#incongruence au

[incongruence-osaf]

Some quick updates!

The editing process for Chapters One and Two helped me get used to Third Person Omniscient perspective more. Chapter Three will hopefully be coming soon after putting it through a second and/or third draft. This is the chapter yall will be introduced to this Incongruence AU version of Sonic. I had been very focused on prettying up the first two chapters to make them flow better with worldbuilding, exposition, and dialogue. Those ended up needing more TLC than I originally thought.

I am learning to flesh out Sonic more as a character with his mannerisms, how he carries himself, how he's involved in communities around him, how his heroic role translates into this AU of Station Square and Mobius, and the nature of his important connection with Shadow. Ideas came easy at first, then it became more complex to coherently piece together as the world's struggles and strengths became more visible in my mind.

I absolutely adore how @major-wren brought him to life visually, and I can't wait to try getting closer to that vibe this time around in the second/third drafts. I have the chapter 80% done I'd say, considering the details and characterizations that I'll probably add to make it longer.

[trudemaethien]

Be’chaaj In Your Rock and Roll (and drift away)

Part 6 | Merverse Part 7 | Part 8

rated e, Fox/OC, Fordo/(same) OC, polyamory, SPARROW IS A SEAHORSE MER, language barrier

look at this ART 👀🫦👀 look at it he’s so cute!

Fox has heard of many different types of merpeople: sharks, whales, rays, crabs, and other species of fish; so he shouldn’t be so startled by this mer shyly and ineffectually hiding behind the anchor chain of the LEVE**DGE.

It’s a seahorse. The human-looking hair and torso are pretty standard among merfolk; this one has dusky skin and unruly locks of short black hair, floating in a twisty halo round its androgynous face. Fox appreciates its graceful neck and jawline, then the decidedly non-standard parts.

No scales, only spiky, ridged, bony plates covered by delicate skin. Its coloration is mostly reddish-brown, mottled thickly over a pale background. Knobby spikes protrude among its hair, arranged in a circle like a crown. The bony plates begin just below its ribcage, tapering slim like a long waist, before its girth gradually widens going down. It must measure at least 5 meters from tail tip to crown.

Fox squints at its chest for a long moment before he figures out why it looks strange. A bony red keel runs up the center and the ribs slant down from its sides to meet in the middle instead of slanting up like human ribs. The gills there are delicate curves, nearly invisible.

One large red fin going down its spine that ruffles and flutters. Directional fins sprouting from the backs of his shoulder joints like wide-spaced wings. One little fin around where a human would have knees; the shin-analogous portion of skin below is smooth and lighter than the rest, rounding out pleasingly before tucking in abruptly at the top of its tail.

That smooth bit must be the pouch, and that means this is a male. It means something different for seahorses than it does for almost every other species; the fathers are the ones who gestate young.

Seahorses are slow. They mostly stay in their habitats and hang onto things with their prehensile tails. This one has strayed very far from where he’s supposed to be, and Fox can only wonder how he came to be here, clinging to their anchor chain with his long segmented tail.

They stare at each other through the crystal clear water, neither moving a muscle.

read on AO3 🔒 https://archiveofourown.org/works/35456023

[trashogram]

He Chose You (Pt.1)

Lucifer/Reader

Hazbin Hotel AU where Lilith never existed, Lucifer has been lonely for over a millennia and Charlie will be born one way or another. Rated E for explicit sexual content of the raunchiest variety in later chapters and also weird old people.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 13.5 | Part 14 | End

There was a knock at your door. It sounded like someone rapping their knuckles against the wood whimsically, as if following the beat of a song you couldn’t hear.

The methodical folding of your clothes into garage sale-quality drawers came to a halt. You looked over your shoulder, shifting on your feet hesitantly.

It had been little over a week since you moved into the grand old Donner apartment. Apart from a quick tow-in of shoddy furniture from your hired movers, no one had come calling. 

You definitely weren’t expecting anyone either, not in a brand new city you’d spontaneously decided to live in.

After another moment of uncertainty, you pivoted to the door and inched it open to a slit you could peek through. “Hello?”

Your brow furrowed as you stared at the empty space ahead of you. Pulling the door open fully, you peered down one end of the hallway to the other. 

Nothing but cracked and crumbling crown moldings on wainscoting, a matted-looking saxony carpet, the same musty, stale air…

‘Quack’

You nearly jumped out of your skin, head snapping down to see a real, live duck standing just outside your doorframe. 

“Oh!”

     You immediately squatted down to marvel at the animal. It gazed back up at you with beady red eyes and a curious gait. 

“Hey little guy,” You cooed, smiling despite the incongruous image of a waterfowl in your building.

You raised a hand and reached out slowly, instinctive desire to pet the cute little creature warring with a minuscule yet no less embarrassing fear. 

Were ducks typically friendly? You knew so little, ornithology not being your thing. 

“Will you let me pet you?” Your fingers hovered over the surprisingly patient animal before it decided to nudge itself under your palm.

The duck shivered with delight at your touch, all-white feathers ruffling excitedly and tail wagging, looking akin to a very happy dog. 

“Oh my god.” You gasped, heart melting. “You’re so cute!”

Soft feathers brushed against your bent knees as the duck drew close enough to rub its body against you. It had gone from doggish to cat-like effortlessly, and you couldn’t help giggling over how silly it looked.

“Where did you come from?” You asked after a bit of cuddling, glancing from side to side once again. The hallway remained empty, no one running to fetch what you assumed was a beloved pet. 

     ‘That’s… weird.’ You thought. ‘So, who knocked on my door?’ 

It was tempting to ask the bird that was currently bouncing on its webbed feet. You couldn’t help but snort with laughter before positioning yourself so that you were sitting. In an instant, the duck made to climb into your lap, allowing you to carefully lift it onto your legs when it couldn’t reach. 

“You’re so silly!” Grinning, you continued to stroke its head. “Your owner is probably worried sick about their silly little guy.” 

‘Quack’ 

The duck burrowed its head against your stomach as it settled on your lap, and you sighed. “I’d love to keep you, but I don’t know how to take care of you, sweetie.” 

Little red eyes bore into you from below, seemingly wide and beseeching. It was too precious, and too perfect (to the point where you idly wondered if someone was somehow scouting a way to scam you via adorable duck shenanigans).

Aside from the guttural, sad ‘wek’ you got in reply, a slow creak of hinges drew your attention back up. The door across from you had visibly opened the barest amount. You squinted, just able to make out frizzy red hair and a red-rimmed, down-turned mouth in the dim lighting. 

“Oh hey, hi!” You stopped yourself from standing, instead of bracing the bundle in your lap close. “Is this your duck?”

A tingle went up your spine as the door opened fully and an old woman appeared. She was dressed in green capri pants and a ruffled tan blouse, hair red as an open flame and barely kept in-check by a cheetah-print scarf. The makeup she wore was caked on, harsh red lipstick smeared around her thin lips and black kohl-rimmed eyes popping out of her wrinkled face. 

The sour, almost suspicious look on her face softened but did not completely go away, even when she smiled.

“Oh Lou!” She cried, making you jump. “You didn’t get very far, did you? I almost didn’t notice you were gone, you little scoundrel!”

“Well, thank goodness for that I guess. He’s got those little legs, ya see,” She nodded down at your lap, “but he’s so darn fast anyway, might as well be a midget racehorse!”

You chuckled and smiled politely. That persistent tingling at your back had you holding back a shiver, and the skin on your arms prickled and rose. 

“I didn’t know we could have pet ducks in this building.” Your words belied a confidence, as well as interest in having a conversation with this woman, that you didn’t truly have. 

As a matter of fact, despite the inner scolding you gave yourself for being judgmental, you were quite off-put in the woman’s presence. The want to return to your apartment and shut the door in her overly-painted face was rising like a lump in your throat. 

“He seems to really like you, that’s so sweet. He’s not usually this friendly with anyone but my hubby. That’s Mr. Farrow, honey, have you met him?” The woman - presumably Mrs, Farrow, leaned down just a few feet away. 

She still looked to be examining you and your avian companion, the bland pleasantness oozing yet unable to suffocate the shrewd glint in her dark eyes. 

“Oh, uh, no. I’m afraid I haven’t -” You started. 

“Oh, that’s alright! That’s fine! Matter of fact, he’d get an earful from me if he was talkin’ to a pretty thing like you without me knowin’!” Mrs. Farrow laughed. “Just kiddin’, honey. You’re new to the building though, aren’t you? Well, welcome! It’s nice to see a new face here! ‘Specially a young one!” 

“Thank —”

“Maybe that’s why Lou is so taken with you! Animals just thrive off energy and sunshine and all that. Not slow, almost dead things. I’m sure you’re birds of a feather that way.” 

Again, your soft laughter is polite, teetering on nervousness. 

You took a moment to rise, humming apologetically when Lou squawked as he was jostled. On your feet, you instinctively stepped back. One foot over the threshold and solid in your apartment. 

“He is really sweet.” You said, holding the animal out as carefully as you could. “I’m glad he didn’t get lost.”

Mrs. Farrow stared, arms falling to her sides. She didn’t attempt to take the bird from you for a long, long moment. 

Confusion and disbelief clouded your mind as you stood, waiting, watching as Mrs. Farrow’s throat bobbed when she swallowed forcefully. 

What? Was she afraid of the duck?

In a split-second, she returned to smiling animatedly and waved a geriatric hand in the air so flippantly that the uncomfortable moment ceased to exist. 

“Oh honey, you can put him down if you want. He’ll come back over now that our door’s open.” Mrs. Farrow laughed. “Lou’s not my biggest fan. He’s such a prideful thing, you know. Just like Mr. Farrow - it’s probably why they get along so well!”

You blinked, then slowly bent at the waist to let Lou down. The duck made another disdainful quack, red eyes looking at you morosely. 

It’s little legs eventually rowed through the air in an effort to gain footing. You lightly placed him over the carpet and let go, allowing Lou to jump down. 

The duck began waddling away, though it appeared to hang its head as it did so. Occasionally, he turned to look at you, somber and sullen as if bidding farewell before walking on death row. 

“Aww, poor little thing.” Mrs. Farrow drawled. At your side. “Looks like my Lou is sweet on you! Poor guy, I can see why! Again, a lovely young thing like you is probably a gift from above in this stuffy old place.” 

“Say, how long have you been here?” 

You turned to the old woman. “About a week, I’m still getting settled.”

Mrs. Farrow nodded vigorously, eyes bright but mouth pursed. “A week, a week?! A week and no one’s introduced themselves to you?”

“Holy Toledo, you must think we’re all a bunch a’ snobs in here! That’s no good. Oh! Why don’t you come over for dinner sometime and me and my mister can show you some proper hospitality?” 

“Oh, that's really nice of you —” 

“Sure! Sure! It’ll be great, how ‘bout tomorrow night? It’d give us some time to get prepared, have things cleaned and settled. Do you like steak? That’d be perfect, actually. I’ve got some in the freezer just waitin’ to be defrosted.”

“Um, well — That’s a little short notice…”

“I’m sure Mr. Farrow won’t mind. He’ll be glad for the company, and if he isn’t, well he will be when I’m done with him.” She chortled. “Just another joke, honey. He’s always dyin’ to talk to someone that isn’t me. It’d be a real treat to him. Treat ta me too! What do you say?”

Your mouth opened and closed as a light sheen of sweat broke over the nape of your neck. Mrs. Farrow’s sharp eyes were wider, attempting to beguile you while your head was still spinning. 

“I-I guess, maybe —” You stammered.

“Wonderful!” The eccentric woman’s eyes lit up like fireworks, cigarette-smoker’s voice becoming truly raucous in her delight. “I’ll go ahead and get started. You go get back to what it was you were doing before Lou and I interrupted you! And don’t worry about a thing! We might be old timers, but a good meal and good cheer never go out of style.” 

Mrs. Farrow laughed, pretending to shoo you away until you were back inside your apartment and she was pulling your door to a close for you. 

“Have a good night, honey! We’ll see you tomorrow! 6 o’clock, don’t be late!”

Before you knew it, you were staring at the back of your own door again. 

‘What the fuck just happened?’

[undertheorangetree]

Pomegranate Seeds

Summary- A retelling of the abduction of Persephone.

Warnings- MDNI 18+ NSFW. Female reader. Hades and Persephone AU. Star-crossed lovers vibes. Uncle/niece incest. Making out. Angst. Fluff. Titty sucking. Handjob. Cunnilingus. Vaginal fingering. Soft smut. Mild praise kink. Mildly OOC Aemond.

Author's Notes- Yeah I was a Percy Jackson/Greek mythology kid, thank you for noticing. I'm still playing incredibly fast and loose with the mythology tho so we're gonna have to make our peace with that. This is a beast btw, it's like 9.6K and you can find the rest on AO3 with the link below :)

divider created by @firefly-graphics

It is moments like these, she thinks, that she loves most.

Alone in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the babbling of the creek as it flows over the rocks. Everything green with the exception of the purple, white, and yellow flowerheads but lush and everbearing and alive, the sun little more than a hazy warm glow, not yet hot enough to be overbearing. It is peaceful here, so much more than she is used to. She had come to an agreement with her step sisters, Baela and Rhaena, that they allow her a few hours on her own in this meadow, undisturbed by anyone else. Though her mother much preferred to that she remain alongside her sisters whenever she is out of sight, she, Baela, and Rhaena had come to an agreement that what her mother didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. And besides, they were never too far away from her. Being water nymphs, they could be by her side in less than a moment if she really needed them, so long as she doe does not stray too far from the river. And she has never been more grateful for it than she is right now.

Stretching her arms high above her head, she stretches out along the grass, enjoying the feeling of every blade of grass, the sweet smell of the blooms wafting on the breeze. Admittedly, this meadow had not been quite so plentiful when they had found it, following along the winding river, but she is the goddess of spring. Flowers bloom at her word and sun shines with her will. It had not been too difficult to turn this meadow into her own personal paradise, away from the chaos often wrought by her mother and brothers and stepfather.

There is a sudden change in the wind that causes her to sit up. Colder than it had been before, something more akin to winter than spring. The ground seems to rumble beneath her, shaking as if the sudden cold has sent it to shiver. Curiously, she turns her head toward the tree line, where the birches and willows keep the meadow shielded from view, only to find a man standing among them. Dressed in all black- breeches, cloak, and the shred of his tunic she can see beneath it- his platinum hair is almost jarring in contrast. He is not a big man, long and lithe, but there is an air to him that feels dangerous, dangerous enough to give her pause. He has not noticed her yet, face turned away, but she can see the long, stern plains of his face from where she sits, looking incredibly serious. That seriousness is only exacerbated by the dark leather eyepatch covering the eye closest to her, a deep red scar carved beneath it.

She does not think she has ever seen anyone here before, not outside of Baela, Rhaena, and herself, and his presence here is almost incongruous. Still, there is an air about him, one that makes it clear that he is a god just as she is, and that alone should make his surprise appearance less shocking.

“Hello.”

The sound of her voice seems to catch him off guard. Quickly, he turns toward her, shoulders tense, but they relax when he takes her in. She cannot imagine that she is intimidating, sitting flat in the grass all alone. “Hello.”

But it is that reminder of the grass that brings her pause. What is this man doing here? Where had he come from? It is not as if this meadow is easy to find, hidden amongst the trees as it is. She feels her brows furrow, head cocking in question. “How did you find this place?”

She had not put a glamour over this meadow, but she did not feel she had too. The forest, though light and airy, was a labyrinth of trees that seemed deterrent enough to keep any unwanted guests away. They were incredibly difficult to find your way through and she had been convinced it would be impossible to try- for God or mortal.

Near impossible, it seemed then.

His eye darts back to the treeline, taking half a step back. “If I am intruding, I can leave.”

“No.” She says it far too quickly and she can see the way his eyebrows raise in response to it, but she can’t find it in her to be ashamed. She is intrigued by this man, more so than she likely should be, and finds she wants to know more. To learn how he came to find this place. “Just because this place is unknown does not mean it is mine alone. You may stay. Beauty like this should be enjoyed.”

“Wise words,” he agrees, coming toward her. He hesitates at the end, torn on whether or not to truly join her, but it seems courtesy wins out as he lowers himself to the ground, joining her amongst the flowers. He looks entirely out of place, black against the blooms, but she says nothing, keeping her observation to herself.

They sit in absolute silence but she does not mind. He sits stiffly, as if uncomfortable, while she continues to take in all that is around her. From here, she can see the way the willows sway with the wind, the white puffy clouds floating by in the soft blue sky.

“I did not mean to,” he says. She looks at him, head tilted once again. “To find this place. It was not my intention. Though I admit I have never seen anything quite like it.”

She smiles, though he could not possibly know that he had complimented her. “It is a rare thing.”

“It feels almost as if it were from a painting,” he adds, looking around the meadow to take it in further.

She joins him in it, finding no shame in admiring her own work. It is a pretty place, though that had always been her intention. Olympus was beautiful in and of itself, but it was stark in that way. Ethereal and otherworldly, but cosmopolitan. Bright white marble, painted statues, stained glass. Everything beautiful, to be sure, but not in the untamed way that she seemed to crave. She preferred the beauty that was found in nature, in heavy branches filled with green leaves, tall grasses and wildflowers and crystalline waters.

“Do you know much about art?” she asks to fill the silence.

He seems caught off guard again from her question, but answers it anyway. “Not as much as I would like, but I can appreciate the beauty in something as well as any man. Though do not tell anyone. It would ruin my reputation.”

She laughs. “You needn’t worry. Your secret is safe with me. Which periods do you prefer?”

They talk for hours, the conversation unfurling as naturally as a bird’s wing. Art, history, philosophy. There is no subject they do not indulge in. He becomes less awkward with time as he grows more comfortable around her and she almost pulls a laugh from him not once, but twice. It seems quite the feat, for a man as serious as this one seems to be, though she does not let her pride get the better of her. When she asks him how she managed to find her well kept secret, he had simply said that one always finds the best things when you are not looking for them. A non answer, but that was alright. She was sure she could coax the answer from him eventually.

“Forgive me, I never asked you your name,” she says after what must have been hours, half appalled by her lack of manners.

He does not seem to mind, a good natured half smile making its way onto his face. “My friends call me Aemond. You may as well.”

It is not uncommon, for Gods to prefer more earthly names. She is often the same. There is power within a name and for such an innocent encounter, she does not feel the need to have him call her Persephone or Kore or any of those that strike some rumination of power and fear. So she gives him her common name, the one she feels is more true to who she is, and he smiles in response to it, repeating it back to her as if to test it. She likes the way it sounds when he says it, the way each letter seems to roll off him tongue, and somehow hearing him say the word alone is enough to make her flush.

She turns her head to hide it and only then notices that the sun has dipped below the trees, leaving the sky a hazy orange. Her mother will be expecting her home soon and there is no telling how poorly she will react if Rhaena and Baela return home without her. She doesn’t doubt that Rhaenyra will send her great serpent Syrax after her should she be even a moment late.

“I have to go,” she says, unable to keep the apologetic tone from her voice.

Reluctantly, she stands, brushing the dirt from her skirts. His lips had parted at her announcement, but now he ducks his head in an understanding nod. She smiles at him, not truly wanting to go yet, and makes her way toward the creek to call upon her sisters to come and fetch her. She does not make it two steps before he is calling after her.

“Can I see you again?”

She turns back to look at him. The insecurity on his face does not seem to match his features, looking almost out of place there. Still, she finds it entirely endearing and she realizes that she would absolutely like to see him again.

“Yes,” she agrees softly.

“Tomorrow?”

She does not bother to fight the smile itching its way onto her face. “Yes.”

He matches her smile then before standing. He comes forward and takes her hand, bringing her knuckles to his lips and placing a chaste kiss there. “Then I shall see you on the morrow, my lady.”

She can do nothing but hope he does not notice how hot her face has become.

“On the morrow.”

Read the rest here

[nell0-0]

IRIDA IRIDA IRIDA 

SUBWAY BOSS IRIDA AU REAL

This is an AU where older Irida ends up in younger Ingo's time pfpfpf. As in, Irida would be 19 and Ingo would be still around 27-30 (undecided), but 8 years after she arrives to Unova he's yeeted to Hisui. And would go on to become warden Ingo, the one she knew from before she ended up in modern time Unova. irida tries to stick close to Ingo since he's the only familiar face around and that translates in her eventually becoming a depot agent.

Originally it was going to be accidentally hitching a ride, but the shenanigans from Team Galactic knocked her (and Adaman) off course and they ended up crash landing in the wrong years. Adaman landed some years later than Irida did pfpfpf. But he adapts faster and probably ends up working for minimum wage in a random food chain.

So now Irida is the older between the two. That incongruence means they don’t realize they’re exactly who they are, and just think it’s a weird coincidence. Strong genes and all with the pokemon descendants. That doesn’t meant they don’t antagonize each other, though. 

Irida is out there trying to teach Ingo all the skills he would need to survive in Hisui but the one that ends up picking them up instead is Emmet. F. 

[wordsinhaled]

payneland neighbors AU

(a.k.a. one of my million WIPs that may actually be seeing the light of day)

edwin is an Alive Boy, who has had a near-death experience being bullied while he was at school, so he can now see ghosts.

charles is a Dead Boy, who is starting a detective agency out of his new flat, which happens to be next door to edwin's.

edwin does not realize charles is a ghost at first.

they are mutually down bad and trying hard (and failing) to be normal about it.

pining and shenanigans ensue.

should be able to get this posted to Ao3 sometime later today as chapter 1/? of who knows how many because apparently payneland has made me that person with multiple multichapter WIPs, lmao ~*~*~

Edwin does not think about his new neighbor across the hall.

(Said new neighbor's name, it will turn out, is Charles.

And Edwin most certainly does not fixate on the compelling glint of Charles' single earring in the sun, or the curve of his smile so easily offered.)

The story of it is this: Edwin had held the door to their building for him one fine spring day. Simple politeness, and moreover basic human decency, both dictated this was the proper thing to do for someone carrying such an absurd quantity of unwieldy parcels.

He had not expected the stranger to look so taken aback.

(He had an honest-to-goodness crystal ball propped precariously atop a stack of antique-looking books; and those teetered on top of several cardboard boxes near buckling under the weight of whatever they held within. A cricket bat protruded from the pin-encrusted rucksack slung over his shoulder. People did insist on having such incongruous pastimes, Edwin thought; and, apparently, atrocious packing habits to go along with them.

But the titles of the volumes Edwin managed to glimpse were as intriguing as the crystal ball was misguided—and he'd found himself rather helplessly curious.

"Cheers, mate!" the person he will soon know to be Charles had said, sounding obscenely grateful as he manouevred his way inside, and had flashed Edwin a grin so radiant and wide it hurt Edwin's cheeks in sympathy just to look at it.

Still, Edwin tried to think no more on him; nor on how surprised he'd appeared to be at Edwin's tiny show of kindness—at Edwin's perceiving him at all, even. Tried being the operative word.)

He'd been aware Jenny was letting the rooms across the hall, because she asked him several weeks ago if he might know any potential tenants. Edwin had informed her he did not. His last neighbor had listened to ungraciously-loud electropop at all hours of the night and harbored a seemingly endless stream of stray cats despite Jenny's very clear policy against animals.

Edwin would far prefer the space to stay blessedly vacant and blissfully quiet for as long a stretch as possible. He deserved some sort of a reprieve, he'd thought.

it seems he is not about to get one.

Edwin is reading when he hears a muffled string of colorful swearing, the lugging of things, the scraping of furniture across hardwood floors. While he may be able to studiously avoid thinking about the beautiful boy he'd met downstairs, Edwin cannot escape the inevitable and inconvenient fact that they will now be living in proximity. The telltale commotion that can only be made by someone moving in comes right to his proverbial stoop.

Who else could it be but him?

Edwin sighs. The only thing for it, he supposes, is to go over and introduce himself.

[lgbtlunaverse]

Wangxian are great and all but i find that i find them so much more entertaining when i'm writing them from an outsider pov like. These characters have their own personal drama and bullshit going on and Suddenly There's Those Two having the romance of the century just. A little over there. And the other characters just have to be like "alright well they're insane. Moving on." It's SO funny. Like they can't just be a little normal lovey dovey side ship to me they have to be weirdly intense about it. Even in the most normal fluffiest coffee shop au they should have deeply genre-incongruent drama and be uncomfortably ready and willing to die for each other.

[cuubism]

@magnusbae a surprise for you. finally, more silly rabbit au

--

Dream always listened intently when Hob spoke about his workday. Dream had mentioned, at least once, actually coming to Hob’s lectures to “experience his expertise in person.” Yet somehow, none of this had translated in Hob’s mind into the actual, heart attack-inducing experience of seeing Dream walk into his lecture hall.

He hadn’t really believed it would happen. Not for lack of trusting Dream’s word, but because his presence seemed so incongruous. This was Hob’s normal life. His normal human life of work and chores and errands and bureaucracy.

Dream, meanwhile, was from Hob’s other life, the one made of secret meetings in taverns with an ethereal stranger, the life that knew that magic, in some way, was real. That life seemed, in some ways, realer, for all that it was brief, hidden, threaded between lifetimes of normality. Being with Dream was to dip back into a deeper well of truth he usually had to lock away; his own truth, their truth.

That was not a life that was supposed to be striding down the stairs of his lecture hall and taking a seat in the front row.

“So, um…” Hob trailed to an uneven stop halfway through his description of the first printing press. Dream just smirked at him from where he’d sat down. He’d taken off his coat and everything, as if he really was settling in to listen to the lecture.

A few students’ heads swiveled in his direction, drawn by Dream’s not-so-subtle entrance and Hob’s uncharacteristic stumble. Dream’s gaze didn't leave Hob's.

“So.” Hob forced himself back into motion. “So, in 1482—”

It was only his years of experience that got Hob through that lecture without breaking, and even then, it was a close thing. Every second, he could feel Dream’s eyes on him. Saw more than one of the students looking at Dream, too. God, what was he doing here?

But Hob did manage it, and ignored the curious glances of the students as they filed out of class, leaving only Dream behind. Dream, who stalked over to him with a predatory little smile, stopping by the podium where Hob was shutting his laptop.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?” Hob asked idly, trying to pretend Dream’s presence here, in this normal part of his life, wasn’t throwing him completely off balance.

“I merely wanted the see the professor at work,” Dream drawled.

Hob chuckled and leaned in quick to kiss him on the cheek. “Not much of a show, to be honest.”

Dream’s brow pinched as if he hadn’t quite gotten the reaction he expected. “Does it bother you for me to be here?”

“No, no, of course not.” Hob held Dream’s arms tight, made sure he was looking at him. “I always want to have you wherever I am.”

Dream’s expression eased, and he tilted his head, waiting for the other half of Hob’s explanation he knew was forthcoming.

“It’s just… a bit odd to have you in such a normal place,” Hob tried to explain. “This is like… my ordinary life. And you, you’re anything but ordinary. I got used to thinking of our meetings as… kind of separate from all this, I guess. Like, you know. A dream.”

Or perhaps it was Hob’s ordinary life that was the dream, for everything snapped back into multicolored focus whenever he saw Dream himself.

“I have not been around for much of this… normal life,” Dream conceded. “I do wish now that I could have seen more of it.”

“I know. It’s okay.” Hob rubbed up and down his arms. “Though not sure how interesting you’ll find it all, to be honest.”

“Everything about you is interesting to me,” Dream said. He seemed completely sincere about it, too.

“You’re sweet.” Hob kissed him on the cheek. It was flattering—if occasionally unbelievable—to be interesting to The King of Dreams. Though Hob supposed Dream had had vanishingly little normality in his long life, to the point where what should have been mundane had become novel.

“I only hope I am not a disturbance,” Dream said. “You have always managed your life independently. I do not wish to derail it.”

Hob sighed. “My love, even if you were a disturbance, which you are not, I wouldn’t care? I love this job, don’t get me wrong, but you’re so much more important than that.”

Dream’s brow furrowed. “You have always held life most dear.”

“Well, life, sure, but life has infinite variations, doesn’t it? This version falls apart, I’ll make a new one. So long as you’re there.”

Dream still seemed confused, and Hob couldn’t have that. He couldn’t have Dream questioning his importance in Hob’s life.

“Look, you like pictures, right? I’ll draw it for you.”

Hob picked up a blue marker and drew a series of circles on the board, all in a line, touching end to end. “See those? That’s my life. Well, each of my lives, every time I have to start a new one. See how they’re all separate and only touch once one’s had to stop? Well.” He picked up another marker, this one black, and drew a line through the middle of the series, from one end to the other, bisecting each circle. “That’s you. Now do you get the difference?”

“I would have said that your ‘lives’ were more like concentric circles, compounding on each other, not in series,” Dream said, but it sounded weak, an automatic retort.

“The timeline accuracy doesn’t matter. This—” Hob touched the black line. “This matters.”

Dream studied the line. “That is a heavy meaning to draw from me,” he finally said.

Hob stepped back into his space, laid his hands lightly along his hips. “You’re the king of dreams, don’t people make meaning of you all the time?”

“Through me,” Dream said. “But you. See it— in me.”

How could I not? Hob thought. When you’re… it. You’re so much of it. “That’s what it’s like when you love someone.”

“Love,” repeated Dream, with the same awe he seemed to feel every time Hob said it.

“So yeah,” Hob said, “you can join my normal human life if you want to. Only don’t complain to me when it can’t compare to the crazy spectacles of your dreams.”

“You could not be uninteresting to me,” repeated Dream.

Hob leaned in to kiss his cheek again. “Sweet thing,” he said, and felt Dream’s tiny smile against his lips.

Dream clutched onto his hand as Hob packed up the rest of his things, and Hob let him, even though it made the process twice as long. “So did the lecture compel you, then?”

“I know these historical facts, but I enjoy your retelling of them,” Dream said. “However, the students seemed distracted.”

“Ha! That’s your fault, love.” He started leading Dream towards the door. “You created a spectacle. They’ll be mad curious now.”

“I was attempting to be unobtrusive,” Dream said with a frown.

"Oh, unobtrusive, is it? That's what that devious little look meant, hm?"

"...To draw your attention," Dream conceded. "Not the students'. I was affecting an appearance of average humanity.”

Hob snorted. “My love, I don’t think you could be convincingly human if you committed the rest of your eternal existence to the study of it.”

He led Dream out into the hall, and closed and locked the lecture hall door behind them. Dream’s nose scrunched adorably. “Oh? What am I doing wrong, then?”

“For one, you’re too pretty.” Hob tugged him close and kissed the tip of Dream’s nose. “Pretty like a fairy tale creature that’s meant to lure you into the woods. Don’t you dare change it, by the way!” he added, and Dream smirked.

“Is that all?”

“Nope. The other thing is, it is impossible to look at you…” he stepped in close to hold Dream by his hips— “and forget that you are a king.”

Dream raised an eyebrow. “You seem to forget frequently.”

“Willfully ignoring is not the same as forgetting,” Hob told him, grinning. “Besides, I’m not one of your subjects. It’s my job to ignore it and get you to let your hair down.” He scrubbed a hand through Dream’s already-messy hair, which Dream made no move to stop. “But I picked out the regality on you all the way back when we first met, it’s all in your jaw, and the tilt of your brow, and your spine—” he touched each spot as he spoke— “and especially in those eyes. Humans might play at being kings, but you are a king. Divine right and all. You’re a king from another world, a story, or—” he smiled— “a dream.”

“You have made a proper study of me.” They were standing very close now, hovering in the doorway to the lecture hall.

“Only for seven hundred years,” Hob told him. “Still think there’s lots to learn in Dream Interpreting, though.”

Dream touched his face to Hob’s cheek, leaning in close. “Interpret, then.”

Hob turned and kissed him, hands falling to Dream’s hips as Dream’s fingers curled around his jacket. and for a long moment, he forgot they were meant to be going home, as the wet heat of Dream’s mouth kept him firmly in place.

“Um. Professor Gadling?” squeaked a nervous voice from beside them, and they  broke apart, still holding onto each other.

One of Hob’s younger students was standing there, blushing furiously, binder held tight to their chest as if it could somehow block the embarrassment of witnessing their professor snogging on campus.

Hob could just see Dream smirking out of the corner of his eye, and poked him in the side. “Yes, Lily?”

“Um.” The student’s blush only deepened. “Do. Are you still supposed to have office hours after class?”

Fuck.

Hob looked at Dream. The bastard looked triumphant now. He sighed and turned back to his student. “No, I don’t think so. But email me and I’ll find time for you, okay?”

“Thanks,” they whispered, and practically fled, scurrying back down the hall.

Hob turned to glare at Dream. “Now look what you’ve done.”

“Me?” said Dream, duly offended. “Govern your own behavior, Professor. I am an unobtrusive bystander. I am not even here.”

“Oh, unobtrusive my arse, you—”

But Dream was gone, only a swirl of sand and a tiny smirk left in his wake.

“Bastard,” Hob swore to the empty hallway. Then went to go find him, inevitably, at home.

[katyawriteswhump]

Livin’ the dream (steddielovemonth day 3)

After High School, Eddie and Steve’s lives don’t exactly go as planned… For @steddielovemonth day 3 prompt: Love is being terrified but not letting that stop you from taking a leap (@unclewaynemunson) Thank you <3

Rating: M. CW: Unhealthy/abusive relationship (NOT steddie!) Tags: No Upside Down AU, angst. WC: 2,225

…

“I’d never have dreamed,” said Eddie one morning, during his daily stop at Dave’s Diner, “that Steve Harrington pouring my coffee would become the highlight of my day.”

Steve smirked. “Wasn’t exactly how I saw my future either, Munson.”

While Steve poured, Eddie left his hand on his coffee cup. He always did—even if the cup got too hot. Even if it scalded him. He’d not miss a chance to have Steve that close. Nor to enjoy staring at those lickable arms, today exposed to the shoulders by a snug-fitting vest top.

“I guess you really dig lousy weak coffee, man,” said Steve.

“Sets me up for a busy day fulfilling my childhood ambition of hauling bricks, darlin’.” He’d gotten away with ‘darlin’’ last week. Steve didn’t chew his head off today, either, so… “Living the dream, huh?”

Steve sighed hard, started wiping the counter near Eddie, over and over, as he always did. “How’s your pay?” asked Steve quietly.

“It’s a day rate. Not stellar, not the pits. Why? You looking for other work?” Panic rocked through Eddie. “You’re not leaving this place?” Though it would be awesome if we worked together. Eddie was already fantasising about those hot summer days on the construction site, when Steve might strip his shirt off.

“Nah, not really,” said Steve, “I’m kinda tied to this job.” He ran his free hand distractedly across his eyes. Tied to this job—what the heck did that mean? Steve often seemed world-weary and withdrawn. Incongruously so, given the confident guy he used to be. But that was adult life, so it seemed. It sucked.

All the same, Eddie experienced an uneasy urge to probe deeper. Steve got in first: “Hey, how’s the band?”

Eddie beamed. Yeah, there was one other thing, other than coffee with Steve, that he lived for: “We got a gig Saturday night.”

“Let me guess—the super bowl came begging?”

“Haha, just you wait, big guy. It’s at that new bar in town. You wanna come?”

Steve paused his scrubbing. Something sparked in the depths of those big, beguiling eyes that made Eddie’s throat tighten, and his pulse beat faster. “I’m working,” said Steve. I’ll try and get away aft—”

“Hey, kid! You gone blind or you really this lazy?” That was Steve’s boss, Dave, who’d gotten the biggest arms Eddie had ever seen. “There’s more than one punter in this place. If you can count that high?”

“Jesus, he can be such an a-hole,” mumbled Steve. He shot off, even as Eddie bleated: 

“See you tomorrow?”

…

Only seven people turn up for Corroded Coffin’s gig. It was a total dud, and Eddie didn’t give a shit. 

Among the seven, was Steve. 

The crappy too-bright venue lighting revealed Steve undressing Eddie with his eyes, as surely as Eddie undressed Steve. Eddie was so blown away, he almost messed up the finger work on his most bodacious solo.

After the final number, Eddie placed down his guitar and made a beeline for Steve: “Hey, you made it.”

“Figured I might as well. Jon Bon Jovi wasn’t returning my calls.” Steve snickered, and Eddie literally drooled. Metal thrummed through his every vein, and his blood rushed madly—most of it heading south. Steve Harrington CAME TO MY GIG AND STAYED FOR THE NON-EXISTENT AFTER-PARTY. Steve’s vest top was sadly missed, but his tight t-shirt still afforded Eddie a glimpse of that tasty chest hair, and the skin-tight jeans were… Gnnng! And as for the touch of eyeliner? 

Slayed Eddie dead.

“You wanna come backstage?” Eddie’s voice came out embarrassingly high-pitched.

“I’d like a drink. Preferably something stronger than coffee, and that I don’t have to pour.”

After his sixth shot, Eddie went in for the kill: “You are literally the hottest fucking thing I have ever goddamn seen.”

“Not exactly slick.” Steve leaned close, and Eddie inhaled his fast, bourbon-spiced breaths. “But I guess it’s a step up on ‘do you come here often.’” 

Eddie silenced him with a blockbuster kiss, which Steve returned instantly. Within moments, Eddie was up off his barstool, hands roving wildly over Steve’s delicious torso. Okay, also wandering around to pry under his tight t-shirt, and to grope that mega-hot denim-clad ass. Steve pawed Eddie with equal enthusiasm, setting his barstool rocking till it toppled back. 

He jumped off, straight into Eddie’s arms. Wow! There was nothing better than kissing somebody roughly your own height. Back at school, he’d figured Steve was a lot taller than him—like most jocks, he’d had that early spurt of growth, Eddie guessed. Then Eddie had more of less caught up, and now..? Yeah, everything had changed, all his preconceptions thrown to the winds. Best of all, Steve had turned out to be a good dude.

Also, the best kisser ever.

They made out like their lives depended on it, tongues sliding together, slickly and keenly. Meanwhile, despite the hotness, all those sweet moments over coffee crammed together in Eddie’s head.

You are the highlight of my life… The light of my goddamn life! How come this took so long?

Then, as abruptly as it started, Steve broke the kiss. He staggered back into his stool, setting it rocking again. “Shit!”

“Oooookay.” Eddie felt like he’d been punched. “Used to that in gig write-ups, but—”

“Oh God, no… It’s not you. It’s so not about you. This was a terrible idea.” He knocked Eddie’s fingers from where they lingered on his hip, and sidestepped, placing the barstool between them.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s about me, Munson, so you can quit the goddamn kicked-puppy-dog eyes.” Erm, back at ya, Harrington. “I’m with another guy, okay?” He laughed, and somehow, it was one of the most miserable sounds Eddie had ever heard. “I didn’t think we’d… Look, I really shouldn’t have come.” 

With that, he bolted.

…

Eddie got to the diner super-early on Monday morning. He’d barely thought of anything other than Steve, who was no longer simply his secret crush. Or even the light of his life. 

Without exactly knowing why, Eddie was pretty much dying with worry for him.

Steve didn’t pour Eddie’s coffee. He dumped the pot on the counter, emoted unwelcomingly with hard-set features, and hurried off to take a table order. Which he then headed out back to prepare.

Eddie waited. He was gonna be late for work, and his boss would give him an earful, and he really couldn’t give a crap.

The diner emptied out, and eventually, Steve emerged from the back, mouthing:

“What the Hell?”

“I needed to see you, Steve.” Steve glared at him, and Eddie did a double take. Steve looked more exhausted than ever, shadows stark as bruises around his eyes. “Are you okay?”

“Saturday was a big mistake. Huge. Had an argument with my boyfriend about it, that’s all. Scram, will you?”

Steve’s boss came out from the back. Steve emoted wildly again, shooed Eddie, and the truth dawned. And was slammed home when Dave slapped Steve’s butt—scowling at Eddie, as he did so—then grabbed Steve’s shoulders, spiralled him about, and shoved him off in the direction of another table awaiting service.

“Either you place another order, or get lost,” said Dave to Eddie.

Eddie ordered pancakes and waited.

“Dave? Seriously?” hissed Eddie, when he finally got Steve’s attention again. He begrudgingly admitted Dave was okay looking. All the same: “He’s a dick! And he’s gotta be old enough to be your dad.”

Steve edged close, talking so fast and hushed Eddie strained to follow. “My parents threw me out. I was on the streets! Dave was… good to me, took me in, and now… I’m kinda stuck. He takes my rent out of my wages, and there’s never anything left, and—”

“You need to get away from him, man.” Eddie felt sick. Somehow, he burbled it out: “Leave the son-of-a-bitch. Right now. You can crash with me.”

“You live in your uncle’s trailer! He’d be beyond thrilled, I’m sure, and Dave would…” Steve’s mouth hung open a moment. He’d what? Come after you? “Look, I’m okay. Dave’s all right, really. Gets grouchy sometimes, that’s all.”

Eddie spouts the next question before he can stop himself. “Do you love him?”

Steve tossed his arms up in despair: “What kinda dumbass question is that?” Yeah, Eddie wants to facepalm. In retrospect, it was truly dumb! “Look, he doesn’t know who I saw on Saturday, but he’s already bitching about you hanging around too much. Just fucking go already!”

Eddie didn’t drive on to the construction site. Instead, as his brain screamed, You’re batshit crazy, he pawned all his meagre possessions, even his beloved Warlock. His plan only faltered when Wayne caught wind of him going to a loan shark. His uncle literally dragged him from their office and insisted on lending Eddie all his scant savings.

Eddie refused. Wayne refused harder. They headed to the second-hand dealership and purchased the cheapest RV in the yard.

Next morning, Eddie trundled his rusty 1960s Volkswagen into the forecourt of Dave’s Diner. He gritted his teeth, squared his shoulders, and moseyed through the door like a gunslinger and about to unleash hell. One that was also trembling like jello, packing zero heat, and practically pissing himself.

“Got my own place now,” he said to Steve.

Steve looked mad, refused him even a coffee cup, though Dave didn’t seem to be around. Yet. “This isn’t happening, Eddie.”

“My place has got wheels, darlin’.” Eddie motioned to the RV outside, dropped his voice to an undertone. “It’s a big country. We can go anywhere. I’ll park up half-a-mile along the road. Wait all day. All night, if you need.”

Steve eked tight words from between gritted teeth: “Look, I don’t wanna sound ungrateful. It’s still a ‘no,’ man. You must have gone cuckoo. I mean, what about your band?”

Yeah, that brought a pang to Eddie’s chest: “Honestly? The rest of the guys are losing interest fast. I can fly solo. As long as you’ll fly with me?”

Dave strode out from the back. The flash of fear in Steve’s eyes cut Eddie to the quick, because it also hollered, You’re making things worse!

Oh God, what’ve I done?

“You’re barred,” yelled Dave at Eddie. “I see your long-haired loony mug one more time, you can kiss my fist.”

“Subtle you ain’t, asshat.”  Eddie retreated, literally a mangy, kicked dog. He drove the RV that half-a-mile along the road and waited. And waited. By midnight, he felt like his heart had been wrung dry, and eventually, he fell asleep.

A loud thudding roused him. He sat up, blinked at his unfamiliar surroundings and then… Shiiiit! He dashed to the door.

Steve perched on the step, his wide eyes glowing with something… unfamiliar. Some sparkle that might just be hope. He’d gotten a very small bundle slung over his shoulder.

“I hope you were serious?” asked Steve.

“Deadly serious, darlin’.”

Steve took Eddie’s face in his hands, and kissed him, briefly, almost chastely. Totally mind blowing. “So good to do that without feeling guilty,” he murmured, smoothing kiss-wetted lips together.

Eddie grinned; he wasn’t even quite sure if this was real: “Let’s get the Hell out of Dodge,” he said.

They hit the road, and they never looked back.

…

Three months later

“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” cooed Eddie, as the Hawkins pawn shop owner handed his Warlock back across the counter. “I missed you soooo much.”

“Ugh, seriously?” bitched Steve, as soon as they exited the store. He blocked Eddie’s path along the sidewalk, planted his hands on his hips: “Should I be jealous?”

“Nah. We’re a proper family now.” With his guitar safely stowed in its case, he slung an arm around Steve, and they walked on toward where they’d parked the RV. “Tho’ when we get to Wayne’s, I might have a moment with my long-lost beloved. While you two watch the game.”

“No funny business, Sweetcheeks, or I’m absconding with a second-hand Yamaha keyboard.”

Eddie beamed broadly. It felt so weird, being back in Hawkins, and with hope, at least, for a better future. Not even having to worry about… “You know, I kinda want to thank Chief Hopper in person for arresting your douchebag ex.”

“Yeah, well, he put a guy in the hospital.” Steve shuddered. “They’ve charged him with attempted homicide.”

God, I’m so relieved it wasn’t you, thinks Eddie.

Steve rattled out a joyless laugh that Eddie hadn’t heard for some time, and said, “Jesus, I’m so happy it wasn’t you.”

Suddenly, Eddie’s eyes brimmed with tears. It’s too much. He can’t bear to think of what might have been. “Love you so much,” he blurted, fumbling for the keys for the RV. He couldn’t get up the steps and inside with Steve fast enough

“Love you too,” whispered Steve, once the door was closed, and sounding slightly choked, also. Which isn’t like him.

They clasped each other tighter than ever, and did their darndest to kiss the bad memories away.

[johnwickb1tsch]

bittersweet ~ a yandere!John Wick x fem!reader sunshine/grump coffee shop AU... Part 8 all chapters

-Your birthday falls on a beautiful spring day, and of course, you have to work. When a new customer growls into the parking lot on a shiny black motorcycle everyone crowds behind the counter to see who it could be.

It takes so little to entertain all of you, sometimes.

The boys titter excitedly about the sweet bike and torque and ccs, whatever that means.   

When the rider takes off his helmet there’s a fall of fabulous dark hair, and something inside you utterly purrs at the sight.

It’s Mr. Wick.

Maybe you should have known. His padded motorcycle jacket makes his shoulders seem impossibly broad, and as he crosses the parking lot on long legs you hear Cassie sigh behind you.

Same, girl, same.

Cassie had made you a little birthday crown to wear out of a to go cup, a la Princess Peach. You forget about the silly adornment clipped to your head, until Mr. Wick approaches the counter to make his order.

“One coffee…your Highness?” He lifts one of those dark brows with a small smirk, and fuck if it doesn't make you blush. 

“It's my birthday,” you sheepishly tell him. His expression actually softens.

“Happy Birthday, then.” 

“Thanks.” 

“Not fair you have to work today.”

You shrug. “No rest for the wicked.”

This makes him smile a little wider, and you feel that’s a good present for today.

“Hopefully you have something fun planned for later?” 

Is he fishing, or just making conversation? You can never tell with this man. 

“Not really,” you admit with a shrug.

Your parents are divorced and remarried, living far away from you in their new lives, with their new families. You know they’ll call you later, when they remember you. You’ll have an awkward little conversation that will only serve to grind up your heart into smaller pieces, rather than lift your spirits like its meant to.

Your friends are busy too. One, with her new baby who never has time for you anymore, and you totally understand (and endorse) her priorities, even if it still hurts. The other’s work schedule is exactly the opposite of yours, and you never manage to hang out anymore.

Maybe you’ll go to the thrift store after you get off work, or treat yourself to an ice cream. Nothing too extravagant. You’re saving every penny you can for your upcoming trip.

“Well, maybe something will come up.”

It’s a nice thought.

You make him his usual coffee order, and don’t think much about it the rest of the day. This warm spring day has everyone out and about, stir crazy after the thaw, and you were running full speed from open to the end of your shift. For some incongruous reason, people were extra rude too, and as the clock strikes 2 you are at the end of your rope, your smile more closely resembling a baring of teeth.

Your whole body hurts, and you think you are too exhausted to do anything fun for yourself, until you go to your car in the lot behind the brick building to find Mr. Wick—and his motorcycle—parked next to your old Rav4. He looks utterly scrumptious, if you’re being honest, those legs going on forever as he leans against the seat of his bike. His hair is waving down around his face as he browses something on his phone to pass the time.

Good on you, for only pausing for a moment to ogle him.  

“Hi.”

“Hey.”

You look between him and the bike with your lip between your teeth, wondering what he’s doing, your treacherous heart fluttering in your chest.

“I thought…it might be fun to go for a ride? If you want.”

You cannot suppress a wide smile, touched to the marrow that he thought of you on your special day. “That does sound like fun,” you admit, and not just because the thought of sitting behind him on a bike makes you a little weak in the knees. The sunshine that day truly feels like a gift from the gods after such a harsh winter. “But…”

He tilts his head inquisitively.

“Don’t you have better things to do?”

He shakes his head, a lock of his dark hair falling over his eyes, and your fingers physically ache to brush it away. “There’s nothing I’d rather do,” he assures you, and damn if that isn’t enough to convince you.

“Full disclosure: I’ve never actually been on a bike before?”

His smile is nothing less than gentle, and he could have pushed you over with a feather.

“All you have to do is hold on to me,” he assures you, and you think you lose your mind a little at that.

There is slightly more to it, he instructs you as you put on a helmet and he helps you clamber on behind him. He tells you to lean slightly with him into the turns, but not too much.  The bike grumbles like a fire-breathing beast beneath you as he starts it up.

The feeling of his slim hips and taut backside between your thighs crosses some wires in your brain.

He takes you to the winding backroads of the countryside and up the mountain. You feel like you’re flying, snaking through the curves on this powerful machine, with a man you find you trust implicitly at the controls.

You laugh out loud more than once.   

At a straightaway he asks through the helmet mic, “Want to see what she can do?”

“Sure,” you answer, even though you can’t imagine what more this beautiful bike could offer.

“Lean into me, and hold on.” You obey, looping arms around his trim waist, plastered to his backside as he hunkers down for aerodynamics. You were already going fast, but when he shifts a gear you take off like a shot.

A sane person would have screamed, but all you can do is laugh.

This is the purest joy you’ve felt in longer than you can remember.

John pulls over at a scenic overlook, parking the bike so you can have a little break. You sit together on a picnic table, looking over the valley below. A stream snakes through it like a silver ribbon, shimmering in the sunlight. You sigh and lean back on your arms, lifting your face to the sun.

This has turned out to be a perfect day. John smiles a little as he looks over at you, but says nothing, just lets you soak it in.

“Thank you for this,” you finally say. “I was having such a shitty day.”

“You’re welcome.”

You sit up and rub at your neck. You have an unrelenting ache in the muscle over your left shoulder blade. It never really goes away, but its definitely worse after a long day on your feet bending over coffee.

John looks worried, bless him. “Did I hurt you?”

“Not at all. I just…have this thing. I think there’s a demon living in my shoulder.”  

After a pensive moment he lifts his hands in offering, moving very slowly as though he might spook you. His hands are…beautiful. Large, long fingered, calloused too. You wonder what he does, when he’s not sitting in the coffee shop or binding books. The thought of them on your body gives you a forbidden little thrill.

You do not even consider the missing digit, until he looks at his left hand and frowns, closing it to hide it at his side. “Sorry. I still forget…”

But you take his hand in yours, inspecting it closely for the first time. He allows it, though there is something vulnerable in his eyes as you do. The healed skin almost looks jagged, like it wasn’t severed with a clean cut or a surgical blade. You feel the urge to press your lips to it, as though you could kiss it better, but you just rub your thumb over the fine dark hairs there.

“What happened?”

“Someone…” He cuts himself off with a frustrated sound. “I had an accident.”

You sense there’s much more to the story, but you don’t press him yet.

“Does it still hurt?”

“Sometimes, I get the phantom aches. Mostly it’s fine though.”

You nod and angle your back to him, placing his hand on your shoulder as you shoot him a pointed look, granting him permission to touch you. His sigh is almost imperceptible, but you sit up a little straighter as he squeezes your shoulder lightly. You get the slightest taste of the strength in those hands, yet you know he could rip you to pieces if he chose to.

He slays you in a different way, knowing exactly how to use them on your sore muscles, and you can’t help but moan as he squeezes the kinks out of your shoulders. For a second he freezes at the sound, before continuing to work his magic.

“God…that feels so good.” You’ve been in pain for so long that it’s damn near better than sex.

Maybe it’s been too long for that too, though.

“You are a mess.” You know him well enough now to know he’s frowning as he says this. He kills a knot with the well-placed blade of his thumb. You feel it release and you jump a little. Though it doesn’t really hurt you, you’re not sure why there is suddenly moisture in your eyes.

It’s been a long time since anyone’s taken care of you like this, you suppose.

“Job hazard,” you sigh.

“Do you ever do yoga?”

You laugh a little at that for some reason. “I used to practice, when I was younger.” It kind of fell by the wayside. You’re always so tired when you get home.  

“Well, stretching is good for you, as you age. Take it from an old man. It helps.”

“You’re not old,” you immediately protest.

“Nice to know I still have some curb appeal.” His words are laden with sarcasm, and yet you can tell he is pleased.

He finishes the massage with a lighter touch, to stimulate blood flow, that gives you delicious chills all over. Your shoulders are your kryptonite, and you are putty in his hands. You look back at him from beneath your lashes, curious what exactly it is the two of you are doing here. Does he like you, or is he just being impossibly nice?

He doesn’t avoid your gaze, but you find you can’t read him, not one bit.

“Want to get something to eat?” he asks.

It is almost dinner time. “Okay.”

You’re a little sad as you ride back down the mountain towards town. But he pulls up to the local diner, and you have sinfully greasy cheeseburgers and shakes. Despite your protests he pays, because: “No one should have to pay for their birthday dinner.”

You know he’s fucking loaded, so you let him have his way.

“This is the best birthday I’ve had in a long time,” you admit, munching on a fry. “Thank you, Mr. Wick.”

You know he’s told you to call him John before, but fuck if you haven’t noticed how his eyes darken just a little when you call him Mr. Wick, or even just Sir at the coffeeshop. You feel like you stumbled onto something you don’t entirely understand, but it fills you with a forbidden warmth all the same.

He gives you a hooded look from across the table, and you fancy he knows that you know what you’re doing.

“My pleasure, y/n.”

He doesn’t insist that you call him John again.

[incongruence-osaf]

WELCOME to The Incongruence of Stars and Flowers

SUMMARY:

"This alternate universe combines the vibrant world and history of Sonic the Hedgehog with our very own, resulting in a version of Planet Mobius that’s both familiar and distant. Yet, this altered reality is neither idealized nor greater than the sum of its parts.

Anthropomorphic beings, humans, and animals of Mobius are struggling to rebuild their cityscapes, ecosystems, communities, and personal lives in the wake of the cumulative devastation of the Perfect Chaos Flood and the Black Arms Invasion. Shadow the Hedgehog takes a leave of absence from G.U.N. to temporarily settle down in Station Square, laying low after the world-shattering encounter with his alien DNA donor Black Doom. While the cityfolk around him undergo the growing pains of instability, nonconformity, sociological upheaval, and corruption, so too does the alien hybrid. With the support of unyielding friendship in aloof activist Sonic the Hedgehog and cultured confidante Rouge the Bat, Shadow coasts in this new life chapter while feeling profound pulls to unravel memories surrounding his loving creator, Professor Gerald Robotnik and solve mysteries within his environment, mind, and body.

Past and present perspectives interweave to show slices of unordinary lives, drawing from early-to-mid 2000s culture shifts/natural disasters/political tensions, U.S. and European history, and various fields of science as inspiration for this multi-chapter science-fiction drama mystery."

PROMINENT CHARACTERS:

Shadow the Hedgehog, Sonic the Hedgehog, Rouge the Bat, Professor Gerald Robotnik, Maria Robotnik, Black Doom, Commander Abraham Tower, Helen (from Sonic X), and new original character(s)

RATED PG to PG-13 (might change as story progresses) for swearing, discussion of uncomfortable topics, visceral/intense imagery, mild mentions of blood/violence

POSSIBLE TRIGGER WARNINGS (might change as story progresses): body dysmorphia and dysphoria, racism/speciesism, internalized xenophobia, mentions and possible depictions of police violence, generational trauma, trauma & imagery from medical settings, processing grief, suicidal thoughts, depictions and/or descriptions mentioning blood

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

[darlingpwease]

𝐥𝐲𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐝𝐚𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠

𔓘 unhealthy behaviour (obsessiveness, possessiveness, clinginess, kidnapping, dependence), dommale elements, pet names ("gege"), dark au, mention of nesting & heat, mention of sex (heavy petting), mention of killing; reader x xie lian, omega!xie lian

ᥫ᭡ You didn't know how long you had been living in this small, cute house with Gege — and where you lived before you met your Gege, who loved white clothes, cooked poorly, smiled like the midday sun, never cried and was not at all the omega who could have anyone but you. Not only because he said that he didn't even have plans to have anyone other than you in his life, but because you saw that Gege wasn't looking for anyone, didn't hold his eyes on anyone; even if he was gentle to children and if he ever wanted to have a puppy, it was clearly that he wasn't going to get an alpha for this — you understood perfectly well why.

Although you haven't self-presented yet and weren't going to guess what your role in gender society would be, you understood that he would only be with you. That you will definitely grow up, get married and will have a lot of happy and married days.

You can't not. He's your Gege, after all.

ᥫ᭡ Your Gege smelled richly tender and a little like blood, a completely incongruous fragrance, — but you've never smelled anyone expect him for more than five minutes, so you didn't know how normal it was. Something in your head is throbbing with the obsessive thought that he smells wrong, he should smell wrong, he smelled completely different before, but you have nothing to oppose — you don't remember that his smell was different, but you know it.

According to Gege, you smelled like milk and his favorite food "even when he was like you," but you always brushed him off; even with your little socialization, you know that people can't smell like a 'specific food', and he only teases you without malice, as he loves to do, affectionately saying that you look 'like a little steamed bun' or peeking at what you're cooking, purring and squinting when you tell him to leave the kitchen.

You know that he can — is able — to cook well (after all, you somehow survived before you were old enough to cook yourself), but for some reason his food looks terrible all the time, and you can't name the reason, but can feel it in your heart. At least he can do physical work like fixing a house or a fence — and you want to say that you didn't decide to live with him just to be a servant, but you can't say this with certainty. You don't remember why you decided to live with Gege — it seems you've always lived with him.

Maybe you were with Gege from the very beginning?

ᥫ᭡ Your Gege is tall, flexible as a vine and his hair is so long that you could get tangled in it. His skin is soft and pleasant, even if his palms are slightly rough, and his pretty, scarlet lips, like cherry blossoms or drops of blood (maybe that's why he smells like blood?), look like a brushstroke that was left because of how adorable he looked on a beautiful, handsome face. Your Gege looked the way anyone would want to look, no matter if it's omega, beta or alpha. Your Gege has slender long legs, moderately broad shoulders, black peach eyes and a thin waist, and even if he gently teases that you will grow up to be even more rare magnificent, you know that the charm of your Gege makes even flowers be ashamed of their imperfections. If Gege wanted to, he could ascend and become the god of flowers — you are not sure if this is how it works, but if heaven did not give such beauty to someone great, then they are definitely blind. Your Gege laughs gently and says that 'Heaven has already given him the best gift', and if it were necessary, he would give everything, but not this "jewel", — and you understand who he means, but pretend that you don't. In the end, you know that you have no one but him, just as he has no one but you.

But he doesn't need to say it — even if he looks like a bunny, you know he's a cunning predator, like a weasel or a ferret. However, even in spite of his nature, you know that he cares about you, and probably cared even before you came, when you remember how you first saw your house — a memory from which your memory begins.

Everything around is like a perfectly modeled paradise for you — living in a comfortable, small house, with a beloved, gentle Gege, with trips to the city from time to time and the opportunity to do anything, since people don't go that far, while if you want to see more, then your Gege is always ready to get up and to follow you. It's like a flower garden in which you were the most luxurious and beloved, the only flower, while your Gege was a gardener who adored you to such an extent that he would do anything to make you bloom.

You want to tell Gege that he is the most charming for you, but he already knows it. After all, you haven't seen anyone for so long and often to tell if there is someone better. But something tells you that this is absolutely impossible — as if he was an absolute that others dare only look up to. If he called himself beauty number two, no one would be able to call themselves beauty number one. Gege says — with complete confidence, almost doom, with a sparkle in his matte black eyes, — that if he calls himself "handsome", then his face will burn with shame of brazen falsehood at the sight of you.

That is why, — he whispers, kissing the top of your head, as if cradling when you hide face in his chest, — the most beautiful things should be hidden.

You don't quite understand "why", but react to gentle purring, letting yourself be hidden in his clothes, smelling of him. even if the sleeping place is hard, Hege is soft and a little warm, and when you are in his hands, you feel as if the whole world is holding you, although he only gently purrs that you are his "whole world".

Just in case, you whisper that he is also your jewel and prettiest flower.

ᥫ᭡ Gege smells sticky, sweet, tender; his hair is wet and tangled, and even his scarlet lips look even brighter and more beautiful, as if soaked in blood, with a slight mist of blush on his cheeks, while his peach black eyes are like an abyss into which no one can help falling, seeing him so tender, so sensual, so... tempting. You can't — at least not now — be able to respond to courtship, not when the smell of milk is still subtly enveloping your body, but Gege doesn't mind at all, hoarsely whispering in the semi-darkness of the small, sweet house that everything is fine as long as you are around, don't go anywhere without him.

You will never you dare, of course, but when you bring him jugs of water, feeling the heat of his flexible soft body, you feel at home. His nest is elegant, not very full of soft things, but it "always has the most necessary" — you.

Even when his skin is so hot, like an oven, you feel so calm and good in his arms, burying your nose, as if hiding from the whole world. Gege's hands are gentle, with palms slightly roughened from frequent work, and you only purr that you have the best Gege in the world, your omega is the best, while he buries his nose in your hair, cooing inaudibly, pressing you to his flexible, wet body, but not at all to the "thirsty" or "in need of an alpha", as you have sometimes heard about omega leaks somewhere on the street — Gege is ruddy, bright-smelling, beautiful, but so homely and... ordinary, only becoming even more clingy and unwilling to leave the nest, and this is the only time when you do not go and leave offerings in front of a small temple for the "dear deity who guards this place."

You hope that the deity will not be too offended, looking at how your usually gentle and calm Gege whines that "you are too cruel" when you have to come out of his nest and bring water and light snacks, because you are an ordinary person and because everything inside the nest smells so much of him that you are afraid not to will he die of dehydration. You don't know how to handle omegas, but you are sure that "as long as Gege is good, everything is right". Gege only purrs that he only needs you to make him feel good when his long, elegant, eternally cold fingers cling to your clothes, looking at you with the gaze of a sad bunny, but your decision is unchanged.

You still bring some gifts to the deity, fearing that your Gege has messed up something again and you should at least remind from time to time that you are grateful to this deity and appreciate their protection.

And when you leave, you definitely feel better.

ᥫ᭡ The smell of Gege is thicker, richer, brighter, bloodily bright when blood flows from his elegant, white, long fingers — fortunately, not his, but even if it were his, you would take care of the wound and would stay on his chest before he wakes up.

You would a little like it to be his blood, because sometimes your Gege is so perfect that you want a little more human qualities from him,

especially when he gives you a gentle, adoring smile again, and his lips are even brighter than even the blood of the body lying on the rain-smelling, dark grass someone. This happens sometimes — even though you live in the forest, it only means that there are even more predators here. Gege gently purrs that you both should not go to the city for perhaps another month — who knows where else these creatures are hiding? it's not safe — and it's not that you're disappointed, having already bought everything you need... but you know that your Gege is doing it for you.

Every year there are more and more of them, like weeds in the garden, but Gege only gently tells you not to think about it, although you more than clearly see that the older you get and more often appears in cities and villages, the more of them. Gege sometimes allows you to go for things yourself to the nearest village, where not only passing merchants often stop, since the village is conveniently located with a road leading to the center, but also other rabble, and you can more than connect the point "they see me" and the point "they began to appear more often in our part of the forest." However, Gege, although omega, is not like ordinary omega at all — he always hides the bodies himself, although never comes back full or with meat, so you prefer to think that he feeds other beasts or does something else. You don't really want to know.

In the village, you heard about a case where omega endured violence from his spouse for a long time and eventually scratched out their eyes and chewed their throats, and whatever Gege did with the body, you just hope that it won't affect you. Of course, you do not commit violence against him, but your future spouse is not an "ordinary" omega, who can only endure until he explodes. Of course, you have never seen him explode, but you are sure that this will not be normal, and he will certainly commit one or two particularly serious crimes, which are whispered about from time to time in cities — you do not quite understand what it is, but you are sure that it will not be very good. Just in case, you regularly bring him flowers and cook food much better — Gege seems to think it's a little silly, but very cute, and hides head in your neck, purring that whoever you turn out to be, he will become your omega husband.

You are not self-presented in any way, although you no longer smell of milk and have definitely grown up, even matured rather, and Gege now puts his head on your chest, unlike how he hid you on his chest, like a parent hides his cub from danger. However, he continues to bring crowns of flowers and gently pulls your name, depending on how you take care of the household, still much better than him. Of course, he also contributes to your small household with a vegetable garden and a plan to build at least a chicken coop, but still prefers to spread out on the wooden hem, looking on how you work, and you can't blame him, seeing his happy face, like he's a pet that's been petted and is now resting.

(purrs plaintively when your hands slide over his chest, but you only coo him to relax when another flower appears on delicate neck, too contrasting with the color of his skin, just like the one that appears a little lower, then to the right, a small inflorescence on stomach, small bouquets on sides, scarlet spots on wet slippery trembling thighs, an ecstatic squeak when your lips descend lower, and his legs try to hide, but you only squeeze his knee tightly — and let him squirm while his legs wrap around your head, draining him even before the start to ease his desperate need and hunger.)

Perhaps you spoil omega too much, who has not even become your husband yet, but for some reason you always want to pamper him, as long as you remember yourself.

Perhaps you are just a good spouse from birth, huh?

cw blood, amnesia, poly relationship

ᥫ᭡ Red flowers always grow around little house. You often bring them to the deity, thanking for protection; the deity never responds, but you are still calmer and happier, as if the very knowledge that someone is guarding you inspires you — just like the sight of red flowers, almost as scarlet as the lips of Xie Lian, your mate, who picks up garbage, likes to dig in the garden and builds a chicken coop where you can then put the chicks, and also repairs the fence and the house, purring that he should prepare if you turn out to be a non-beta. You don't think that you will turn out to be a non-beta, but don't say anything, gently rubbing Xie Lian's back and not resisting when he offers to massage your, enveloping you with a gentle, slightly mettalic scent that has already become your favorite and so native that you can't imagine that there was a more attractive fragrance in the world.

The stranger in red smells of sweet datura — a fragrance that is so rich and bright that it could be used for demonic dual cultivation, but it envelops you so naturally, as if it is focused only on you. He has shiny black eyes, as if absorbing any sunlight that gets into them, and a carelessly woven black braid with a thin scarlet ribbon, the look of which is too familiar, but you don't understand why — and you haven't been so stupid and naive for a long time to say things like "I probably saw it somewhere on the market", because the way it is cut and decorated is too reminiscent of your way. His skin is white, too white for a person in any state of health except death, but his lips are peach-colored, curved in a mischievous smile with a hint of tenderness.

You don't see the point in asking if you know each other when the cheekily sweet fragrance becomes brighter at his playful approach, although you see how his body trembles slightly.

San Lang. My name, — if Xie Lian's smile is like the sun, then he rather resembles the devil, with this gentle youthful aura and the sparkles of the imp in his eyes, — but I'm much more interested in yours.

And before you have time to answer, he continues, trembling slightly, with pent-up delight, looking at you as a deity, although a devilish smile does not leave his thin, gently peach lips:

Let me guess, though.

Xie Lian, your sweet, gentle omega, has always told you that no one but him knows about you, — jewelry should be kept from others, — but in San Lang's eyes, a veil of pure adoration shimmers like black pearls in the light, especially when he tilts his head, and the familiar-looking earring gently follows this movement, caressing unnaturally white skin, like a drop of blood — the same as Xie Lian's bright scarlet lips.

I'm sorry; did I scare you? I just live in the city, — the son of a merchant family, — so I often saw you. Don't you remember me? You often come to our store.

Do you?

We could take a walk before my family starts looking for me, right? After all, I don't bite, so you have nothing to be afraid of, right?

Despite all the playfulness, you hear nervousness, and you can't find the strength to refuse, knowing that Xie Lian knows about your possible long absence and is probably busy outside the house right now. Maybe you just inhaled too much of its smell, leaving a taste in your mouth, and maybe it just seems to you when you feel the familiar bloody notes of fragrance through the sweet dope. Maybe it just seems to you that omega is too passionate about you and trusting even for someone who left the city for the first time and ended up in the forest, and is too playful, even if unmarried and not marked by anyone. You're not sure how normal it is when an omega tries so desperately to snuggle up and purrs something, more just keeping up a conversation than trying to develop it, enjoying your company the way a fish inhales oxygen in water after a long stay on land.

You're not stupid, though. Perhaps you are not very experienced, but you are not stupid, especially when he looks at you as a deity, and his gaze is too reminiscent of Xie Lian's gaze when he thinks that you do not see, not taking his unblinking eyes off you, as if afraid that if he does not see you and you do not give voice then you will disappear, go away like the morning mist.

And the fact that Xie Lian does not grow up; and the fact that you do not remember anything before coming to your "home"; and how you and he bring offerings to an unknown deity; and how white San Lang's skin is, but his gaze burns harder than a burnt hand that you have never burned in your memories.

The small child who fell from the wall; royal colors, like a kaleidoscope, with a sunny smile and a sword made of peach wood; clothes so bright that it's almost uncomfortable, but as long as he's around, everything is fine. Two faces, like a blurred image in a puddle. You don't remember anything before you were brought in and told that he's your family now, and you're not sure you want to know. Maybe there are things you don't need to know.

A small child. Red eye. Blood. A lot of blood.

The little lump on your chest, not understanding what's wrong with you, but trying to do everything.

When blood flows from your body, it doesn't hurt that much.

San Lang's lips taste like ripe cherries.

I don't think Xie Lian will mind.

You think that the omega story may have been more true and probable than you thought.

Perhaps you should find more flowers.

Oh, are you picking flowers for him again? Can I help?

For some reason, now you understand where the bodies went, who defended territory and why scarlet flowers bloomed around everything.

I don't know what you're talking about, my darling.

[tripamania]

mr sandman… man me a sand… build a better life, i know that you can

continuation of my au where bedman comes back and starts going by sandman, in an effort to distance himself from his past and become a better person

at least he goes by ‘sandman’ on the Clock, that is. more info under the cut

so you know how asukas doing his little radio show on the moon where he relays facts and statistics and shit

well, how does he get that information, i wonder? it’s fine, says asuka. he has a guy

Romeo Is That Guy. he’s a little (paid) intern

he’s perfect for the job because he still has His Big Ol Brain. he can memorize Whatever. so instead of memorizing the names of people he’s killed, he instead travels the world. gathers info where things are happening. gathers info where things are not happening. he’s a field researcher, observer, and a reporter, wrapped into one

he won’t interfere, unless he thinks it’ll do some good.

he gets to actually experience the world. delilah too! sometimes she comes along to gather info as a sketch artist. she’s got that courtroom artist photographic memory

don’t worry though, she gets paid too. romeo tends to work himself too hard, sometimes out of passion, and sometimes as a means of self-harm. asuka frets over it because to him, it all feels a little too familiar.

i think there’s a lot of poetic justice in the idea of romeo working for asuka and having him as a bit of a mentor figure after thinking he had that with ariels/uni. will and only being met with manipulation. i think asuka would help romeo re-learn how to trust others, and romeo would help asuka stay connected to the world and to people while he works on his own shit too.

i also think there’s something Healing about baiken finding out that her two little guys are working for asuka, Of All Fucking People, and finding that she’s … okay with that. provided he gives them health insurance too, of course. Nature Is Healing

oh, and don’t pull up his bangs. he’s still missing an eye, and his full face is a little. Incongruent with reality.

[foursaints]

6’2 black turtleneck figure skated barty save meeeeeeee

no because he's doing something to me too... and what a way of channeling all that ruthlessness / precision / two-faced quality he has in canon.

he skates like he's trying to kill himself but there is also a staggering amount of control! his face is on the back of those sponsored athlete kellogg's cereal boxes! he's pierced his tongue & his hip bones but nowhere visible, and his tattoos are down one arm and the left side of his back because those areas are covered up by his costumes...

crucially i think barty is still as much of a dirtbag, it's just that he appears to become an entirely different person on ice. this barty is just a touch more openly type A but so insufferably smug at all times because he KNOWS he's good... it's the incongruence between the Serious Athlete and the smug piece-of-shit in a ratty thrasher hoodie who's severely hungover at practice. he's sipping a red monster energy and compression-wrapping his ankles. this au is going to kill me i think?? barty & regulus as professional figure skaters who grew up together is genuinely insane

[sarahowritesostucky]

📖Make it Stick: Pt. 2 The Princess

Rating: Explicit

Chapter Rating: Explicit

Pairing: Bucky x ofc x Steve

Word Count: 4331

Tags: dark!fic, mob/mafia au, mob!Bucky, mob!Steve, dubcon/noncon, sexual coercion, half-sibling incest, m/f/m, non-con drug use, mentions of torture (non graphic), double penetration, forced tattooing, forced orgasms, enemies to lovers

Summary: When his babygirl—his sweet pea, little one, puppy ... half-sister—is recaptured after her latest attempt at running away, Bucky makes a power play in front of the entire Bratva to remind her exactly who she belongs to.

Dark and smutty content below the break. Consume responsibly. Bucky and Lena’s relationship was partly inspired by that cuckoo half-sibling couple in The Crow 😅

Wait! I haven't read part 1 yet!

Brighton Beach has always belonged to the Mob.

Decades ago, it’d been the Odessa Ukrainians who reigned supreme, but Bucky’s father was a weak man, and once he’d died and Bucky had taken over leadership of the Rusă-Română Bratva at nineteen, things had changed.

In the ensuing eighteen years, he’s not only seen to it that his faction rises to the top, he’s also been ruthless enough to ensure that their dominance is never challenged, his position as the Dragon of Hydra firmly cemented.

The Dragon’s Den is one of many businesses under his direct control. It’s a popular club in its own right, located on a busy strip of similar nightlife lining the two hundred block of Neptune Ave., and acting as the unofficial epicenter of Hydra operations.

Extra bouncers have been placed outside tonight to weed out the undesirables, but even with the modified guest list due to the night’s more … illicit activities, it’s still as packed as ever. The downstairs is filled with bodies, booze, and music in no time.

At first glance, it really could be any other night, but look a little further, and the incongruencies are readily apparent. Bucky’s had everything set up in the back, a space no more than ten feet by ten. It’s just a corner, not some stage or grandiose point of focus. It’s not like they have the lights all trained on them or anything dramatic like that. Viewing isn’t mandatory by any means. … But what he’s doing is also right there for anyone who wants to look over and see. And he’s under no illusion that every single soul present doesn't know what’s going on—either because they’re watching it, or because they’re making sure to pointedly not watch it. Tongues have been wagging ever since they'd tied up Gleb and dragged Lena out.

He starts with Gleb, putting all his “tools” within view of the poor bastard but not using much more than his fists and his words. He gets a gut punch in, breaks a finger or two. Kid stuff. Bucky’s never been overly enthusiastic about torture, but you don’t hold control over any faction of organized crime if you can’t at least make yourself comfortable with it. Bucky can appreciate it for what it is, and for the nastier stuff he’s got his specialists. Besides, sheer terror and anticipation can be just as crucial to putting on a good show as anything else. Gleb’s been a crying, sniveling mess since three minutes in, so Bucky’s halfway disgusted and halfway satisfied. Mostly, he’s just discouraged that his little one has been letting such a weak man stick his prick in her. Ugh.

He takes his time, stepping away to have a drink or to chat with someone every once in a while. Bucky usually enjoys his Friday nights lounging and socializing amongst his friends and associates, after all, and he’s not about to sacrifice his entire evening to Gleb.

The Den is Bucky’s home away from home. He even has private quarters above—an amenity he’s taken frequent advantage of after many a night spent overindulging. In his youth, when he’d been new to power and Polina had been nothing but an irrelevant child of his father’s second wife, the luxury accommodations had hosted Bucky’s escapades with dozens of the most beautiful women that Brooklyn had to offer.

But that lifestyle changed once Lena came of age eight years later.

Bucky hasn’t touched another woman—hasn’t wanted to touch another woman—in the decade since, his obsessive love for her often resisted but always returned, despite her token protests. It’s an open secret, considered fodder for gossip amongst the wives. Bucky doesn’t see why anybody should be shocked. He’s always wanted things that he knows are off limits. His little one included.

She’s finally back, and Bucky is more thrilled at that than he is about anything else. Of course Gleb’s betrayal can’t go unaddressed, but Bucky’s working him over more out of obligation than any true recreational interest. He’s got him tied to a pipe. The man is panting and breathing open-mouthed at this point, some of his blood on the plastic sheeting from the fist he’d taken to the nose to start off their evening together. He’s sweating through his undershirt like a pig.

Bucky himself has been naked from the waist up ever since Natasha returned to deliver the requested transfer sheet and blithely remarked that he was “seeping” through his shirt. Normally, aftercare would see her slathering him in ointment and taping bandages over the raw skin, but Nat’s pissed at him and she’s not offering, and he’s pissed at her for being pissed at him, so he’s not asking. He just chucks the shirt when it becomes a lost cause to the blood, plasma and sweat. Whatever. It's hot in here, anyways. And he knows Lena is looking her fill whenever he turns back on her to go focus on Gleb, which is even more satisfying.

It’s because of her that he hasn’t done anything too gruesome. As a rule, Bucky usually leaves the worst of his torturing to those who have a better taste for it (the widows). And while he fully intends to make Gleb hurt before he’s given his very own pair of cement shoes, Bucky still doesn’t want to do anything too traumatizing in front of his main audience.

He walks back over to where Steve has her. He’s been holding her still against his chest, Bucky’s own tie looped around her neck and gripped in Steve’s fist behind her back, his other hand wrapped around her waist to keep her still as she plays her part in the demonstration.

Bucky stands mere inches in front of her and sips his drink, letting his eyes rake over her form. “You haven’t been eating enough, sweet pea. We’ll have to fatten you back up.”

Her lip curls. “You’re such a fucking pervert.”

“Takes one to know one.” He leers at her even longer for the snark, letting his free hand trail lightly along the curve of one silk-covered breast. She’s small. Barefoot like this she barely comes up to his chin. But she’s got a fat ass and a bitty waist that’ve always made Bucky want to do bad things to her, even when they were younger. Lena is blonde like her mother had been, with pale skin and other Nordic traits that set her apart from the darker hues and Slavic features that most of Bucky’s family sport.

How could he ever have been expected to keep his hands off of something so tempting?

She’s beautifully disheveled right now: hair fallen loose from however she had it up before Belova tranqued her and Pietro stuffed her on a jet, body barely kept decent in some slip of a dress that Steve’s put her in, tears already making her mascara run in grey-black tracks down her cheeks. Bucky’s always had a kink for watching pretty girls cry. “You should smile,” he tells her, mocking her by sticking his lip out in a pout. “People’ll think you aren’t having fun. This is your party, after all.”

“What are we celebrating?” she says, her effort at sass somewhat hindered by the waver in her voice. She’s not as brave as she wants him to think she is, but the front she insists on putting up makes Bucky’s heart twinge in fondness. His stubborn puppy.

“We’re celebrating your glorious and long-awaited homecoming, of course,” he coos. “All these nice folks? They showed up just to welcome you back.” He leans in to kiss her cheek, lingering there to whisper right against her skin, “And I missed you too, sweet pea. You got no idea how much.” He feels her shiver before she hisses at him, like a cat. He pulls back and gives her an assessing frown. “You’re so uptight,” he scolds. “Never did know how to let go and have a good time. I’ve always had to help you relax, haven’t I?”

Her pale skin colors beautifully. It takes her a moment to recover, but when she does she tries to hit him where it hurts, simpering a snotty little, “Oh, I don’t know. I was having a pretty good time on your yacht.”

Anger sweeps through Bucky, white hot and thrilling. Little Polina Barnes thinks she’s good at pissing him off. She is, but she’s got no idea how much her brattiness turns him on, too. If she did, she might think twice about opening her smart mouth (and Bucky can’t have that, he’d be so bored). Aside from her new penchant for leaving the flipping country, he’s always kind of enjoyed the thrill of hunting her down and dragging her naughty butt home.

But Belize is taking it too far. His yacht is taking it too far. And letting another man touch her is way beyond too fucking far. Bucky needs to reel his Little one in.

He sets the rim of his glass to her lips, tutting when she only glares up at him. “Don’t be that way, Lena. C’mon, have some. I want to see you loosen up a little.” She just presses her lips tighter together, and Bucky feels his cock thicken in his pants as he imagines using it to pry that prissy mouth wide open. He gives her a knowing smile. “No? Hm.” He finishes off the drink himself and sets it aside. He grabs her face and thumbs roughly over her lower lip, smearing the matte red of her lipstick down onto her chin. “Have it your way, Puppy. Steven?” he says, not looking at the man holding her still. “You’ve got our party favors?”

“In my left pocket,” Steve says, not reaching for them himself because he’s holding Lena’s waist and the tie wrapped around her throat. He’s not choking her, but the pressure on her neck has another effect. Bucky knows a few dirty secrets about his Little one that he’s sure she wishes he didn’t, namely that having a firm grip around her neck gets her wet. Bucky smirks and keeps his eyes on hers as he takes the liberty of reaching around her body and slipping his hand into Steve’s pocket. His fingers find the small shapes and close around them.

“Here we go,” he murmurs, pulling his hand back and holding the items up for Lena to see, chuckling when her face goes slack in shock. Her cheeks darken in a fierce blush and she starts tugging against Steve’s hold with renewed effort. It gets her nowhere of course, and Bucky and Steve share a brief amused look from over her shoulder. Bucky steps closer and pins her between them, hands stroking over her shoulders. “You didn’t think I brought you here just to watch Gleb get his, did you sweetheart? Oh, no.” He shakes his head slowly. “Mm mn. You’re gonna get yours, too.” He puts his lips to her ear and looks in Steve’s eyes while he whispers, “How long do you think before you’re cumming in front of all these people?”

Her struggles intensify, and she tries to head butt Steve behind her, but of course she’s too short for it. She huffs when his grip only tightens and she runs out of steam. “Ugh!”

“Don’t fight it,” Steve tells her, and she sneers back at him.

“Still playing the loyal dog, Steven?”

“Eh, I prefer attack dog. But sure.” He winks at Bucky and bares his teeth in a fake snarl. Bucky laughs. He really does love Steve.

“Ugh! Lemme go, you pathetic dumbass!”

“Hey. Don’t you be mean to Steve. He’s only doing his job.” Bucky puts the smallest of the three party favors in his mouth, letting it sit on his tongue and gripping Lena’s jaw hard to force her to open up for him. He shoves his tongue in, delivering the pill against her will and moaning theatrically to make her even more outraged. He holds her mouth shut after, pinching her nose until she finally capitulates and swallows. Only then does he allow her to have air, tutting in mock sympathy as she regains her breath. “What’s the matter, puppy? What’s got you so worked up, hm? I know it’s not whatshisface back there. Is it just being back home?” He cradles her face and murmurs tenderly, “Did you really think I wouldn’t find you?”

Her face crumples and she sobs a little, the sound hardly audible in the room's loudness, but Bucky couldn’t possibly miss it when he’s this tuned in to her. He kisses her again, this time very gently, letting their lips rest together for a moment afterwards; and he can feel the way she has to fight the urge to lean into it, to seek more. She absolutely despises him, but she has an enduring need for him as well, and she’s never been very good at hiding it.

“Tell me you missed me,” he breathes, his own desire winning out over the game for just a moment. “Please. What’s it gonna hurt to admit it?

“I hate you.”

“Mm. I know, Love, I know.” He brushes his lips against hers. “But you missed me all the same. Missed this.” He lets his hand trail down between her legs, working up underneath the silk of her slip. She whimpers and begs tearfully,

“No! Bucky, don’t.”

"Don't?" His fingers trail over the seam of her panties and he hums knowingly. "Your fancy panties are getting wet, Sweetheart. Did you wear these for me, or for your loverboy back there?"

“People will see!” she hisses.

“So? Let them see. You think anyone's going to step forward and stop me? Hm? Think somebody in this room is going to tell their дракон that he can’t touch what’s his? Because it’s what? Indecent?” He chuckles, thoroughly enjoying her humiliation. “Mm mn. You know that’s not happening, Princess.”

“Don’t. Please. Just … not here. Take me upstairs.”

For a second, Bucky actually pulls back to look at her face. But then he sees what it is she’s uncomfortable about, her pained expression flicking over to Gleb’s bound form behind them. Bucky feels jealous rage shoot through him. He’s always been meaner when he’s jealous. “You don’t want him to see?” he grits, then forces himself to soften his tone. “Oh, no no no. You can’t hide it anymore, puppy. Not from him or anyone else. I know what you like,” he reminds, cruel and quiet. “You know just how well I know.”

He’d bugged her devices starting when she was fifteen. He knows every dirty thing she’s ever watched, from the time she first learned how to touch herself. And his Little one knows this because he’s told her. It’d been the most satisfying moment of his life, when he’d told her that he felt the same way and watched the shock and mortification bloom on her face. That was the day he’d finally made her his—though he’d forced her to admit every single one of her filthy little fantasies out loud before he laid her down and took her virginity.

“I know how you like to feel owned,” he whispers in her ear, thrilling at the hitches it elicits in her breathing. “How you like to feel watched while powerful men touch you. What better way to satisfy those urges than by being taken by the Dragon, right in front of all his men?”

“Please don’t. You can’t.”

“What can’t I do?” he purrs, and she cries softly,

“You can’t, please. Because they know …”

“They know what?” he coaxes, wanting her to say it. He peeks up and looks at Steve from over her shoulder. “Know that you’re my sister?” he whispers. Steve’s eyes darken and Bucky's mouth curls. “Well, that shouldn’t bother you either, puppy. You and I both know your affinity for all those naughty step-sibling videos.” She whines miserably and he hushes her. “Aw, don’t be embarrassed. It’s actually a really popular genre. Number … seven, on Pornhub?” He kisses her cheek. “Right up there with M/F/M threesomes.”

Adorably, her breath catches and she stiffens against Steve’s body, now even more aware of his hulking form behind her.

Bucky hums, pleased. “There’s no need to be ashamed.” He peels her panties to the side and slips the tip of one finger along her lips. She’s not exactly soaked, but she’s not completely dry, either. “Of course, actual brother-sister incest isn’t quite as popular, but we know there’s a niche market for everything, don’t we?” Lena makes an outraged little sound that goes straight to his dick. He leans back enough to watch her expression as he holds up the second of the party favors for her to see. It’s white and thin, less than two inches long, and shaped like an itty bitty torpedo. “Something else to help you loosen up,” he tells her gleefully. “Do you want to take a guess where this one goes?”

She makes an adorable ‘meep’ of a sound and clamps her legs closed over his hand. “Don’t.”

He laughs. “Aw, good guess, little sis’, but not quite.”

“Step-sister,” she corrects shakily. “Bucky ...”

He smiles as he tries to read her, confused and tentative at first, but then growing into something devious. “Oh, I see. You’re honestly embarrassed about that? That people know we grew up together, shared the same house? Mmm." He licks his lips. "That’s not all we shared.”

"Stop it."

He watches her, thrilling in a huge surge of lust mixed with something dark and nasty. “Wow,” he astounds, goading her. “Oh boy. Just think what you’d do if they all knew the truth.”

“Bucky please.”

“Steve knows, you know. I told him forever ago.” He watches her eyes go wide and her body stiffen against Steve’s.

“You … you told …”

“Oh, don’t worry, sweet pea. He thinks it’s hot, too.” Lena looks honestly too shocked for words, and Bucky leans down to give her an absolutely filthy kiss, slipping his tongue into her mouth and holding her jaw there for it while, between her legs, he drags the suppository through her moist folds. She squeaks, and he pulls back. He lets her see him handing it to Steve. “Will you do the honors, pal?”

“What?” Lena breathes, lost. The sweet, dumb thing.

Steve keeps hold of the tie wrapped around her neck, but he has to let go of her waist to get at her. Bucky’s able to grab her just as she starts to try and fight it. “Ah ah ah, hold still,” he coos, yanking her wrists down at her sides in an iron grip. He steps even closer, squeezing her between his body and Steve's to subdue her wiggling, pressing his thigh forward between her legs. She freezes when her fighting just puts more pressure on her clit, and Bucky hums, pleased. “Good. Be a good girl now, Lena. We don’t want this to hurt.”

She goes straight back to struggling, and Steve shoots him a peeved look from over her shoulder. Bucky growls and sticks his face in her hair, warning lowly, “You know: there’s a syringe of morphine waiting in the wings for your boy back there.” Lena stills again, and he hums, “That’s right. Now, if you want him to actually get it before I let the widows have at him, then you’d better stop fighting and take what’s coming to you.” She sobs at the corner he’s got her backed into, but she doesn’t go back to fighting them. Bucky keeps her in his firm grip so that Steve can get to work behind her. “And you were wrong, puppy: It doesn’t go in your pussy.”

It’s too late for her to react. By the time her eyes widen in realization, Steve’s hand is already at her backside.

Bucky grinds his thigh forward as her pupils expand from the feeling, the bundle of aphrodisiacs summarily pushed up inside her tight little pucker. “You keep that in, now,” he warns. “You should start feeling it in the next few minutes, then I’ll give you your real consequence.”

She sobs quietly. “I hate you.”

“Old hat, baby.” He steps away from her, leaving Steve to keep her in place. The promise of lessening Gleb’s upcoming pain seems to be motivating her to behave. Bucky walks back over to the pole where he's got the sad sack tied up. Just to scare the crap out of him, he spends a moment tracing all the different tools that’ve been laid out for their use.

“Please,” Gleb begs.

“Shshsh,” Bucky coos, stepping close and cradling his face, intimate. “You fucked my baby sister,” he says. “What did you think was going to happen when I got a hold of you, hm?” Gleb trembles in his bindings and Bucky reaches for the pliers—a classic. Gleb’s eyes all but bug out of his head. “Colectăm mereu,” Bucky purrs in Romanian, reminding him who he’s dealing with. “You stole from the Bratva, son. Now you have to pay the price.”

“Please. I-I’ll do anything!”

He punches him in the gut, then grabs him by the hair and hisses in his face, “You already did everything! Took what belonged to me. Not very smart.”

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!"

He punches him again. "I sure hope that pussy was worth it.” He smiles while Gleb is trying to regain his breath. “Eh, it probably was. I should know.” Gleb squints in disbelief, and Bucky feels another perverse thrill shoot through him. “What?" he laughs. "Don’t look at me like that. I thought you knew. She didn’t tell you she likes to fuck her brother?”

Gleb’s face screws up. “Stepbrother.”

“You know, I’m getting real tired of that misconception,” Bucky drawls, turning back around to get a look at his Little one’s face. Her head is tipped back against Steve’s shoulder, the drugs working into her system by now. Bucky grins. “I told you I’d get you to loosen up, didn’t I? Big brother knows how to make you relax.” He tosses the pliers aside and saunters slowly back over to her. "I just told Gleb about us,” he says. “But I think it’s about time we make a more public announcement, don’t you, sweet pea?”

Her eyes widen. “Bucky, no.”

He grins wolfishly and spins around. He calls out to get everyone’s attention, and in a few seconds everything has quieted, the room eerily devoid of chatter despite the continuing pulse of the club’s music. Bucky goes over to the bar and demands something to toast with, and a flute of champagne is produced with shocking speed. He turns back to the room. “Thank you all for coming out tonight to help me welcome our beloved Polina back home!”

Some people clap, perhaps expecting some long, heartfelt speech. But Bucky cuts to the chase and says, “I’m sure you all know about she and I.” He waits, amused and sipping the champagne. When the crowd shifts nervously, he waves his hand at them and scoffs. “I mean that’s common knowledge, right? Everybody’s tongues were wagging when my father dumped my mother to marry his whore.”

He gestures back to where Steve is holding Lena, supporting her increasingly drugged little body. “Sweet little Polina was only a few years old, back then. And my dad’s infidelity wasn’t her fault." He shrugs. "So I inherited a bratty little sister. I guess the fact that we were still both kids makes the whole thing even juicer, huh? I know you all talk about it: 'The Dragon likes to fuck his own step-sister'. How scandalous.”

He laughs and walks back over to Lena. He caresses her face, leaning in to give her a dirty kiss with plenty of tongue. The crowd murmurs louder. Bucky pulls back and looks out at the room. “The Bratva wives love a good scandal. Don’t you, ladies?” A few of the wives in the crowd look flustered at being called out. Bucky salutes them with his champagne glass. “Well you’re in for a real treat, my dears. Because little Lena back here isn’t just my step-sister. Oh no.”

(Bucky’s always liked putting on a show, so he’s unfazed when making the actual announcement makes his cock harden further in his pants.)

“You see, dear old Dad was fucking around with his pretty shlyukha for a few years before he finally married her, and you know he even knocked her up.” The room goes absolutely silent, and Bucky feels a sick thrill go through him. “That’s right,” he croons, looking back over his shoulder at the stricken expression on his Little one’s face. “This sweet pea isn’t just my step-sibling: she’s my father’s daughter.”

It takes a surprisingly short amount of time before the crowd goes back to chattering, everybody staring wide eyed—some with disgust, others with excitement over this incredible new thing they have to be outraged over. Bucky shouts at the bartender to hand out champagne to anyone who wants it. He toasts the room. “To Polina!” Only a few dozen people raise their glasses and murmur in response, too shocked to know what to do in light of this revelation. Bucky really doesn’t give a crap. This is just a display of his power, just another way to show them—and her—that he can do whatever the fuck he wants and nobody is going to do a thing to stop him. The room slowly returns to the bustle of before, and Bucky returns to stand in front of his girl. “See puppy?” he taunts, lifting the champagne flute to her mouth. “I told you nobody would care.”

It’s a lie. Everybody cares, of course. But his point has been made. He watches as she willingly drinks the champagne. “Good girl,” he praises, setting the empty glass aside. He cups Lena’s face and gives her a tender kiss. “Now, why don’t we give them a show, huh?”

“Bucky,” she whispers, a plea.

But he can see her body relaxing into Steve’s hold despite her mortification, the drugs softening her up just like Bucky’s been waiting for. He pulls the remaining party favor from his pocket and holds it up for her to see. “Don’t worry,” he coos. “Your punishment isn’t going to hurt nearly as bad as Gleb’s.”

He turns the base of the tiny pocket vibrator on and starts it buzzing. “Now, let’s get you really begging, why don’t we?”

Part 3

Masterlist

If you like what you read and feel so inclined, please consider dropping a tip in the Kofi🍵 cup!

Commissions: contact via Tumblr messenger or here

[soeurdelune]

The Angry Sheperd, l'auberge des malfrats, sur Concrete Jungle

Vous êtes cordialement invité·e·s par @rollinginthedeep-swan et moi-même à venir installer vos personnages les plus grigous et scélérats au Angry Sheperd. Imaginez une auberge pour les grands vilains, le mélange incongru entre l'hôtel Continental dans John Wick et une taverne victorienne... Refuge de la lie et des bandits de passage, terrain neutre où s'échangent les bonnes (et mauvaises) adresses, le bar est poisseux de whiskey, les ex voto accrochés aux murs semblent juger les crimes commis, peut-être commencerez-vous une partie de fléchettes avec des faussaires ou des tueuses en cavale...

Votre personnage y croisera assurément Walter ou Alexandria, les maîtres de l'auberge, et peut-être se liera-t-il d'amitié avec les autres forbans locaux 👀

Pour résumer, si vous aimez les city sombre et que vous cherchez un endroit où installer votre personnage sans prendre un pl ou un scénario, on sera plus que ravies de vous réceptionner au Angry Sheperd. Les clients sont dorlotés (non c'est faux), les chambres sont un tantinet miteuses, mais vous ne risquerez pas de vous ennuyer ♡

PLUS D'INFORMATIONS ET NOUS REJOINDRE ICI ♡

☞ crédits moodboard: Swan (images 1, 4 et 5) + lune (images 2, 3 et 6)