt?

totally fine if this doesn't pique your interest though!

Hey Nikki !! This TOTALLY piques my interest---Wade is definitely one those guys who needs to be reminded how wanted and loved he is 🤭

I hope this second part does it justice!

More Than Just Friends: Part Two

Tags: MDNI, 18+ONLY, Wade Wilson, Female Reader, First Dates, Implied Smut, Set during the 2016 Deadpool Movie

Summary: Wade and Reader finally explore the depths of their newfound relationship....

wc: 1.4K

| More Than Just Friends: Part One |

After that night in Wade's apartment, something had shifted between the two of you. Everything was the same, yet completely different. The easy banter still flowed, the teasing grins and flirtatious remarks, but there was an undercurrent of something new—a closeness, an intimacy that hadn’t been there before. It was as if you had stepped into a new world with Wade, one where feelings were laid bare instead of hidden beneath layers of sarcasm and jokes.

Tonight was your first, official date. 

You stood outside Wade’s apartment, feeling the familiar flutter of nerves as you knocked. The door creaked open, revealing Wade in his typical “trying but not trying” attire—black jeans, a snug shirt, and his favorite leather jacket slung over his shoulder. His eyes swept over you, and for a moment, he looked genuinely taken aback.

“You clean up nice, hot stuff,” he said with a grin, but there was a warmth in his voice that made your heart skip.

“Not so bad yourself,” you teased, stepping inside and closing the door behind you.

The plan was simple—dinner at one of Wade’s favorite low-key spots and then… Well, you didn’t know what would happen after, but the idea of it made your stomach flip. Being Wade, he insisted on not doing anything too fancy. “Who wants to be stuck in a stuffy restaurant when you could get some killer tacos and people-watch the weirdos of New York?” he’d said, and honestly, that sounded perfect.

Dinner was easy, comfortable, the two of you falling into the familiar rhythm of conversation. Wade made you laugh the entire night, spinning stories about his latest jobs, exaggerated just enough to be ridiculous. The whole time, though, there was an edge to him, a certain awareness in the way he looked at you. His eyes lingered longer, his touches were softer, more intentional.

You found yourself watching him, too—how his smile crinkled his eyes, how his voice softened when he leaned in close. You’d always been drawn to Wade, but now there was a sense of longing mixed in with the affection, something that made your heart race whenever your knees brushed under the table or when he caught your gaze and held it for a second too long.

By the time you left the taco joint, the city was alive with lights and sounds, and Wade took your hand, lacing his fingers with yours as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The two of you walked through the streets, your pace leisurely as you talked about everything and nothing.

“You know,” Wade said, glancing sideways at you, “this was nice. Like, not that I hate being covered in blood and guts every time we hang out, but this? This was nice.”

You laughed, squeezing his hand. “Yeah, I could get used to this.”

A comfortable silence settled between you, but beneath it was that same tension—the unspoken promise of what the night might hold.

Eventually, you found yourselves back at Wade’s apartment. The moment you stepped inside, something shifted. It wasn’t awkward, but there was a weight to the air, a charged anticipation. Wade shrugged off his jacket, tossing it onto the back of the couch before turning to you with a look that made your breath catch.

“So… do we end this night with a classic movie? Something with lots of explosions and bad one-liners? Or do we…” His voice trailed off, and for once, there wasn’t a sarcastic edge to it. He was giving you an out, a chance to keep things light.

But you didn’t want light. Not tonight.

You stepped closer to him, your fingers brushing his arm as you tilted your head up to meet his gaze. “Or do we what?” you asked softly, though you knew exactly where this was going.

Wade swallowed hard, his usual bravado flickering. “Or… we end it like this.”

He closed the space between you in a heartbeat, his lips crashing into yours in a kiss that was both hungry and tender. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer as you melted into him, your arms wrapping around his neck. It was the kind of kiss that made your head spin, that made everything else in the world disappear.

When you finally broke apart, both of you breathing heavily, Wade rested his forehead against yours, his hands still holding you as if afraid you might pull away.

“You sure you want this?” he asked quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “I’m… not exactly the easiest guy to be with.”

You cupped his cheek, your thumb brushing over the rough skin where his stubble had started to grow in. “Wade, I’ve wanted this for a long time. I know what I’m getting into.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. “I just… I don’t want to screw this up.”

You smiled softly, pressing a kiss to his forehead before looking into his eyes. “You won’t. I’m not going anywhere.”

The vulnerability in his gaze made your heart ache. Wade had always been the guy who covered everything with a joke, the man who never let anyone too close. But now, here he was—completely open, trusting you with the parts of him he’d never shown anyone else.

You guided him toward the bed, the two of you moving slowly, every step filled with intent. Wade’s hands slid up your back, fingers trembling slightly as they traced over the curves of your body. His usual confidence was still there, but it was gentler, more tentative.

When you reached the edge of the bed, you gently pushed him down, straddling his lap as you kissed him again. This time, the kiss was slower, more deliberate. Your hands tangled in his hair as his lips moved against yours, and the feeling of him beneath you, warm and solid, made a wave of heat pool in your stomach.

Wade’s hands rested on your hips, squeezing gently as he pulled you closer, and when you broke the kiss to look at him, his eyes were darker, filled with something deeper than lust—something like adoration.

“You’re incredible, you know that?” he whispered, his voice thick.

You smiled, leaning down to press a kiss to his jaw. “So are you.”

You could feel his breath hitch as your lips brushed over his skin, his grip on you tightening as you began to slowly unbutton his shirt. There was a quiet intimacy in the moment, something that made everything feel right, like this was exactly where you were meant to be.

When his shirt fell open, exposing the hard planes of his chest, you trailed kisses down his neck, savoring the way his body tensed beneath your touch. Wade was usually the one in control, always one step ahead with his quick wit and faster hands, but now, he was letting you take the lead, letting you guide this moment.

“I want you,” you whispered against his skin, and you felt him shudder beneath you.

Wade’s eyes fluttered open, his gaze locking onto yours. There was something vulnerable in the way he looked at you, something raw and unguarded. “Are you sure?”

You smiled softly, your hand resting against his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

For the first time, Wade didn’t crack a joke, didn’t try to deflect with humor. Instead, he kissed you again, slower this time, savoring every second. His hands moved over your body, reverent and gentle, and when he whispered your name against your lips, it felt like a promise.

The night unfolded between you, slow and unhurried, each touch filled with meaning, each kiss a reminder that this was more than just a fling. Your bodies moved together with an unspoken understanding, a gentle rhythm that mirrored the years of friendship, trust, and quiet longing that had always simmered beneath the surface. There was no urgency, no need to prove anything—just the overwhelming intimacy of being close, of knowing that this moment wasn’t just about passion, but connection. You could feel it in the way Wade held you, his touch tender and almost hesitant, as if he was afraid of breaking the spell.

When you finally collapsed together, bodies entwined beneath the sheets, Wade pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, his arms wrapped around you as if he was afraid to let go.

“You still here?” he whispered, his voice hoarse, but there was a smile in it.

You nodded, resting your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. “Still here.”

And in that moment, you knew you always would be.