#metal dinner plate | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

corkinavoid · 5 days

Text

DPxDC Recount Your Kids, Batman

[A loose continuation to this post]

Talia doesn't visit the Wayne manor. At least not regularly nor officially. All the batkids and Batman know she comes sometimes, just to check up on Damian and maybe bother Bruce from time to time, but this is the first time she has ever shown up to a dinner.

And, as they all take their seats, she gives Damian a long curios glance. Then, she looks to Bruce.

"Is that everyone?" She asks, easy and lighthearted. One might think she is simply not acquainted with the number of Wayne children or that she is teasing Bruce on the sheer amount of them. But Damian is looking down to his plate, and Tim knows for sure Talia keeps up with Wayne's head count, and Dick is fairly certain Talia would never tease Bruce, at least not so subtly.

It could have been some sort of a hint at Jason. If he was not here, that is. But he is, for once, so this is really all the family at one table.

"Yes?" Dick tries, looking around the table just to make sure. Steph and Babs are not here today, but that's definitely not what Talia could have meant. Bruce also looks just a little confused, which is a nice change of pace since he looked guarded and on edge from the very moment Talia showed up.

The woman hums, her eyes studying Damian. The youngest bat keeps his gaze down on his empty plate. No one really understands what's going on, but they all feel like there's something important and heavy hanging in the air.

Then, Talia stands up and turns to Alfred, "We will be dining later. It has come to my attention that kids are a lot more secretive than I thought," she explains cryptically and smiles at Bruce, "Beloved, will you come with me to the training grounds? I have something to show you."

Bruce doesn't move for a long moment, and Talia's smile becomes almost gentle, "It's about your son."

At least that makes the man move.

When they get down to the Cave - since Talia insisted this was not a matter that could be resolved in the manor's training room - it's not only her, Bruce, and the little bat there, of course. The whole family was way too intrigued, and some were even alarmed.

The most alarming part, though, was the fact that Damian had been uncharacteristically quiet on their way down. Yet, when Dick looked to Cass, she just shook her head slightly. The boy was not worried. To Cass, he looked almost resigned, if a bit displeased.

"Your sword, Damian," Talia commands, and the boy presses his lips into a thin line.

"This is not necessary, Mother."

"It is," the woman looks amused, but there's an underlying layer of concern to her tone.

"...Yes, Mother," Damian nods his head on what feels like surrender and takes his katana. Not the training one, the real blade. Bruce makes a soft, alarmed grunt, but Talia waves him off.

"Not to worry, Beloved. I will not harm our brethren."

She doesn't take a stance, nor does she pick out a weapon, simply lunges for Damian as soon as they are both on the mats. Two daggers seem to appear in her hands out of nothing, and, contrary to her words, her aim is towards Damian's neck. The boy blocks, jumps away, and blocks another attack.

Tim steps closer, "You can't just-"

"Step away, Drake," It's the first time Damian has spoken to them since they've sat down for dinner. His voice is tense, but not derisive. If anything, it sounds a bit tired.

Talia lunges for him again, faster, meaner. Metal clings against metal.

"You understand this can not keep going, my child," she tells the boy, startlingly gentle on the contrary to her definitely dangerous strikes.

Damian doesn't answer.

The rest of Batfam are forced to simply watch the encounter: Damian is mostly on defense as Talia goes for him, harder and harder with every hit. Until, without any warning, the woman strikes for Damian's arm, making him drop his katana, and-

A few things happen at once.

Talia lunges for Damian's throat. Bruce jumps onto the mats so fast that he almost trips. Tim yelps.

But Talia's blade doesn't strike.

A figure of another child, eerily similar to Damian and wearing the League of Assassins uniform, is standing in front of the littlest bat, two crystal clear blades in his hands, blocking the dagger.

Bruce halts midstep. The rest of the family holds their breath.

But Talia simply smiles and drops her daggers, backing away and looking at the boy between her and Damian with a fond gaze.

"Danyal," she greets, and the boy huffs, lowering his weapons. He doesn't drop them - they simply dissipate in the air, turning into tiny snowflakes.

"Mother," he greets back begrudgingly, and his voice is the exact replica of Damian's. A clone? No, because Damian reacts to him nothing like he had to the clones, simply clicking his tongue and rolling his eyes.

"You could have simply asked, Mother," he comments, taking a step forward and stading near the other boy. Danyal. When standing side by side, they look nearly identical - same facial features, same posture, same hair, even if Damian's is a little more tame.

But Danyal's eyes are just a few hues off. Still green but lighter than Damian's.

"I assumed if you have spent years living here and never bothered to mention your brother, I would need a little more than asking, my love," Talia doesn't laugh, but it sounds like she wants to. Both boys roll their eyes, perfectly in sync.

Hold the fuck up, brother?

"Huh. I thought you died," Jason mentions offhandedly, and the whole family whips their heads to him. Yet, before any of them speak, it's Danyal who answers.

"I mean, I did? Kinda?" He waves his hand in the air and shrugs, and he acts so unlike Damian while also simultaneously having his face, that it makes Tim shiver a little.

"You-" Bruce starts, seeming to finally find his voice, but the boy cuts him off.

"I'm not actually yours," he snorts at Bruce's facial expression, "Yeah, I know I look like I am. Blame the ghost sewers, Chronos, and my stupid ass for making decisions while not being fully awake."

There is so much to unpack in that sentence that no one has the barest of ideas on where to start.

Damian curves his lips down in a sneer.

"The longer you stay there staring, the colder the dinner will be when we return," he reminds them, and Danyal suddenly perks up.

"Dinner? Can I join? It's been ages since I've had anything home cooked," he smiles, like there's some kind of an inside joke in that sentence. Damian rolls his eyes.

"The food doesn't come alive in this household, Danyal."

"Bummer," the boy looks a bit disappointed, but not too much. "And it's Danny, for the thousandth time."

Talia picks up her daggers, hiding them somewhere in her clothes in an unnoticeable motion. Then, she gives Bruce a small, if a bit sly, smile.

"You can not call it 'family dinner' if not all your family is there."

1K notes · View notes

hurtspideyparker · 1 month

Text

If Civil War didn't end in divorce and everyone lived together Part 2

Read Part 1 here

Tony: Why is Underoos mopping the ceiling?

Sam: Told him since he's sticky that's his chore

Bucky: It's only fair he helps out around the house

Tony: Hm. Makes sense

Vision cooked dinner:

Peter: *pushing around food to make it look eaten*

Natasha: *surreptitiously spitting into napkin*

Steve: *taking small bites with tons of water*

Bucky: *just stares at full plate*

Tony: Well this is disgusting, I'm ordering pizza

Sam: C'mon man stop moping around, you gotta get yourself a girl

Bucky: Ok.

Sam: Ok? Okayyyyy! I know-

Bucky: Give me your phone

Sam: Oh you got a number in mind already hotshot? *hands phone over*

Bucky: *ring* Hi Sarah ;)

Sam: BOY-

Peter: Ned thought you would seperate your colours from your lights but he also thought you'd be homophobic so I don't pay him much mind cuz clearly I'm more of a superhero expert than him but he does have a 2% better average than me in history so like maybe you do hand wash your clothes and that's why I asked what underwear you wear because-

Steve: *listening intently with apprehension and alarm*

Natasha: I can't believe you found the one person on Earth who talks more nonsense than you

Tony: I know right, it's incredibly unnerving. I'm planning on adopting him

Peter: Mr. Stark I have to tell you something. I think Vision is a... *whispers* pervert

Tony: Um, why?

Peter: He keeps floating through my room without knocking! He saw me changing, he saw my nipples !

Tony: Well if anyone's a predator here it would be you. I mean showing your nipples to a 2 year old? Deplorable.

Peter:

Peter: Oh god, I'm the pervert...

Bucky: Y'know animosity isn't good between teammates. I think we should spend more time together

Sam: Am I being punked right now? Where's the camera

Bucky: I'm serious. I think it would be healthy for us to bond

Sam: Okay fine I'll bite... what did you have in mind

Bucky: Wanna go for a run?

Sam: *slams door in Bucky's face*

*staring at Bucky's sparkly clean metal arm*

Bucky: Dishwasher?

Peter: Dishwasher :)

(later that day)

Bucky: I've decided to let the child live

Peter: YoU wHaT?!

Thwip

Tony: Who took my coffee cup, It was right here

Thwip

Bruce: Um, has someone seen my book? I just had it

Thwip

Steve: I could've sworn I was holding a pen a moment ago

*giggling from the ceiling*

Tony: Young man I will take those webshooters away if you use them for shenanigans and rascality

Peter, muffled: Mr. Hawkeye told me to!

Clint: Oh so you're just gonna rat me out like that?

Peter: Sor- OOF

*falls out of ceiling vent*

Sam: You're in my spot

Bucky: There are no spots, it's a common area

Sam: Well that's my spot

Bucky: Did you buy the chair??

Sam: No, but everyone knows that's where I sit. Right Steve?

Steve: Oops I forgot something in my car, be right back *leaves*

Sam: Still my spot

Bucky: Still not

Sam: *sits on him*

Bucky: WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU ALL THE COUCHES ARE FREE-

Sam: IT'S MY SPOT YOU CAN'T TAKE A MAN'S FAVOURITE CHAIR-

BUCKY: YOU HAVE ISSUES GET OFF ME-

(one hour later)

Steve: Hey so turns out I don't have a car! Isn't that funn...

Sam & Bucky: *Squeezed awkwardly on the chair together*

Steve: I think I left something in my car

Steve: Leave the bedroom door open when you have Vision in there

Wanda: UGH you're so protective

Tony: Teenagers, am I right? Caught Pete reassembling my particle accelerator at midnight because he needed to neutralize a miniature nuclear bomb he nabbed off some guy he neglected to tell me was trying to kill him

Steve:

Steve: Wanda y'know what do whatever you want

Wanda: Really?

Steve: Yes just keep being normal. At least I can read about our issues in a parenting book

Thor: Ah, new warriors I see! Good to make all your acquaintance. But why are you so grumpy my friend?

Bucky: *glaring*

Peter: He's always like that. It's um, P- P- PMS? Wait -

Natasha: Yes it's PMS

Wanda: He's got it bad

Steve: *genuinely concerned* Bucky you didn't tell me something was wrong. What can I do to help?

Bucky:

Bucky: I like chocolate

Wanda: Welcome to the first annual girls night! This place reeks of men, so I thought we needed some women time

Pepper: Why is Vision here?

Wanda: I get sad when he's gone

Natasha: Why is Pietro here?

Pietro: Slay queens

Wanda: Moral support I think

Maria: Why is Peter here?

Wanda: He looked really upset when I said he wasn't included and I felt bad

Wanda: Anyways... yay girls! Who wants me to paint their nails?

Peter: ME ME ME

Steve: Pancakes or waffles?

Natasha: Pancakes

Steve: Good because I don't have a waffle maker

Natasha: Then why would you ask-

Steve: It's important for your voice to be heard, as team leader I value your opinion

*2 minutes later*

Steve: Good morning Clint, pancakes or waffles?

Clint: Waffles

Steve: Oh no.

Some of these were based on requests (ex. more Sam & Bucky, dad Steve w/ Wanda) so if you have certain dynamics you enjoy let me know !

2K notes · View notes

warnersister · 6 months

Text

Personal Space

Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw x reader

Summary: you love your personal space. Unfortunately, Bradley also loves your personal space.

Pt. 2

You never understood why Bradley stuck around. Since the academy you’d preferred to stick to yourself; get your head down and get the job done. Especially with a surname like Mitchell. You didn’t want your father and grandfather’s reputation to negatively proceed you, and by the time people had put two and two together as to whom loins you came from: you’d made your own reputation so Maverick never made much of a difference to it.

But still, having dinner in the mess you’d sat down, when someone came and thudded down next to you and began eating themselves. “I’m Bradley” he said when you finally looked up at him. You raised a brow “Bradshaw?” You ask and he nods: you recognise him from the photos your dad pinned up in your two’s hanger. You hum “and you are?” He asks “not important.” You reply, deciding you’d lost your appetite and stood to clear your plate “good talk!” Bradley said, but you were already walking away.

He’d next encountered you when you were running around the academy, early morning; before any naval training would take place. He hummed and decided it was perfectly acceptable to interrupt your jaunt with his presence. “Hey! Up so early?” He asks as he tries to match your pace from a standstill “could ask you the same.” You reply bluntly “well I wanted to get a run in before-” “well there’s your answer.” You reply, cutting him off. “You run really quick.” He says as you try to keep your pace increasing to shake him off “goodbye, Bradshaw.” You say, pulling your sunglasses over your eyes and taking off at a pace he couldn’t sustain. He just stops and shakes his head smiling, you were funny.

Eventually, you’d both gotten up in the air and were quick to earn your callsigns “Rooster” and “Hen”. Bradley earned his because he was up before the chickens, you’d earned yours because the chicken kept fucking following you around like you were his mother. You were sat on the aircraft carrier, your trainee group learning how to land on a ship deck and you’d finally gotten a moment of peace that evening. You sat on the edge of the deck, feet dangling over the edge as you watched the sunset, not moving when you hear someone slip into the space between the barriers beside you.

“Oh look my chick is back.” You mumble sarcastically and Bradley laughs loudly at you. “You love me really” he says, looking at you as if he wanted to you agree with him “you seem to keep telling yourself that, don’t you?” You hum, turning to watch the sea lap against the grey metal. You can feel him fidgeting beside you, as if antsy to say something. “What?” You ask, finally turning to look at him. “What?” He repeats, looking at you with raised brows “you want to ask me something. You’re fidgeting.” You point out “so ask me or fuck off” you say, turning away again. “Your last name is Mitchell” he says and you roll your eyes “you can read and hear. Two things I’ve learnt today.” You huff, again, with sarcasm. “Are you related to Pete Mitchell?” He asks, looking at you and nearly holding his breath “you finally put two and two together?” You ask and he lets out the breath.

“Yeah, he’s my dad.” You say after a while “I was a whoopsie baby my mother didn’t want anything to do with” you tell him. “He used to fly with my dad.” Bradley almost whispers, voice just a few octaves above. “I know” you nod “he’s practically wallpapered all over our hanger.” You say “so are you” you eye him. “He pulled my papers” he says, again after a few moments of silence “I know” you say “do you know why?” He asks “yes.” You reply, and he could tell you weren’t going to elaborate. “Y’know I’m not a fan of your dad, but I really like you.” He says and you just look at him with a blank face. “Yup” you hum to yourself and he raises a brow “just as Mother Goose was described” you say, and Bradley’s face immediately lights up with a huge grin, stretching and arm around you and pulling you into his side.

“Get off me.” “Yup, yep, sorry.”

For your first deployment, the academy set it up that you’d at least be with one person from your training squadron, and today the list of names were coming out; they were scribbled on the back of a napkin and pinned to a notice board.

“1. Haywood & Solomons, 2. Hughes & Shelley & Omaha, 3. Cooper & Parker & Cromwell & Smith, 4. Bradshaw,” you crossed your fingers as someone read out the names, then yours was read alongside Bradley’s “oh for god’s sake” you grumble, turning to see Bradley practically jumping for joy. “This is great! Me and you, Hen!” Rooster cheers and you just stare at him “should’ve called you leech cause you’re acting like one. Calm down.” You instruct and he tries to chill out, but the cheeky smile on his face was indiminishagble.

He only became more unbearable then, with you every working hour, your wingman on the missions you’d fly, inseparable despite your complaints. “Where’s your boyfriend?” Hawk asked you, as he came to sit with you for lunch. You shush him loudly. “Woah woah I only asked where he was.” “Speak his name and he shows up. I’m trying to hide.” you say in a hushed voice “plus he isn’t my boyfriend” “sure” he scoffs but the daggers being shot into his head silenced him easily.

“Hey Hen! Hawk” Bradley greets as he sits down. You grunt and point an accusatory finger at Hawk “this is your fault, jackass” you say and he laughs at you, him and Bradley engage in conversation as you just eat, having learnt the skill of drowning him out. “What about you, Hen?” Hawk asked, drawing your attention away from your plate and up to the two men alongside you, you raise an eyebrow - letting them know you were insinuating that you weren’t listening to their conversation.

“Do you want a family?” He ask and you just nod “really?” Hawk asks “that’s cute, didn’t take you for a family gal” he jokes and you harshly kick his leg under the table “kids and everything?” He asks after the pain subsides. “Yup.” You say and Bradley hums “I didn’t know that” he says and you just look at him “you never asked.” You reply simply, and that was true: he hadn’t. He was quite prepared to spend the rest of existence chasing after you, whether that meant giving you your first kiss on your deathbeds.

The two of you even went to Top Gun together, training to be the finest naval aviators of them all. And boy, you two fought to be the best; tongue and teeth, blood sweat and tears, everything. The decision came down to one final dogfight. “May the best aviator win” Rooster jokes, sticking out a hand to you. You eye it and internally question if you were insane, before leaning up to peck his cheek. “Prepare to loose, chicken.” You say, leaving him frozen in his place while you head to your plane. That day, Bradley was seriously off his A-game, and you came out on top.

A Mitchell finally Top Gun.

“Congratulations!” Bradley says excitedly on graduation day when you victoriously lifted the trophy above your head. You turned to him and he leant down slightly - you weren’t stupid, you knew what he was intending to do. “Thank you, Brad.” You say, turning to walk over to where your father was stood - knowing that was probably the only time Bradley wouldn’t follow you. That was the first time you’d ever called him anything short of Bradley Bradshaw.

“I’m so proud of you honey” your dad says, hugging you tightly and you embrace him back, smiling widely “thank you, dad” you respond and he looks behind you where Bradley was stood a while back, watching the ordeal. “Is that-” “yes” you tell him and your dad just looks at you “I wouldn’t get all teary he follows me like a lost puppy” you grumble but he just grins “he’s a good kid, hon.” He says and you shake your head “he’s definitely something”

“So how does their relationship work?�� Bob asks Hangman, watching Bradley talk your ear off and you just staring ahead into space, blankly. “You see Bobby my boy,” Jake begins “Hen loves her personal space” Bob nods “Rooster also loves Hen’s personal space.” Bob nods again, now understanding. “Haven’t they done everything together though?” He asks “I think it’s more the fact that Hen does something and Rooster just kinda goes with it” Phoenix said and Bob hums, as Bradley continues to converse one-sidedly with you.

“He means well” you hear from beside you as you stare out from the hanger, turning to see your honorary uncle Tom walking towards you, you run towards him as he embraces you tightly “hey Ice” you smile, sweetly. “Hey sweetheart” he croaks. “I mean what I said.” He states and you raise a brow “he means well” he nods towards the man doing his required push ups on the ground with Hondo. “I know, Ice.” You tell him. “No, I don’t think you do” he hums and you raise your eyebrows at him. “The kids in love with you. You’ve either got to let him in or tell him to get out.” He says, “you’re living together for goodness sake”. “It was cheaper” you argue “we both know the accommodation is subsidised.” He states, matter-of-factly, patting your shoulder as he turns to go talk to your dad when he walks into the room.

It was true, you and Bradley were sharing accommodation. “Hey Hen, they’ve offered us shared accommodation back in Miramar” Bradley says, coming over with a pamphlet. “Why?” You ask, taking it out of his hands. ‘Married couple accommodation’ it states and you raise your brows “you getting ahead of yourself, Bradshaw?” You ask and he shakes his head “the guy assumed our callsigns were cause we’re a couple” he tells you and you just hum. “Well I’d rather stay there than in an apartment.” You say simply, giving him back the leaflet and refocusing on the plane you were working on repairing. “Seriously?” He asks, voice overly hopeful. You look at him and shrug “just go get the damn house, Bradshaw. Before I change my mind!” You say and he grins, turning and breaking out into almost a jog to head to confirm your living situation.

You take a moment of hesitation, before loudly groaning and heading out onto the tarmac, getting down and doing push ups alongside Rooster. He turns his head and looks at you and you just raise your brows at him. “Hey honey” he grins “hello Bradley” he nudges your hip with his own. “I’ll drive us home.” You tell him, and he raises his eyebrows “Home?” He asks and you huff “okay, Bradley I will drive the two of us back to our shared accommodation that we accidentally got given.” You say and he laughs loudly “home sounded better.”

Then after the mission, the whole Dagger squad got permanently stationed in San Diego, other than deployment, so they urged the new additions to the base to buy their own properties closer to base rather than on it. You and Bradley were sat in the Hard Deck, a long time before it was open, the rest of the Daggers spending time on the beach while the two of you were scouring Bradley’s laptop for a property. Well, Bradley was.

How about this one? He turns his screen to you. You shake your head “I want grass in the garden. I want to plant flowers” you say as you point at the paved back of the house, explaining that it’s a waste of money to have it ripped out. Bradley nods “Mkay, garden” he says, moving back to look again.

“How about this one? Beach front, close to the running track for you. Only a walk from the Hard Deck. White picket fence, really” he hums, turning the laptop again “garden?” You ask and he nods “garden.” He nods with a grin. “Shall we go look?” You ask and he raises a brow at you. “You said it’s a walk from the hard deck. Let’s go.” You say, putting the address into your phone and immediately recognising the street name, Bradley quickly falling into step with you as you walk towards the property.

You look at it and place your hands on your hips. Bradley was right. Pretty damn perfect. “Can I help you?” A lady asks, walking outside of the house, clipboard in hand. “Oh no, we’d just seen this property online and wanted to take a look.” Bradley tells her. “Well I’ve had a no-show on a viewing. How’d you like to take a look?” She suggests, motioning to the open door. “Okay” you nod, following her into the house.

“Obviously the kitchen, living room, even a deck out back with a huge garden and high fences” she says nodding out the window and you hum. “Out the side there’s an entrance straight to the beach” she motions, then starts heading up the stairs “three bedrooms, attic space, bathroom” she says “I’m guessing it’s just you two at the moment?” She asks “oh we’re not-” Bradley begins “yes, just us.” You confirm, shutting him up. “Okay, so there’s a large room for your bed and then if any new additions are to join, you have the space for them” she smiles and leads you back out front.

“It’s not cheap, it’s California. So I understand if you’re not prepared to pay that much money, do you mind me asking what you do?” She asks “we’re naval aviators.” Bradley says “stationed here?” She asks and you both nod “ah! I get why you’re looking for a property here!” She says and Bradley looks at you. “I really like it, Roo.” You say, and Bradley has to stop his jaw hitting the floor at your nickname. “It’s your call, honey” he says and you look at the lady and smile as she offers her hand “we’ll take it.”

“How shall we split the payment?” You ask Bradley as you walk back to the Hard Deck after organising a meeting with the realtor to actually finalise all the kinks and bumps. “I don’t mind doing the down payment then we’ll take it in turn paying the loan” he suggests “we can get a joint bank account and do it that way” you say and he agrees as you settle back into your seats at the Hard Deck. “Where’ve you two been?” Hangman asks “we bought a house.”

One evening, after you were all moved in and were hanging out at the Hard Deck after a long day or routine flying, you were sat outside with Rooster; watching the sunset. “When are we getting married then?” You ask and he spits out his beer “what?” He asks, eyes wide and getting progressively more giddy. “Well we live together, we have a joint bank account, and Jake keeps telling me we’re practically married. So when are we getting married?” You ask as he hugs you tightly “whenever you want, baby” he says, kissing the top of your head and pulling a ring out of his pocket to get on his knee. “Will you marry me?” He asks and you raise a brow “didn’t I just say that?” You ask bluntly “just say yes, please” he begs and you nod “yes. Yes I will marry you, Bradley Bradshaw.” You confirm as he kisses your lips gently.

“Okay get off of me now.”

Pt. 2

3K notes · View notes

sukunasbow · 9 months

Text

felix finger fucking you during dinner at saltburn ; mdni

you lazily move your fork around the fancy plate in front of you as elsbeth continues making small talk with oliver, your boyfriend’s newest friend. you’ve tuned out all the voices around you, your boredom increasing with every passing second, starting to become evident on your face as your lips form into a slight pout. this catches the attention of felix, who’s sitting next you and is being equally as quiet as you, aside from the occasional comment towards oliver.

“what’s up?” he leans towards you in his chair, his voice a soft whisper, making sure no one at the table questions the two of you.

you turn to face him as he pulls back away from you, awaiting your response. “i love you, and your family, but i’m honestly so bored.” this time, you lean towards him and whisper in his ear.

“no worries. i feel the same.” he lets out a small laugh. you sit up straight again, going back to your previous boredom. felix has different plans, however, carefully reaching his hand down to your thigh, giving it a small squeeze. you look down at his hand, then look back up at him, a mixture of confusion and lust in your eyes. you open your mouth to say something, but he’s quick to cut you off. “no one’s paying attention to us right now, they won’t notice.” he whispers.

you nod, looking away from him, pretending to suddenly be interested in the conversation of the other’s at the table. he takes this as his sign to keeping going, so he moves his hand slightly up to the hem of your skirt, reaching under your panties, sliding his hand even farther down, stopping at he entrance of your cunt. your body shivers when the cold metal of his rings makes contact with your folds, your thighs clenching together. you bite your lip in anticipation, your gaze shifting to your plate. felix enters two of his fingers into your wet cunt with ease, starting to slowly pump his fingers. your breathing becomes slow and soft as you keep your moans suppressed by pressing your lips together, remaining a normal expression. the pace of his fingers increase bit by bit, hitting that sweet spot in your tight pussy every time his fingers move deeper into you. you subtly grind your hips to match the motion of his fingers. curling his fingers, felix adds to your pleasure, your cunt starting to clench around them. you turn your head to look at him with desperation in your eyes. he gives you a a cocky smirk, the two of you staring at each other as he uses his fingers to push you over the edge, your thighs shaking as you reach your high. your mouth opens to let out your moans, but you’re quick to close your lips, remaining silent. cumming on his fingers, he pulls them out of your pussy and takes his hand back out of your skirt. felix can’t wait for the painfully long dinner to be over, so you can sneak up to his room and deal with the growing tent in his dress pants.

#lol! 😁#he’s so fine guys..#x reader #fanfic #fanfiction #felix catton x reader #felix catton imagine #felix catton fanfiction #saltburn x reader #jacob elordi x reader #saltburn #felix catton

3K notes · View notes

ellecdc · 5 months

Note

Hii! I love your work SO MUCH but i'm not really sure if you're taking requests. Yet i'm here asking if you'd be comfortable to write a marauders or wolf star or any of the ships with reader who has epilepsy? and how they comfort reader after a seizure? i've always wondered what they'd do after my episodes. Feel free to delete this one if jts not your thing and have a great week ahead!!!

thanks for your request, sweetheart! do forgive me if there are any inaccuracies in my depiction of epilepsy as I'm not super well-versed in the subject other than what to do in a first-aid setting! google don't fail me now 😩

poly!maraudres x gn!reader who has epilepsy

CW: depiction of a seizure, anxiety, loss of consciousness, hurt/comfort, Sirius' cooking

You could hear voices murmuring around you - perhaps stationed somewhere above you - though you weren’t currently confident in your spatial awareness. You couldn’t make out what the voices were saying, but you could tell that they were nice; that the voices were lovely.

Or perhaps there wasn’t any voices at all, perhaps it was just a presence; perhaps it was just a lovely presence. Either way, you were sure you felt grateful for it.

“Easy dove, there you are.” You heard whispered as a breath was forcefully exhaled from your lungs. “There you are, you’re alright sweetheart. You can stop the timer, Pads.”

You hadn’t realised you had started crying until someone was shushing you and wiping tears away from your cheeks.

“Remus’ll be right back, angel; he just went to get you some water.” A voice explained from above you; James, it was James’ voice.

It was James’ voice and you were on the floor; how had you ended up on the floor?

You were having dinner; Sirius had made dinner for you all - roast chicken and potatoes. It was supposed to be roast chicken, potatoes, and broccolini, but he had burnt the broccolini.

It had been a lovely meal until it wasn’t; it had been a lovely meal until your mouth started to taste like metal.

“You feeling alright, sweets?” Sirius had asked when you abruptly stopped talking and set your fork down beside your plate.

You were upset - and perhaps a little scared, though this certainly wasn’t anything new - and you hadn’t been ready to admit what you thought was about to happen; not right then, not aloud.

You simply shook your head no.

“Is it Pads’ cooking? Because we can order take away.” James had offered in jest, only cluing in that something was wrong when Remus gently nudged James’ elbow with his knuckles.

“Seizure?” Remus asked simply.

You squeezed your eyes shut - in embarrassment or fear, you weren’t entirely sure - and nodded your head yes.

It was like a switch was flipped and they all fell into business mode.

“I’ll go move the coffee table.” Sirius proclaimed as he hurried from the table towards the living room and James was at your side to help you up.

“I’m sorry.” You gritted out miserably, earning you a sad sigh from James who was all but carrying you into the next room.

“There’s nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart. We’ve got you.”

And you could only trust that this was true as your consciousness began to fade just as your body was lowered onto the carpeted floor.

It had been a seizure, you had a seizure.

“Hey dovey.” You heard above you; a slight breeze prickling your skin alerting you to the fact that Remus had just returned.

A spike of worry surged through your core as you let out a few quick breaths. “Rem.” You sobbed.

The sound of something being set down on the coffee table, James shifting away from you to make room for Remus, and two strong hands cupping each side of your face.

“I’m right here, love. Can you open your eyes for me?” He murmured softly, rubbing at your cheekbones with his thumbs.

A few quick puffs of hair left your lips again, but you were distracted from your panic as you felt gentle fingers press into your calves.

“You’re alright, we’ve got you. Open your eyes, dovey.”

You tried to take in a deep breath as you relented; opening your eyes to have your vision swimming with the sad smile of Remus. “There you are; you’re alright.” He promised you.

“Anything sore?” Sirius asked uncharacteristically quietly for your arguably most boisterous boyfriend as he continued tracing soothing circles on your Achilles tendon.

“I don- I don’t think so.” You whispered through a hiccup.

You heard James whimper in sympathy as his hand appeared on Sirius’ shoulder.

“D’you think you can manage a shower or bath?” Remus asked then, encouraging your eyes back to his as he seemed to survey your face.

You considered the welcoming warmth of a bath or shower, but your stomach seemed to roll at the thought of doing anything other than laying down for the next foreseeable future.

Your face seemed to give away your decision as Remus sighed and pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. “Cuddles it is then, hm?”

James was suddenly behind you pressing an upside down kiss to your forehead before he was encouraging your shoulders upwards into a seated position.

“Water,” Remus started as he placed the glass into your hand. “And paracetamol.”

You took the tablet (as a preemptive solution for a potential headache) and drank the glass of water dutifully earning you two more forehead kisses by Remus and James and a squeeze of your foot by Sirius before James was helping you up and ushering you to the bedroom.

Time seemed to move oddly as someone helped you change into a pair of pyjamas and ease you under the covers of the bed.

“Jamie and I will clean up, m’love; you cooked.” Remus murmured quietly to Sirius who seemed painfully uncomfortable as his eyes darted nervously between you and Remus.

“I think it should be you who stays, Rem.”

James sighed as he rested his hand on the juncture of Sirius’ neck and rubbed at the column of his throat with his thumb. “You know Y/N gets anxious after a seizure, Pads; just like Moony is always the first name you call out after a nightmare, yeah?”

“Siri.” You whimpered; your voice sounding particularly pathetic even to your own ears.

The three boys seemed surprised by your voice, clearly under the impression you’d fallen asleep during their quiet deliberation.

“Jamie and I will clean, Sirius. You’re in charge of snuggle duty.” Remus repeated. And while some apprehension was still obvious in his face, he seemed to concede to your grabby hand and Remus’ imploring gaze.

The two boys left the room as Sirius carefully slid in under the covers beside you.

Out of all of your boyfriends, Sirius was often left the most upset by your episodes; when he felt strong emotions (such as fear or worry), he tended to shut down.

“I ruined dinner.” You pouted as Sirius pulled you into his chest.

He let out a teasing scoff with only half the amount of humour he usually carried. “I ruined dinner by offering to cook, sweetness.”

“You guys didn’t even get to finish eating.” You carried on, tears painfully obvious in your voice which made even more tears well up in your eyes simply in embarrassment for crying.

“No, no baby; none of that now, yeah? I was full, Jamie was ready to order pizza, and I’m pretty sure Remus was feeding the chicken to the cat anyway.” He promised, stamping a kiss to your head and pulling you in closer to his side. “You never ruin anything, ever. You make everything better simply by being there, okay?”

“I don’t mean to scare you.” You whispered, feeling painfully vulnerable and simultaneously wholly safe in Sirius’ arms.

“You don’t scare me. You don’t scare me; I am scared because I feel useless. I hate not knowing what to do for you baby.” He whispered back.

You hummed as if in thought for a few as you felt your eyelids growing heavy. “This.”

“Hm?”

“Do this, just this; that’s what you can do for me.” You slurred as you felt the heavy hands of sleep dragging you further into the mattress beneath you.

You could feel Sirius chuckle - both in the form of the air he breathed into the crown of your head and the gentle rumble of his chest - as he pressed another lingering kiss into your hair. “Consider it done, my love.”

817 notes · View notes

ushiwakatrash · 3 months

Text

The Bakusquad as Roommates

A/N: Hey babes, it's been a while! I've been so busy will college so I really couldn't write. But, yeah, I'm (kinda) back <3333

!Warning!: smoking (weed too)

According to the new rules, UA has decided to place two people per room.

(This deviates from the original plot line)

See the Dekusquad version here.

Bakugou Katsuki 爆豪勝己

Did not like the thought of sharing his space with someone random but as per UA's orders, what choice did he have?

Very clean and very strict about house rules

Will constantly nag about how you can't do chores right

Your first weeks were a disaster. He was so scary and so intimidating, you thought he was the concentrated essence of evil

He's blunt and mean, but you figure out he just has a hard time expressing himself

One morning, he cooked breakfast for you but went with lame excuses like "I accidentally cooked too much." or "You look dead so fuckin' eat!"

Since then you went along with his shitty excuses and used them when giving him dinner

"Bakugou, you can have this 'cause I don't feel like eating anymore." or "They looked good so I bought twice as much for, uh, no reason at all."

Seeing your efforts in trying to be a good roomie, he warmed up to you eventually

Now y'all just argue like an old couple

Kirishima Eijirou 切島鋭児郎

Looks tough, but he’s the sweetest guy you’ve ever met.

A literal angel

Day 1: friends

Day 2: besties

Day 3: you would take a bullet for him

He’s kinda messy and his punching bag takes a lot of space but hey, no one’s perfect

He always waits for you before he eats, and always saves you a plate when you’re running late because of extra training

You seek each other for comfort. Especially when Kiri feels insecure about how his quirk isn’t flashy or how he thinks it won’t make him a top hero one day

You, of course, would never want or let him think that way. It will never be a chore to remind him how he’s so strong and sturdy and how his muscles are hot

You know how much potential he has so if you have to repeat it a thousand times again and again, so be it

MUST PROTECT THIS CINNAMON ROLL

Kaminari Denki 上鳴電気

Had the idea of the old ‘bucket of water on top of the door’ prank as a big welcome to his roomie

What he didn’t calculate is that you have very sharp and fast reflexes.

Before the bucket falls on you, you hit it and the water splashes on Denki

Both of you were stunned at first but you recovered quickly and said “feeling cold, sparky?” with such a smug smirk

His face instantly got red and he stormed out of the room with comical tears shouting ‘MEANIE!!’

An hour later he returns, 2 popsicles in his hands. He hands you one as an apology and both of you reconcile, even if it’s his entire fault

You both get in trouble for blasting heavy metal at 3 in the morning MULTIPLE TIMES

The two of you made an agreement to do this ritual with headphones on because Mr. Aizawa had threatened to make you switch rooms

Sero Hanta 瀬呂範太

Ah, the potheads unite

It was a secret that you tried to keep under wraps since but the your roomie figured you out instantly

At first you both just shared vapes, trying out different flavors the both of you would buy

until you saw a bag in the bathroom that had an oh so familiar scent

You confronted Sero about it but he just gave you a 'what's the big deal' look so you shrugged it off

a few nights later he invited you for a session and you obliged, only if he kept it hush

this has been a routine since you could remember and Aizawa has never suspected you. I don't know about Mr. tape man though.

Ashido Mina 芦戸三奈

There was no adjustment period for the both of you whatsoever

You both became instant besties and shared EVERYTHING

from skincare to clothes to maybe thongs at times but hey, girls do that shit

As if being roommates wasn't enough, you still hung out after class hours

Mina has been your greatest support system especially with boy trouble

Break a man's heart and she's as proud as any mother could be

Your heart is broken? A tub of ice cream and shitty movies are ready for you

She loves you like her own sister and constantly worries for you

Honestly the best roomie in town

𝓜𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽

741 notes · View notes

cordeliawhohung · 22 days

Text

In Limbo [Chapter 15]

mafia!141 masterlist | In Limbo masterlist | general masterlist | taglist | playlist mafia!Simon Riley x fem!Reader

strings attached

cw: hurt, a little bit of comfort, lots of dialogue

wc: 3.7k

Breakfast is ready.

Simon’s message stares at you through your phone screen, and you can do nothing but stare back. Blank eyes, slow blinks. You could smell its arrival before it even buzzed. Sausage links, almost burnt toast, pancakes — or, maybe that’s waffles you smell? He’s been cooking for a while. Slaving over the stove with quiet strings of curses as various utensils clatter onto the floor. It’s similar to the events of last night, when you’re pretty sure you heard him burn himself on the stovetop. The kitchen sink didn’t run for too long before he texted you dinner was ready, but despite all his effort, you couldn’t bring yourself to eat.

The screen turns black and you drop your phone onto the mattress. Pristine white paint coats the ceiling above you as you stare, eyes bleary with less than restful sleep. You attempt to recall the events of yesterday in a way that doesn’t upset your stomach too mercilessly, but it’s an impossible task. Uncovered secrets, acrimonious betrayal; Simon’s eyes. While he was assisting you in setting up his room for you to rest in, every time he looked at you all you saw was pain. As if, for once, he was the one hiding the wounds. Every time he looked at you, it was like rubbing salt in the gash.

He hasn’t slept. You’re certain of it. All night long you could hear the droning of the television from the other side of the door where he rested in the living room. Every half hour he would rise and march off through the front door. When he returned, the strong scent of tobacco would waft into the room through some unseen cracks. Seeping through the space beneath the door as if it was a love note and not ash. After a handful of times, he stopped leaving. Instead, he stayed bound to the living room where you could hear the tiniest metal tinkering and quiet muttering. Fingers too twitchy to stay still.

Guilt absumes you. Patiently and gradually. You think of Simon having to shove himself on some couch in his own home — how you had once fought against the idea only a few days ago — and your self hatred grows. It swells in your chest, expanding to the point where you’ll burst. It forces you to bury your face into the pillows beneath your head, but hiding from a man in his own bed only unravels you further.

Every scrap of cloth that makes up this bed smells like him. Like Simon. Earthy and warm — if you would have known the very scent that comforted you in Manchester would only rip you apart once you returned to London, you don’t think you would have ever allowed yourself to become so attached. But it’s too late. You are swathed in it. It permeates the clothes you wear and the hair on your head, and you can’t escape it. You’ve never been good at running from the things you fear, let alone the things you love.

Heavy footsteps drown out your sniffling as they approach the door. It’s sudden. Sneaky. Heart stopping, you hold your breath as you await something. You think Simon will burst through the door. Shake some sense into you. Spit out that you’ve had enough time to think through your feelings. Instead, there’s nothing but the gentle knock of china against the wood floor just beyond the door, followed by fading thumps.

Your phone buzzes again.

Food is at the door for when you’re ready, sweetheart.

Simon sets his phone on the coffee table and then stares at his food. He tells himself it’s nothing special, but it is. More effort was put into this meal than ones he normally makes for himself, and his heart aches as he stares at it. He wants to hear your fork scrape against the plate and your teeth grind the food. He wants to hear every time you swallow a sip of water; wants to feel your weight next to him. Instead, all he gets is the quiet sound of running water spewing through the showerhead in the master bathroom.

Once it’s evident that you — once again — will not be joining him for the meal, he eats. Each bite is hesitant. Simon isn’t exactly a cook, but he knows he’s not terrible and nothing tastes how it’s supposed to. It’s not as vibrant or as welcoming. Some pale imitation of what food is supposed to be. Each bite slithers down his throat as he contemplates his options; the things he needs to do to keep you safe. His mind is frozen on the images of you from last night. Curling away from his touch with wide eyes — that betrayal scrawled over your face.

Despite the churning in his stomach, Simon finishes every bite of breakfast. Heavy weights pull at his shoulders as he cleans up the mess he made in the kitchen. His ears stay perked for the sound of creaking wood. He yearns for it. The sound of you exiting the bedroom. The quiet rumble of your voice as you say his name. He gets nothing but silence, and that terrible void persists even as he goes to check the plate of food he left for you. Everything is just as he left it. Not a single crumb out of place. It goes into the trash. When you eat, he’ll make you something fresh; he wouldn’t make you scarf down something cold.

Things are still quiet by the time lunch rolls around. Simon’s thumbs tap away at his phone as he texts you another pathetic message over another ready meal. When he hits send, he scrolls back through his previous messages. How he informed you that breakfast was ready this morning and dinner the night before. How you ignored both of them. How it’s been nearly twenty four hours since you last ate. He’s been counting the hours. The minutes. The seconds.

When ten minutes pass and you’re still locked away in the confines of his bedroom, Simon rises to his feet. Plate in hand, he approaches the door with attentive ears. For a moment he stands and listens for any sign of life: a sniffle, a shuffle, anything. Some proof that you’re there.

There is nothing.

“Sweetheart?” He knocks on the door with a single knuckle and it still feels too loud. Too harsh. Like the sound alone will shatter you. “Baby?”

He waits with bated breath for anything from you. Eyes wandering to the sandwich in his hands, he sighs before knocking on the door once more.

“Chip… you don’t have to talk to me, but I’m not gonna let you starve yourself. You gotta eat something.”

Silence stretches so long that his hand nearly shoots to the knob, fearing the worst. That you’ve vanished. That you’re gone; or worse. Before his fingertips even graze against the metal, the door opens with a small gust of wind from the force. The faint scent of your body soap washes over him and for a moment, all the frayed nerves sizzling in his body settle. He holds out the plate for you to take, and you stare up at him and his bobbing throat for a moment before you relieve him of the object.

“Let’s eat.” Your voice is hoarse. Rough like the chords in your throat are too tight, but he doesn’t mention it. Surprised that you don’t just take the plate and run back into hiding, he nods, stepping to the side to lead you into the living room.

Neither of you speak while you sit together, though Simon tries. His weight shifts on the couch as he pushes a glass of water your way, muttering something about you being dehydrated. He’s not wrong. Your tongue feels like sandpaper against the roof of your mouth and you can feel the way your skin shrinks around your body, pulling everything taut to the point of snapping. So you sip. Enough to wet your tongue and get your throat to stop sticking to itself. Enough that Simon’s shoulders slouch, no longer plagued by tension.

Each bite is agonizing. Bland and tasteless — though you know it’s not because of Simon. Your sandwich is well prepared with meats, cheeses, and the works. It’s difficult to enjoy them when a raging nervosity ravages your stomach. Angers the bile until it’s jumping up your throat. You’re only able to eat half of it before your body begins to protest. Contracting muscles, breath hitching in your throat; you feel as if you’re going to be sick.

“I have work tonight,” you blurt out. Might as well let the words spew from your mouth before the vomit growling in your stomach does. “Here in a few hours, actually.”

Simon swallows the last bite of his sandwich before dusting his hands clean. “You should call out. Would be better if you weren’t workin’ for now.”

You scoff. The words that leave his mouth sound utterly insane. You attempt to recall the last time you called out of work willingly. A time that wasn’t Bruce fathering you and forcing you to go home for your own wellbeing. There are bills to pay — debts you owe — and the thought of skipping out on work makes your stomach sink.

“I can’t just stop working,” you retort. You speak to him like he’s a stranger. As if he’s overstepping further than he should. “I don’t exactly have an exorbitant amount of cash in my savings. I’ve still got rent and-”

“I’ll take care of that,” Simon interjects. “Anythin’ you need. Money, clothes, food. I’ll take care of it.”

If the previous words Simon spoke were insane, then this is barbaric. Hands gripping your plate, you look at him with narrowed eyes. “I can’t let you do that.”

“It’s safer this way,” he attempts to assure.

“So I’m just supposed to stay here? Under lock and key and pretend the outside world doesn’t exist? That’s not realistic and you know it.”

“Andrei had pictures of you.”

Everything goes quiet. So much so you swear you can hear your heart rattling in your chest. It echoes up your spine, along your neck, and reverberates in your skull like a wailing drum in the distance. You think of what he means by that: pictures of you. Then your mind wanders. Someplace dark and macabre. It wanders far enough that — for a fleeting moment — you swear you smell mint. Once more your throat goes dry and your fingers itch for the glass of water in front of you, but you aren’t brave enough to reach for it.

“What do you mean?” you choke out.

“That night in the alley? Andrei met up with someone who works at the club,” Simon explains, voice careful and even. “Some poor kid just tryin’ to make his way through uni. Someone Andrei probably cornered tryin’ to go into his shift. I talked to ‘im wantin’ to figure out what he wanted with you. Kid said Andrei was askin’ questions ‘bout why you were at the club, things of that sort. Even had pictures of you so the kid would know who he was talkin’ about.”

“Pictures?” you repeat.

Simon nods. “Didn’t see ‘em myself, but the kid said the pictures were taken through a window of what looked like a restaurant. Means they probably follow you ‘round more often than you think. Don’t feel comfortable with you bein’ there if they’re lurking. Harder to protect you that way. Best if you stayed well away from the club, too. Bastard’s have eyes everywhere.”

He sounds so… nonchalant. Like these words have been rehearsed and thought again and again until every detail is ironed and neat. Twitchy fingers rise to his chin as he scratches at the stubble growing there, eyes finally finding you. The alarum raging in your stomach rolls off of your body in visible swirls. He sees the way it churns in your eyes; the gravity of the situation crashing down upon you. Its weight crushes you, and you choke on your own spit in an attempt to wet your tongue.

“Okay. Fine, so I stay here then,” you give in. Your attempt at sounding strong and sure of yourself fails the moment your breath shakes. “But I’ve still got my apartment to worry about. All those bills, paying Marco back…”

“I’ll take care of it,” Simon reiterates. “All of it. Any damages left at your apartment, the debt Marco forced on you, all of it.”

You scoff, but your bottom lip is trembling. “I know better than to get tangled up in shit like that. There’s not a single bit of coin in the world that doesn’t come without strings attached.”

“You wouldn’t owe me anything. I don’t work like that.”

“Yeah, but Marco does. Look, I get it. I know Row asked you to look after me, and I’m sure John’s little mafia, or whatever, has more resources than I can fucking imagine but… I don’t think you understand. You keep saying that you’ll get me out of this mess or that we’ll work through it together but I know better than that. I don’t just get to go on living knowing the things that I do, Simon. There’s not a chance in hell that he’d let me go that easily.”

“I got Tommy out of his mess with Marco, I’ll get you out of yours.”

There’s a brief moment where Simon’s words refuse to properly string themselves together in your mind. Tommy. Mess. Out. Marco. Disconnected and disjointed. Raddled, you shake your head like you can’t understand a single word that left his mouth.

“He went after your brother?” you ask in disbelief.

For the first time since you met him, Simon looks away from you. Leaning back, weight settling into the couch, he stares at the television with empty eyes as if the images flashing before him are not the ones he’s truly witnessing. Your fingers interlace with one another, as if you don’t know what to do with your hands if you cannot hold or be held.

“I used to box back home in Manchester. Illegally,” he begins. “Underground sorta shit where people would place bets. Every time I won, I got a cut of the pot which I’d give to my mum. Tommy was into drugs at the time. He would beg her for money and she’d give it to him because she loves him. She didn’t wanna see ‘im out on the street, but I didn’t wanna see her wastin’ away, so I did what I could.

“Price approached me one night after a match. Said he liked my skills. Wanted to hire me, and I knew exactly what he was talkin’ about. Didn’t want any part of whatever the hell he was doin’ so I told ‘im to fuck off. Bastard gave me his card anyway. Dunno why I held onto it. Came in handy though ‘cause Tommy ended up getting into the shit with Marco’s boys. Was workin’ as a butcher at the time and he came stormin’ into the shop beggin’ for money like some goddamn vagabond. Turns out he was actively on the run from Marco’s men, and they followed him to the shop. Pulled a knife out, ready to gut him.”

Simon stares at his hands. Wide palms roughened from old work and new work. Still stained with viscera and blood like a noisome odor that he can’t wash away.

“What… happened?” you question cautiously. Pulling your legs up onto the couch, you turn to fully face him. He’s never spoken to you like this before. As if he’s in the past. Telling you some story. Sharing the parts of him that haven’t seen the light of day in eons.

“I fought. Hard as I could. Tommy might be older, but I’ve always been bigger. Too strong for my own good. It all happened so fast, things like that always do, but I ended up killing one of them. He was gonna pull a gun on us and I… I don’t regret it. I’d do whatever it took to save him. Cops came, determined everything was done in self defense, let us off the hook, but Tommy wasn’t safe. I knew he wasn’t. They’d just keep comin’ and comin’ so I called Price. Took his offer. Hardly started workin’ for him and he gave me the money Tommy owed like it was nothing. Seventy five thousand quid like it was fuckin’ pocket change.”

Eyes widening, something flickers inside of you. A sputtering sanguinity that sparks and wavers, trying so hard to tear tinder from your bones and ignite into a blaze. It buzzes and vibrates until you can hardly sit still.

“And they let him go? Once everything was paid they just…?” You try to choke the question out, but the idea of freedom is so foreign to you that it refuses to dance on your tongue.

Simon’s lips press together as he shakes his head. “Course not. They always want more. But I did it. Settled his debt, and got Makarov’s men to fuck off outta Manchester. Been over six years and they haven’t so much as looked his way.”

Nodding, you swallow. “What… What more did they make you do? To fully forgive the debt?”

A commercial blares over the television. Advertisements always seem twice as loud than the program they play between, and you nearly flinch at the upbeat music and overly joyous narrator. Simon doesn’t. Steady as a rock, he continues to stare at his hands. Stiff fingers clench and unclench, joints aching with abuse.

“Nothin’ good,” he answers truthfully. “Doesn’t matter. I’d do it again. I’d do all of it again. No one messes with my family. No one messes with—” my girl “—you and gets away with it.”

For a moment, you believe him. That you can get out of this mess. You think of how he fought Andrei and won. How those hands broke a man’s nose and then turned to gently lead you to safety. You think about how those hands held you in Manchester close to a warm chest, how those scarred lips pressed against the crown of your head, and you think — for the first time in a long time — that you might be okay. That you can finally exist without strings attached.

“Thank you.”

Those words finally pull Simon’s attention away from his hands. He looks at you tenderly as you curl into the couch; some feral stray finally settling into the warmth he brings.

“I’ve got work tonight. I’ll talk to Price, assumin’ he’s back from his trip. See ‘bout getting gettin’ the money and we can take it from there,” he says with a curt nod.

“What?” you breathe. “No. No, no you can’t tell John about this. Or Row. Anyone. Please, promise me you’ll keep this between us.”

Brows furrowing together, Simon shifts on the couch. “They’re not gonna hold this against you, sweetheart.”

“I got Row’s dad killed,” you retort, voice fracturing. The words shatter in your throat. Bleed all over your tongue. The taste makes you sick. “She can’t… I couldn’t face her if she ever found out. If she ever put two and two together knowing about Marco’s involvement. If you tell them I’m in the shit with Makarov- fuck, she’s too smart. Simon, it’d fucking kill me. I couldn’t… I couldn’t ever face her with the truth.”

“You said it yourself. You were just a kid,” he attempts to rationalize.

“It doesn’t matter.” Your words are sharp. Honed enough to slice the molecules in the air. Surprised the very air itself hasn’t ignited, you stare at him with wide eyes as you try to suck in the breath to continue. “It doesn’t matter. All of this, it stays between us. Please. Tell me you’ll keep this secret.”

All rationality leaves Simon the moment your voice begins to warble. Eyes glistening with fat tears lurking in the corners of your eyes, his fingers twitch. His thumbs crave the moisture. To wipe at them until they’re nothing but a memory. Then he remembers yesterday — how you flinched at his touch — and he keeps his hands to himself.

“Okay. Just you and me, then,” he confirms. “It’ll take me some time to get the money then, but we’ll sort this out, yeah?”

It feels like forever since he’s last seen a smile flicker along your lips. It’s puny. Hardly noticeable, but it’s there.

“Thank you,” you choke out.

“Anythin’ for you, sweetheart.”

Simon rises after that. Towers to his feet where he bends to grab the dirty plates sitting before you on the coffee table. He makes no comment about your half finished sandwich, but he does motion toward the unfinished glass of water.

“Should drink up. Last thing you need is to be dehydrated,” he fusses.

His footsteps grow quiet as he leaves the living room and you are left alone with nothing but the company of the television still droning in front of you. Water gushes through the faucet in the sink, and you hear the gentle clinking of china as he washes up. The domesticity of it all isn’t lost on you, and for once it isn’t agonizing to experience. You can sit there on that couch and reach for the glass before you and not feel the hot breath of obligation down the back of your neck. All Simon has ever done is give and give, and never once has he taken a single thing.

When you raise the glass to your lips, you realize things feel lighter. Not enough to keep from crushing you — not enough to cleanse you — but enough for you to notice. It’s contradicting. Subtle, yet glaring. For the first time since you got in this mess, you realize you finally have another shoulder to bear this burden. Hands to dust you off when you fall to the ground; to pull the glass from your palms and bandage them. A heart to listen to when yours refuses to quell.

Finally, you are not alone, and what a terrifying thought that is.

#simon riley x reader #ghost x reader #simon ghost riley x reader #mafia!ghost #mafia!141 #in limbo #f!reader

448 notes · View notes

luna-rainbow · 5 months

Text

Bucky’s metal arm has touch sensors. They’ve just never been calibrated properly. The soldier learned only what was important to him on the field, the cold hard metal of a gun and how much pressure to use when pulling the trigger.

Steve notices this, as he helps Bucky settle in to his new life. He sees Bucky touching the soft flannel bedsheets first with his right hand, then with his left hand, brows knitted in deep concentration.

Uncertainly, Steve asks if he doesn’t like it, if it is too warm or too soft—

“Soft,” Bucky picks up the word from Steve’s ramble. He lowers his head and looks at the pastel sheets between his fingers, and repeats. “Soft.”

The cotton tee, the woollen cardigan, the denim pants, the mesh sneakers, he gently rubs each textile between his fingers with both hands. He does the same when in the kitchen, running his fingers lightly over the coarse heads of a cauliflower, the pockmarked rind of an orange, the sharp stalks of rosemary, the glossy skin of a plum.

His vocabulary recovers more with time, and whenever Steve asks how it feels, he can give a few extra words — firm, smooth, hard, sharp, rough. On the occasions he says the word soft, his whole expression relaxes and all the lines soften, and Steve wishes he could swathe the man with everything soft and fluffy just to keep it there.

They sit down to watch TV after dinner. lt’s their ritual. A time when they sit together silently — when Bucky gets used to being in the same physical space, without feeling the pressure to make conversation. It seems silly but Steve has seen the difference it has made, from Bucky wedging himself into the other end of the couch, to now relaxing next to him, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they reach for the crackers on the table.

This has been a particularly long day, Steve having just returned from a 3 day mission where he barely caught a wink. About ten minutes into the soothing documentary about red pandas, he is fast asleep. He wakes to something brushing against his hand, light and tremulous. Then something a little cooler and a lot harder does the same, and he realises what it is.

Bucky snatches his hands back when Steve opens his eyes. He says guiltily, “Sorry.”

Steve reaches out and rests his palm over Bucky’s metal fingers. “How does it feel?”

Bucky searches his face warily, and then he relaxes. Steve feels a light tickle as the small metal plates whir quietly under his hand.

“Soft,” Bucky answers. After a moment, he adds, “Warm.”

Steve threads his fingers through the metal ones, and holds the hand close. After a little while, he feels the metal fingers curl slowly until they rest, ever so gently, against the back of his hand.

“Tingly,” Bucky suddenly says, out of nowhere.

Steve smiles and answers, “Same.” He points to his chest, “Here.”

He can see the concern and confusion as Bucky glances a few times at his ribs.

One day, Bucky will understand what that means. Steve looks down at their linked fingers and runs his thumb along the metal plates, drawing a slight shiver from the man beside him.

This is a good start.

#stucky #bucky barnes #steve rogers #stucky fanfiction #ficlet

716 notes · View notes

downtherabbitholewithlucy · 2 years

Text

The crimes I would commit for this man...

#I'd let him have full control of my entire body and just ruin me #I mean his stare here looks like he is about to devour me and my ass is over here already lying on a dinner plate like DIG IN WES #okay this is my last post on the 'ol tumblr for tonight. I gotta get to bed cuz I got work in the morning🙄😭#Wes Borland #Limp Bizkit #nu-metal #Black Light Burns #down the rabbit hole

18 notes · View notes

m0nsterqzzz · 6 months

Text

The Three Times Natasha Proposed to You and the One Time You Said Yes

pairing: Natasha Romanoff x reader

summary: your girlfriend has a habit of proposing, and you have a habit of saying no.

a/n: I was gonna do this with katniss but decided it worked better with my favorite spy and also its been way to long since I wrote for herrrrrr ahhhh anyway, I LOVE HER YOUR HONOR

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

The first time Natasha proposed to you, you had only known her for 18 hours.

You were new to the team. So new in fact that you only knew three people’s names at a table with eight people since the other five were too busy all day to introduce themselves. Dinner was awkward, for you at least, as everyone else was busy chatting about their days with each other. They’re laughing, the bond they all share clear as joy feels the air.

You don’t feel that joy.

It’s not like you’re not happy to be here; you’re insanely grateful that Fury was willing to see past your history and allow you to join forces such as the incredible ones around you, but you just don’t feel very welcomed.

You don’t blame the team. After all, it’s only the first day, and Fury already told you about the fact that most of the people on that team aren’t very warm and friendly. It does kind of bug you though, how now the people you’re not familiar with even seem to notice your presence in the group.

It’s just the first day. Things will get better. You repeat for the 100th time, eyes trained on the table as you spoon some more of the food that was in the kitchen when Jarvis called for you into your mouth. It’s chicken over rice, a simple recipe, but the chicken is covered in some type of delicious sauce that you can’t get enough of.

“Is the food okay? It’s my family's recipe.” A girl with brunette hair and jade colored eyes sitting across from you speaks, nervously smiling as she pushes her fork around the food on her plate. She’s young, younger than everyone else on the team, and it makes you feel a bit better about being new as you remember what Fury said about her only joining about half a year ago.

You give a hesitant smile, answering honestly; “Oh…yeah. I love it. It’s delicious.”

The girl smiles brighter, reaching across the table to hold out her hand for you to shake. “It’s nice to officially meet you. Fury’s told me alot about you. I’m Wanda.”

“All good things I hope.” You giggle before introducing yourself, and she laughs along with you before you both go back to eating. The rest of the team slowly introduces themselves, and out of the corner of your eye you go see the way Wanda cringes when they only do it after she gave an example.

Even if they only did it once the girl made them realize, you still feel a bit more comfortable here then you did a while ago.

You notice Wanda eyeing your rings as you guys continue to eat, so you put your hand on the table in between you too. Her eyes shoot up to you in surprise, clearly not knowing that you noticed it. “Sorry for the staring. I just…I really like your rings. I love wearing them myself and I’ve never seen any like that. They’re beautiful.”

That’s how you guys start up in a conversation about rings, and then a few minutes later you’re sliding off one of your rings to give to her. She seems like the nicest person here, and you can already tell you’re going to be great friends. When you get it off, it accidently flies out of your hand, bouncing on the table before it falls off and lands somewhere on the floor. You turn red in embarrassment at the way everyone falls silent, staring at you in amusement before a redheaded woman slides out of her seat and kneels down on one knee to search for the item.

You met her earlier when you went to the gym to train, and she even helped you learn a few awesome fighting moves before she left to let you do your own thing. You can’t deny that Natasha is beautiful.

The woman smiles when she finds it, grasping the metal in her hand before she turns to face you, still on one knee as she holds it out for you to take as if she’s proposing.

If she notices the way it looks, she doesn’t say anything until Tony, the man you met when he blew up a lab earlier, laughs and mumbles under his breath, “I’m not paying for that wedding.”

You giggle, watching as Natasha stands up and turns to glare at him before facing you once again and putting it on the table near your plate. “Shut up Tony.” She mumbles before sitting back down in her own seat, and you say before shoving food into your mouth when the embarrassment sets in, “I’m not ready to settle down. Sorry Nat.”

Everyone just chuckles, and you are left with a small smile and new found happiness.

The second time she’d done it, she’d almost had you fooled that it was real.

You and her had been dating for three months, and you guys were absolutely inseparable. You’ve learned a lot about her in the year you’ve been an Avenger, and she sometimes opens up about her past. Her little sister, the red room, Dreykov.

Anyway, Fury had sent you on a mission with her, your best friend Wanda, and Steve Rogers to go and steal a flash drive from a destroyed hydra base then find some place quickly to look at what's on it. He said to find the nearest place as people would already be on the search for us, so that's why you got Nat to pull over at a mall. Not for clothes or a new pair of shoes, but to go into one of the electronic stores and use one of their computers to read what's on the file.

It was easy until Natasha noticed one of the workers looking at Steve in suspicion as they see him inserting the drive into one of the computers, and you’re about to abort the mission before your girlfriend grabs your hands and tugs you to the middle of the store, dropping into one knee and glancing at Wanda. The witch seems to get the hint even though you don’t understand what's happening, but you do when the young girl uses her magic to make a ring appear in Natashas hand. It’s beautiful, but you can tell it’s just an illusion to fool the people around you as small red whisps surround your best friend's hands.

“I’ve loved you since the day I met you.” The redhead starts, loud enough to attract the attention of everyone in the store but too loud as to not seem unusual. “I know you’re having my brother's baby,” She continues with that most serious face you’ve ever seen, and you have to try your hardest not to burst out laughing. “But I can treat you better than he ever could.”

The whole crowd of people in the store are now focused on you, even the workers which gives Steve the time he needs to enter the hard drive into one of the computers and read what's on it.

“So what do you say hottie? You wanna do this or not? Marry me?” You stare at her for a few minutes, eyes glancing at the blonde haired man who silently laughs at the scene in front of him before sending you a thumbs up to show he’s done and you guys can go.

“No!” Everyone quietly gasps, all looking away as Natasha fakes offense. “No! What the fuck? What kind of proposal is this? I’m just trying to buy a new phone, Stacy! And you’ve got a huge barbecue stain on that sweater. This is truly the best you could do?”

You're having way too much fun with it as you scoff before gently slapping her, trying your hardest not to laugh at the way everyone gasps even louder while you storm out.

Your friends and girlfriend quickly catch up with you, and you all finally burst out laughing by the time you’re getting in the car and driving away from the mall right as some scary looking military vehicle pulls up to the building. “Did you have to slap me?” Natasha laughs out, the ring box Wanda had magically created is now gone as she sits next to you in the back seat. “I feel like you enjoyed that way too much.”

“I did enjoy it. I’m also just practicing for the day you do propose to me.” She lets out a fake annoyed groan, slinging an arm over your shoulder as she pulls you to lay against her side.

Despite the playful mood, you can’t help but feel a fluttery feeling in your chest and a warm blush coating your face at the thought of being married to this girl. Little did you know, she was feeling the exact same.

When she did it a third time, it almost seemed like it was second nature for her to pull out a ring box and propose to you.

You had just got back to the Avengers tower after a lunch date, and she froze on the doorstep when she realized you were no longer beside her. She turns in circles, panic filling her when she doesn’t see you. She’s a spy for fuck sakes, how could she have not noticed something happening to you.

Her panic fades when you pop out from behind a thick tree, a snowball made from the small amount of snow on the grass in hand as you send her a mischievous smile. She doesn’t have any time to move before you’re launching it in her direction, practically falling over with laughter as it hits her forehead and then breaks into pieces.

The redhead still seems a bit shocked, but she quickly gets over it as she groans with a grin and runs over to harshly tackle you to the ground. It knocks the wind out of you, but you’re both still laughing so hard your stomach hurts as she grabs some snow from beside your head and then lets it fall onto you. “You wanna play that fucking game? Oh we can play that game honey.”

You shake your head, but the bright smile on your face tells her that you’re not actually scared. “No. I’m sorry Tasha. We can talk this out.” When she makes a, “tsk…tsk” noise with her mouth, you use all your strength to push her off of you, sprinting towards your home even though you can hear the sound of Natasha’s boots hastily crunching the snow beneath them as she runs after you.

She wraps her arms around your waist, easily picking you up off the ground and spinning you around. As cringy as it is, your laugh makes her laugh, and the moment is so perfect as she slowly lets you down so she can look you in the eyes.

“Wait a second.” Natasha mumbles, before grabbing something from her pocket, telling you to turn around for a minute while she makes you a surprise. You draw shapes in the snow in the meantime, your fingers practically numb but by the time you’re done, every planet is drawn into the frozen canvas. “Alright. Turn around.” She speaks again, and your smile grows- if possible- at the sight.

She’s messily formed a ring with the wrapper from a straw at dinner, and now she’s balanced on one knee in the icy snow as she grins up at you. “Will you marry me, and be mine forever?”

You pretend to think about it for a moment, finally holding at your left hand for her to put the ring on as you yell out, “Of course I’ll marry you!”

The russian girl laughs, once again picking you up to twirl you around before she sets you down to kiss you easier.

From a window high up in the Avengers tour, Wanda watches the interaction while drinking her tea and then closing her curtains. “When is she gonna do it for real?” She whispers to herself, already so done with the fact that Natasha has proposed to you three times, and yet she hasn’t been able to wear a pretty bridesmaid dress in her whole live.

The day Natasha proposed in the privacy of the cabin Tony’s letting you borrow for a weekend, twinkling lights dressing the living room and the dining table decorated with candles, rose petals and fancy wine that’s probably from Pepper, was the time you know she wasn't kidding.

As the sun sets behind the clouds, you and Natasha sit across from each other with your free hands hooked together beside your plates. The setting sun casts gentle rays upon your face from the window, illuminating your features with a golden light. You two share a quiet, comfortable silence for a moment before she looks up from her plate to you, a smile gracing her lips. You look at Natasha, heart beating softly in your chest from the soft, gentle atmosphere of the moment. She lets go of her fork to use that hand to grab ahold of your other hand, your fingertips intertwined gently. Your eyes meet across the table, and for a second it’s just you guys in the world.

The girl then speaks, her words sincere and clear, as she makes her proposal. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you; I’ve wanted to since the first date we went on. I was scared though…..scared of finding someone I love in a world that could take it away so easily. But now….now I realize. It doesn’t matter. As long as I get to be with you for what time we have left, it’s worth it. So," she says softly, tilting her head to the side and smiling as she grabs a ring box from her pocket and opening it so you can see the diamond ring inside before standing up from her seat so she can get down on one knee next to the table.

"Will you marry me?"

The question hangs in the air as you gaze into the girl's eyes and processes the words. Your mind reels from the unexpectedness of it all, but you also can't help the surge of joy welling in her chest.

“Yes. Yes of course I will!” Her grin brightens, and she’s still kneeled as she wraps her arms around your waist to hug you as tight as she can. You join her on your knees so you’re on her level, grabbing her face with both hands and pulling her into a passionate kiss. You would’ve married her the first time she asked, but you’re somehow glad you waited until now to say yes. This is perfect.

☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆☆

#natasha romanoff x you #marvel x reader #natasha romanoff #natasha romanoff x reader #marvel #marvel x you

1K notes · View notes

yandere-wishes · 4 months

Text

⋆⋅☆⋅⋆Doc-Ringo⋆⋅☆⋅⋆

✮ Yandere! Boothill x Reader

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ Plot: There's a slick black-clad little gal who's been messing with his bounties recently. Boothill's been dying to rustle her up and take a bite

⁀➷ Warnings: Yandere behavior, blood, and gore, war trauma, Genie trying to do a cowboy accent.

⁺₊𝄞₊⁺: Crimson and Clover by Joan Jett

And I don't hardly know her,

But I think I can love her,

Ah, now when she comes walking over,

I've been waiting to show her,

My mind's such a sweet thing

I want to do everything

What a beautiful feeling

It's not like the movies, they fed us on little white lies.

~💜

The first time he sees you there's a tempest of bullets rattling off his chest. Metal singing metal, as shells vie for an opening. It's all very lethal,

like the center of a rabid dust storm. Kissing death and sucking in her poison. Boothill can't tell where the bullets are coming from only that there's a dozen at a time ringing over his head. He shields his face with the metal of his forearms peaking through the gap to catch a glimpse of black.

Pure black.

That's the first thing he notices as your frenzy yields, You're clad in black from head to toe, even going so far as to dawn an eerie familiar mask. He's seen this scene play out somewhere before, he just can't remember where. "Morning mister", he likes that voice, jejune and teeming with confidence. It reminds him of himself, back when the sunset used to mean something and he could still feel wheat stocks under his soft palms.

"Howdy lil'lady I reckon you're in my way. Mind stepping aside before you get yourself hurt?" Your answer comes in the form of an aimed pistol, spine straight, midnight serape caught on the wind. He thinks you look a little too much like the folks back home -back when there was a home- blood boiling over eager for a fight. His bounty is standing just over yonder, blocked partly by your stubborn shadow. Boothill doesn't think twice before firing two rounds.

He's met with four...

He's in a cheap motel on Penacony, screwing in bolts that came loose. In the end, you laid claim to his bounty. Dragging him away to the hills. He's left growling at the thought, bested by a muddle-fudging fox. Lil gal probably ain't never even been in a proper shoot-out. The screwdriver cracks under his metal fingers. Boothill ain't about to start letting some pretty little thing get in the way of him and his targets.

The TV screen flickers to a melancholy monochrome. The films are old, distorted, crippled in parts. But he keeps them around, much like everything else about him, it's a bygone thing refusing to die.

He still likes to play them from time to time, trying to elicit the tastes of home. Hearing Nick and Graey setting plates out for dinner as his siblings rush downstairs. The movies are older than the new universe in more ways than one.

They come from a simpler time.

He'd always wondered why someone would bother painting such precious things in black and white. Spilling melancholia into picture frames, leaving everything tasting of vodka and vanilla.

It doesn't matter though, not really. All that matters is the sound of hooves on sand and bullets shooting. So long as the cowboys live their stories, everything else can be forgiven.

But this time something's off. The bandit's black mask shines through, gleaming something awful making him grind his sharp teeth. That damn mask, sitting pretty over a sly smirk. it reminds him of you, little cutie with your slick attitude. What bandit goes around doing hero's work anyway? What kinda twisted little lady are you?

He's getting mighty sick of this. Do you think you own the universe or something? "Been seeing way too much of you lately." There's sand in his Synesthesia Beacon his voice coming out horse, brittle. He kicks the head of an IPC lackey trying to drive home a point. "You getting on my nerves cutie". The ground looks nothing short of a graveyard, bodies scattered some piled. The blood paints the sands in a deep maroon, reflecting the glint of the distant stars. The last soldier is cowering behind you, his whimpers singing in Boothill's ears, one more bullet, that's all it'll take. "This one's mine" you mutter, and he wonders for a moment if the dry weather is getting to you too. "Not a chance pumpkin" his gun's drawn, firing bullets before you can even feel for your holster. The smirking bullet impales your abdomen, aimed point blank at the officer's head. But before the last body can be claimed you kick the man out of the way.

"Damn it" Boothill's anger is tangible, he knows you can feel it between your teeth. He's going to kill you, tear off that star-saken mask, and riddle you with bullets. You're getting too confident.

He doesn't notice your bullets at first. Protostars trying to act all rough and mighty. There's a temporary cluster of dust, a fraction of a second where his eyes aren't pinning you down. That's all it takes and then you're off. Sinking into the darkness and swimming away, taking his target with you.

It's only after the initial anger wears off that Boothill notices a tear on his thigh. A letter scrawled on the frayed leather of his pants. So you've started leaving your own marks, ay cutie?

He almost wishes he could feel the sting of your blade on his flesh. Feel your nails scrapping along his shoulders as he pins you to the ground.

Boothill fires at the moon.

Next time.

Next time for sure....

He's been chasing you for some time now. But catching up with you isn't as easy as he first thought. Seems like you go wherever the wind takes you and he's too busy with revenge to be following your capricious whims. The IPC ain't going to kill itself you know. And Boothill damn well wishes you'd start sitting still. He's heard from a reliable source that the IPC soldiers are throwing a little get to together down in one of the bars. Just a happy birthday for a colleague, nothing fancy. The thought alone makes his mouth water, place will be crawling with pests just waiting to be gunned down. Maybe tomorrow he'll try looking for you again, but tonight? Tonight's his night.

The neons have dulled now, they never were terribly bright to begin with. Penacony may be the land of dreams but not even dreams can stop reality from seeping through. The bar's loud, some new pop singer's music blasting from every speaker. Boothill downs his drink, liking how the ice cubes chime like a bad omen. He shoots the speakers first, needing some peace to focus on what comes next. The peace corp's lackeys are drunk, they stumble over themselves trying to reach him. He shoots each one like a kid playing carnival games. It's almost too easy...

The door is stampeded over by a heard of reinforcements. Somehow even in his drunken daze one of those yella-bellied lapdogs called for help. They're swarming the place like panicked rats, pushing past tables and chairs. Firearms aimed at his head. And for the first time, in a long, long time, Boothill feels a sliver of panic run down his bionic spine.

Motherfudger...

Boothill hears the familiar tumult of bodies hitting the ground before he sees what's actually going on. He feels you before he actually sees you. You're pushed up against his back, guns drawn locked, and loaded. "Heard you needed some help" Even though you offer your usual bravado, Boothill still picks up the nervous lilt in your voice, despite everything he thinks he likes it. It almost tastes sweet. "Best get away before you get yourself hurt little fox." "And let you have all the fun? Never."

"Certe murmur pugnando" Boothill laughs, he remembers those very words coming from a buddy of his before a duel. 'At least we'll die fighting' Somethings never change, even if you've carved out every principle from your body with a rusted kitchen knife. You'll always have those pesky morals stuck inside. He hears you chuckle, wonders if you find it odd that a rowdy galaxy ranger such as himself knows a dead language.

Well, he knows a lot about the dead.

The shoot-out lasts longer than he'd have expected.

But the real surprise lies in how neither of you are dead. Boothill's half laid across the bar, looking at you from under his hat. You're making him a drink following his instruction like a good little wife, not contradiction dressed in ebony. Gunpowder withers on his tongue, the bullet smoke permeates the air mixing with the gleeful tang of spilled blood. "Your drinks sure are complicated" you mutter pushing him his cup before picking up a bottle and reading its labels. "What's so hard about it pumpkin? Little bit of white gem and gin. All's you need." He sips your drink slowly, savoring your flavor. He imagines he's gulping you down, holding you for ransom behind his teeth, feeling your delicate little fists pounding against him. "I don't drink" you mumble as you sit across from him, you look so damn elegant, like a little princess from a fairy tale he use to read to a certain someone. You drink deeply from your glass of ice and water. Boothill focuses on the gentle motion of your throat. He licks his lips, trying to push down the thought of ringing such a fragile thing between his palms.

"So little lady, s'about time you start answering some questions...The hell you doing? Running off with my targets?" You set your cup down, eyes locking on his, there's the deficiency he's missed all night. The trigger hair that's just waiting for the right push. "They're not your targets...not really. They're just people. People whose planet got muffed up. I've been trying to gather them all in one place." For a second Boothill thinks you're talking about his planet, his home, his people. But it only takes one more look at you to understand.

"So, how'd yours die?" There's shrapnel in his throat when he asks, open wounds bleeding once more, filling his throat with bitter memories.

You stiffen, and he knows he's thumbing a broken bone, letting his finger dig between the cracks and snapping their frail linings. "Don't know, wasn't there. All I ever got to see were a few limbs, nothing enough to make a full person." you squeeze the glass until your knuckles turn white.

There's vindication rooted in your veins.

He knows the feeling all too well.

"We ain't so different you and I, reckon we make a pretty good team." His metal fingers lace between your soft skin, tracing the lifelines like an old map.

There's a goldmine hidden behind your lips, he imagines he'll have to kiss you to find the little nuggets. Your lips part, eyes filled with an odd-looking sympathy. What he wouldn't give to feel your plump lips bleed between his jagged teeth. "So..." you ask as his mechanic heart skips a beat. "What about yours?"

You've been laughing for five whole minutes. Boothill shouldn't find the noise as ethereal as he does. His anger lays heavily on his bones, he should be even angrier, lounging a bullet through your thick skull. But he finds the noise a little too perfect to disturb its source. Even if it's only created at his expense. Instead, he has half a mind to slap you, hard enough to shut you u and another to kiss you so hard you forget to breathe. "Damn hell so funny, cutie"

You look at him with those luminous eyes. Filled with pain and riddles. Boothill never did like solving puzzles. He only likes tearing things into bits. He needs you spartan, easy to read and use, and kiss. Not something he needs to piece together first.

"Dear stars you have no freaking idea how ironic you are." You say between bursts of spiteful-rooted giggles.

Why do those words sound so haunting like a ghost kiss? they should open phantom pains, but they sure as hell don't. Why do you always leave his head spinning? Boothill rolls his eyes, then leans over to pull down your mask. You jerk back, rewarding him with a dark grimace. You're out the window before he can ask your name.

"See you next time, cowboy"

"Next time I'm drawing blood"

The moment's over.

Fiddlesticks..

That night, Boothill dreams of you. He's lying in a stiff musty bed. It's too dark, even the moon is scared of showing her face.

Boothill dreams of the old saloons back home. Of their cracked wooden floorboards and the worn-out plush of chairs. In the dreams, you're wearing a black lace gown, like the saloon girls used to. He finds it all too funny that even in his dreams you still haunt him in black. Only now you're smiling, really smiling. Not that sly smirk, or mirthless grin you gave him back in the bar on Penacony. No, this here is a genuine smile and he's damn sure he's the one who put it there. You reach out for his hand, he feels warmth.

His

Yours

The dream is thick and dense like swimming through molasses. In another scene he's dragging you through the old doors, laughing as bullets and card chips hit the floor. There's a horse waiting outside. His horse. At least he thinks it used to be his. He pulls you up roughly in front of him. He's high off the feeling of his fingers wrapped around the rugged reins. High off the steed he holds in a vice grip between his thighs.

He's riding faster than he's ever ridden before, clambering for the sunset trying to engulf the sun. You hold on tight, pressing your cheek to his chest. His heart is beating something fierce between his ribs. He feels like an Aeon watching the universe collapse under his galloping feet.

He feels alive.

With the sun's rays behind you, Boothill could almost mistake you for the star-dwelling angels Nick used to tell him about. There's something poetic in all of this. The cowboy standing off against the black fox.

Dare he call it cinematic?

Boothill creeps closer. Tilting his hat and watching you flash a nervous smile through his lashes. "Volo sentire te inter dentes meos" so you know that dead tongue too. "You will soon darling, that's what I'm hoping for" his reply only dwindles your smile.

He's missed the old duels. Missed staring into the eyes of the one who could kill you. It's all a matter of skill and luck. Whose faster, who the aeon will trust?

Somewhere in the distance, the tumble weeds begin to rattle.

"Now"

His bullet glides through the air, piercing through the dust and sand. Your bullet reverberates from your gun a fraction too late and ricochets past his cheek. Leaving a juicy trail of blood.

But his bullet was aimed at your chest.

And Boothill never misses...

You want vengeance he won't deny you it.

So long as you stay by his side.

He'll tuck you away somewhere safe.

Somewhere you won't be leaving him again.

Boothill cradles your body to his chest. "I promised you blood little fox, and Boothill never goes back on his word." His cheeks hurt from smiling as he lays his hat atop your head. He's Picking you up and walking into the sunset. He knows a good ol'doc who'll patch you right up. And then it's a happy life together.

Well for him anyway.

The end

Taglist: @hihellomy @salhanskkdbfkekfb @gasoline-eater @sp1cym0chi

428 notes · View notes

radiojamming · 4 months

Text

We're at a Midwestern potluck held in a church basement.

Before we sit down in our flimsy metal folding chairs, we need to make a plate! What are we getting?

#this just appeared in my head like divine inspiration of the gods #dessert menu to come #i'm also going to draw the plate when we're done with it no matter how horrible

459 notes · View notes

moonlight-prose · 22 hours

Note

since you kindly offered this brilliant piece I have a thot for you. giving logan nasty nasty head as he’s trying to eat dinner 🤭

note: i sat with this for several hours after we hung up and i could not get it out of my head. he's a munch. we know this. it's a fact (disney grow some balls and say it outloud). but my god is he a whore for some good head. give him sloppy toppy and he's wrapped around your finger; he's yours, ready to put a ring on it and drag you to the courthouse himself.

Dinner is a quiet affair in the Howlett household. It's mixed with soft conversation and intimate jokes. Comments about your days, hands held over the table as candle wax dripped over the yellowed cloth. It's warm - domestic.

But on nights when adrenaline ran a bit too high and wine began to drip heat down your spine, you found that you couldn't resist the pull of him.

He sat in his usual chair, legs spread and eyes tracking your movements as you left the kitchen. A bottle of wine in one hand, his whiskey in the other.

His grin is soft. A docile man who'd been tamed by the lover he never expected. And you can feel the heat begin to curl around your stomach. Tugging on the nerves that thrummed beneath your skin. He'd never realize how far gone you were for him; how every move and choice depended on whether or not he'd smile your way.

"Smells good sweetheart." His voice is low, the grit of husk behind each lilted drawl.

You could feel warmth flicker to life beneath the supple skin of your cheeks as his gaze continued to track how you sat in your chair. Eyes dragging down the figure clad a t-shirt that had seen better days and jeans with a gaping hole in the knee.

There was no denying you dressed for comfort. Logan still felt his cock stiffen at the sight of you in dark washed denim though.

The smile is pulled from the depths of your chest. "I couldn't decide what to make."

You know you sound flustered. You know your voice is higher than normal.

You know he caught it by the sharp glint of his teeth poking through an already crooked smile.

"I'll eat anythin' you make," he admits with a soft clack of his fork tapping his plate.

The double meaning isn't lost on you. In fact it shoots a hole right through your chest, floods your body with that syrupy thick heat that you feel drip down to the tips of your fingers. His nostrils flare - eyes glancing down to the table that covers your lap - before he's filling his mouth with food.

Honestly you can't even recall how it happened. The entire ordeal a hazy cloud of lust that had you slipping out of your seat, and dropping to your knees beneath the table. His eyes went wide as your hands pushed at his legs, forcing them to spread. And when he made no move to stop you, the rest clicked into place with ease.

Logan smells of his cigar he smoked after work. He smells of spice and the musk of sweat and leather from his jackets that hung in the hall closet.

He is everything you could possibly want in a husband. Everything you asked for checked off with a flourished hand and a welcomed smile.

"Baby what-" He chokes on his food when your hands undo his belt, the button of his jeans, and pull him free with a choked whine. "Oh fuck."

That. That's what you were looking for after a day filled with his absence. The stifled moan at the back of his throat when your tongue licked up his cock - whining when the taste of him burst across your taste buds. You couldn't deny yourself him when he let you suck on the head, spit trailing down your chin and into his lap.

His hand moves to cup the back of your neck, fingers tightening around his fork, and it isn't until you've got him halfway down your throat does he understand what you want.

The clink of metal scratching porcelain sends heat down your spine. He moans around a mouthful of food as your head bobs, mouth sucking him in deeper, further, until he hits the back of your throat and makes you gag.

"You're fuckin' filthy for me aren't ya," he mutters, thumb rubbing into your skin. "Makin' me eat while you get dinner of your own."

Your eyes roll back, pussy clenching down hard around nothing. Because fuck he's right. You'd stay on your knees until pain flared up. You'd keep him down your throat until you lost the ability to speak.

You'd suck him dry morning, noon, and night to hear the noises that slipped past his lips.

"'M gonna give you want ya want baby," he grunts.

His hips rock up off the chair, hand pushing your head down further until your nose was buried in the dark hair tinged with the musky scent of him. It's wet and messy and spit has formed into globs that roll down the expanse of your throat.

You're so far gone all you can do is give a choked moan, body trembling as your lungs screamed for air.

That's the fucked up part though. You'd die on his cock if it meant getting to please him.

He cums with a harsh snap of your name, chest heaving and plate long forgotten. Shudders roll down your spine, slick pooling between your thighs as he spurts down your throat. Spilling out the sides of your mouth.

"Eat your dinner sweetheart so I can have some fuckin' desert."

#witch aunt responds #maria darling🪷#this one actually made me lightheaded so i gotta go stare at a wall or something #logan howlett x f!reader #logan howlett x reader #logan howlett x you #logan howlett smut #logan howlett #old man logan #logan thoughts & musings #my writing

267 notes · View notes