#of course this song is simple it's about it being afraid of the dark

[thisgirlnamedblusy]

Hello!! I just wanted to say I love your fics so much and your writing is so good! I was wondering if you could do a G!P Donna fic where reader teases Donna a lot throughout the day and eventually lets Donna have her release but only with reader’s thighs?

Sorry if this is one you’ve already done or it makes you uncomfy. Love your works!

Yessss!!!! Thank you for your support, and for your request!!! Well, I've done this prompt twice, but I don't care. It gives me the chance to write it in different ways ;) I hope you like it and sorry about the language mistakes!!!! :))))

Modesty

Pairing: Donna Beneviento x Fem! Reader

Warnings: G!P Donna, smut, Minors DNI, semi public sex

Word count: 6,417

Summary: It's Moreau's birthday and you're going to make it really funny...

N/A: Sorry about the language mistakes!!! Requests are open!!! I'm waiting yours!!! I love you all!!! :))

Attracted by a pleasant smell, you walked down the dark basement hallway. Once afraid of the dark, now comfortable in it, that was how you were, changeable and versatile to walk anywhere, to change your fears, your anxieties, for a state of happiness and comfort.

In that sinister village there were not many things that could be entertaining. Masses, sermons, work... Boring and monotonous tasks that turned your life into a simple breeze of air traveling through a place and then disappearing completely without anyone noticing.

But you were never satisfied with that boring and emotionless life. You were always a fearful daredevil, immersed in a constant contradiction of fear and desire to break the infinite circle of your daily life. A walk through the forest, a silent approach to the castle grounds... Anything even slightly risky meant seeing a smile on your face.

And yes, luckily or unfortunately, one day your walks stopped being simple walks and became something else, the beginning of a much better life, far from the village, far from the resonant and creaking routine of your neighbors.

The grounds of the Beneviento House could scare the bravest, and you, of course, were not that person. Even so, curiosity was much stronger than fear and not knowing what was behind that bridge, what was behind the black veil of the youngest Lord, prompted you to cross that safe threshold, that place no one had stepped on in years.

An intruder, a danger, a threat, at first you were that things for the lady in black, a nuisance in her quiet and solitary life. If it weren't for your skill with words, you would surely have ended up like the protagonists of the stories told in the village, scared to death.

However, that loneliness of the Lord was like her own veil, it was a black cloth that stood between her and the world, between her insecurities and your curiosity. Little by little, the fabric fell like a curtain opening to start a performance, one you didn't want it to end.

Yes, Donna Beneviento was a woman tormented by her past, mentally ill, terribly self-conscious about the scar on her face, about the changes her surrender to the Black Gods and Mother Miranda produced in her body. Getting to know her wasn't easy, loving her was.

Nothing she feared was a problem for you, nothing she asked for was impossible: she simply wanted you to not leave, to stay with her a little longer, just a little longer.

Of course, the time when you never wanted to leave came, the time to live with her, to become the girlfriend of fear itself, the happiness and torment of the lady in black, her only reason to smile again, and forever.

And there she was, cooking, one of her hobbies. You looked out the door, leaning on one side and letting your eyes enjoy the view in front of you: a calm Donna, humming some song you didn't know, with her gaze fixed on the oven, without fear or shame overshadowing her beauty.

“Donna,” you said, drawing her attention, breaking that tranquility with a sincere smile.

“Tesoro,” she answered, looking at you briefly, raising her lips, as if just seeing you was more than enough to make her happy. What nonsense, you knew it was just like that. “I thought you were sleeping.”

“Sleeping? No,” you joked, entering the kitchen and stealing a slow kiss from the brunette, who was soon blushing. “I was letting my eyes rest.”

“Isn’t it the same?” she asked, with that same mischievous smile, stirring the contents of a bowl.

You, amused, shook your head and raised your eyebrows.

“It’s hard to sleep with Angie…” you murmured, gently grabbing her waist and resting your head on her shoulder. Donna stopped, caressing your hands with hers and laughing shyly. “What are you doing?”

“Oh, um… A cake,” she replied, moving away from you elegantly, not without taking the opportunity to caress your lips with hers again.

With a sigh, she bent down, taking that cake out of the oven, the cause of that sweet smell you followed as if you were hypnotized. You looked at it curiously and nodded, breathing deeply.

“Mm, it smells so good,” you said, bringing your hand closer to dip it into the cake, interrupted by a soft slap.

“It's very hot, (Y/N),” Donna warned you, with a mischievous look.

You nodded, sighing, leaning on the counter.

“Well, it'll only be a matter of time…” you threatened, amused, to that appetizing cake. “Why a cake? Is it your birthday?”

“No,” the lady in black answered, with a cold, almost dark tone, relaxing her expression.

You shrugged, calming her irrational nerves with a tender smile.

“Okay…” you sighed, while she continued working on that cake, decorating it in a delicate way, like everything she did. “Well, it looks like a birthday cake.”

“Yes, because it is,” Donna said, not looking at you, touching up her creation, concentrated, almost completely unaware of your presence.

You nodded curiously, watching those skilled hands work.

“Hey,” you said, changing the subject, trying, as always, to keep a conversation, something that became less and less complicated, but was always a challenge.

The lady looked at you and smiled again, letting you speak.

“I thought we could go for a walk in the woods, you know, in a romantic way. I could even prepare my special (Y/N) buns,” you suggested, with an expectant smile.

Donna looked at you briefly and shook her head, with a calm smile.

“You mean those buttered buns?” she asked amused, touching up that mysterious cake.

“Eh, it's not easy to make them,” you protested, feigning terrible offense.

“You buy them ready-made, tesoro,” she said, without losing that calm, that smile that made you fall in love.

“Yes, well, but I put the butter on them,” you defended yourself with a mocking expression, approaching the lady again, who seemed to have finished that cake. “What do you think of the plan? You, me... The forest, the buns... A blanket...””

“I think it's a great idea, (Y/N),” she answered, sighing relaxed and taking off her apron. “But I'm afraid today it's not possible.”

“No? Why?” you wanted to know, a bit surprised by the answer, which was usually positive. “Oh, don't tell me there's another meeting... It would be the third this week.”

Donna shook her head, leaning next to you.

“Not exactly, it's my brother's birthday,” Donna explained, whispering, studying your reaction to that information.

“Oh, the crazy guy from the factory?” you joked, feigning a shiver. “That guy didn't need a cake. I think he'd be happier with a pile of corpses…”

Donna laughed softly, looking at you with a frown.

“No, it's Salvatore's birthday,” she said.

You nodded slowly, relaxing your shoulders, unable to avoid a grimace of disgust at the image of the Lord, that kind of chimera between human and Loch Ness monster.

“Ah,” you sighed. “That's good.”

“He invited us to go to the reservoir, you too, (Y/N),” she said, looking away, as if knowing what your answer was going to be.

“Oh, right… Ugh… have I told you how many things I have to do?” you said, scratching the back of your neck, trying to get out of that commitment, of course.

“Five minutes ago you just proposed to go to the forest, (Y/N),” Donna whispered, frowning and crossing her arms.

“Yes, I just remembered,” you lied, looking away, knowing that Donna could be many things, but she was not stupid at all.

“Come on, tesoro… Come with me, we'll have a good time,” the lady murmured, grabbing your hand to pull your body, knowing that at short distances,  in front of that look, that beauty, you could do nothing.

“I think we have a different idea of ​​what to have a good time means…” you said, shaking your head, sighing listlessly.

“Per favore, dolcezza…” the lady said, with a melodic, soft, pleading tone, one you couldn't resist, and she knew it.

“Ah, no, Donna, don't try to blackmail me with your sweet words,” you said amused, moving away from her grip. She laughed, coming closer again.

“Angie is coming too,” she said with a mischievous smile. You raised your eyebrows and blinked wryly.

“Is that supposed to be some kind of motivation?” you asked amused, giving in to your instincts and gently grabbing her waist.

Donna shrugged, insisting on convincing you with a smile that slowly deformed until it became a mischievous one.

“I promise I'll make it up to you,” she whispered in your ear, causing a shiver to run through you, a slight tremble in your legs.

“Okay,” you said, leaving her confused and moving away little by little.

“So? That easy?” the doll maker asked.

You looked at your nails with disinterest and nodded.

“I have several ideas so you can make it up to me,” you whispered in a seductive velvety voice, reaching out your hand and running a finger up and down her dress, making her nervous right away. “In fact, now that you mention it… Yes, to go near the swamp might be good.”

“I don’t know why I think you have something in mind,” she said, confused and distrustful of your sudden change of mind.

“Me? No, impossible,” you said with a sinister look, narrowing your eyes, drawing your mischievous plans in your mind.

Going to that sinister swamp to spend the day with Moreau was not something you were in the least bit interested in. You knew Donna had some sensitivity for the fish man, since, like her, he was an outcast, a deformed being who lived alone. You could understand that attitude, but the mere idea of ​​her being compared to that unpleasant man made you burn with rage.

But none of that mattered. You only had in mind how to make time pass faster, several evil ideas that had been in your head for a long time.

“Oh, thank you, little sister...” Moreau murmured, when Donna gave him a small and disturbing gift, a doll of his most precious idol, his beloved Mother Miranda.

The lady in black, covered by that horrible veil, nodded, silent as every time she met with the rest of the Lords, not letting anyone, except you, delight in her hoarse and soft voice.

“Hey, hey, Sal, Sal!” Angie, your irreverent companion, shrieked, jumping for joy, approaching the creature. “I helped my Donna to make it!”

“Thank you, Angie,” the man said, with a deep voice, laughing in a foolish way. “Please, sit down.”

You both obeyed, sitting at a table. You let yourself fall into the chair next to Donna, sighing and huffing continuously while Angie took care of entertaining the Lord.

“Well, at least we have cake,” you said, taking a piece and moving a little closer to the table.

“It will only be for a little while, (Y/N),” Donna whispered, with an almost imperceptible voice. “I feel so sorry about him, none of my siblings wanted to come.”

“No wonder,” you murmured, looking with disgust at that deformed being, receiving an elbow as a reprimand.

“Don't be cruel,” she asked you, slightly moving her veil aside so she could eat. “I told you I’d make it up to you.”

“Oh, that’s right, I almost forgot,” you said, raising and lowering your eyebrows seductively. Donna looked at you curiously, but continued with the cake, completely oblivious to your thoughts.

“Besides, this isn’t that bad… We’re outdoors and…” Donna tried t to it to not be a horrible torture for you, but Angie and Moreau’s squeals comically interrupted her.

“Birthday, birthday, birthday!” they sang in unison, forcing you to cover your ears and shake your head.

“Gods…” you protested, taking comfort in the delicious taste of that cake.

“Hold on, tesoro,” Donna said, grabbing your hand under the table, which sparked your mischievous instincts again.

“Mm,” you murmured, nodding, feigning disinterest, unable to stop a dark glint from appearing in your eyes as you watched Angie play with the monster. “I think… I could do it, what about you?”

“What…? (Y/N),” Donna said, startled by your hand, which released hers to travel discreetly to her leg, caressing the fabric of her dress. “What are you doing?” she whispered nervously.

You shrugged, pretending, of course, that you didn't know what she meant. Oh, you knew, you knew perfectly well.

“Nothing, just having a good time,” you said in an innocent voice, showing off your spoon. “It’s delicious, Donna.”

“Grazie,” she whispered, with a shy laugh due to the compliment. “(Y/N), stop, stop…”

You shook your head, moving your hand up her leg, grabbing it sensually, getting a little closer to her so your lascivious movements were completely invisible.

“Shh, relax, the table is big, they won't notice,” you whispered, getting closer to her ear. Donna clenched her fists tightly when your caresses intensified, passively rubbing the area between her legs, causing her to startle and hit the wooden table with her knee, drawing the attention of the others.

“Sis, are you okay?” Moreau asked, getting dangerously close. You withdrew your hand with a smug smile, glancing at your girlfriend out of the corner of your eye.

“Donna, is something wrong?” you asked amused, causing a growl from the brunette, who nodded to reassure her brother and get him to return to his place.

“Hey, you, you fool, what are you doing to my Donna? I know it's you,” Angie threatened you, walking over the table and leaning over you.

You raised your hands with a surprised expression. It wasn't that easy to fool Angie, but with hard work and patience, you had already succeeded.

“Nothing, nothing,” you defended yourself laughing, being watched by the puppet, who went back to playing with the fish man, or chatting loudly.

“(Y/N)…”  Donna hissed when the danger moved away and your hand went back under the table. “Stop doing that.”

“Doing what?” you asked without looking at her, with her leg being the victim of your caresses again, getting closer to its target.

“You know perfectly well what,” Donna protested, trying unsuccessfully to move so your fingers wouldn't brush the incipient bulge in her dress, one that you noticed, smiling maliciously.

“But you like it…” you whispered, approaching her ear, caressing her with the palm of your hand, noticing how her arousal was becoming more and more evident.

“Basta, (Y/N),” she scolded you, panting from the touch and the embarrassment of being so sensitive, something you always, always used to your advantage.

“Mm, let me think about it…” you joked, moving your hand away for a moment, looking at the cloudy sky. “No.”

“This is so… Embarrassing…” the lady in black continued to protest, moving nervously in the chair, hiding her expressions under that black veil, with the cutlery shaking in her hand. “They're going to notice.”

“They’re not, I'm very discreet,” you said amused, biting your lip as the caresses returned to her erection hidden in the black fabric of her dress. “Look, it’s hard…”

“Taci, don't say things like that, you know I don't like it,” the lady hissed, looking down to check the undeniable truth of your words. “Come on, let me go…You’re, you're making me very nervous.”

“You're such a bad liar, Donna. You like it, and you know it,” you purred, grabbing her covered shaft in a delicate but intense way, causing her to shrink, looking nervously around her.

“They're going to catch us,” she said again, her breathing agitated by your touch, putting a hand on your wrist to stop your soft movements, the lascivious caresses you made to her trembling body.

“Shhh, if you stop talking they won't find out…” you commented in a whisper, watching the screams of Angie and Moreau, who were totally oblivious to what was happening under that table, luckily for you.

With a quick movement, you freed her imprisoned shaft, caressing it without fabric, repressing your own moan to check the true extent of her arousal, which was provoked by your shamelessness.

“(Y/N)…” Donna moaned, when your hand began to embrace her erection, gently massaging it up and down while you pretended that none of that was happening, eating some more cake. “You are… You are…”

“Wonderful?” you joked, squeezing her harder, making her squirm discreetly, giving in, claiming the continuity of your movements with a gentle shake of her hips.

“Andrai all’inferno…” the lady in black whispered, her hands shaking, with your caresses stimulating her in a discreet and perfectly calculated way.

“Fine, I never liked the cold,” you said, moaning from the exquisite taste of the cake, from the throbbing arousal of the brunette. What a combination. “Would you like some more cake, honey?”

“Vaffanculo,” she snapped, looking away, trying to contain the discreet pleasure you were giving her, but making no effort to pull away, letting shy moans overshadow her protest.

“How rude…” you teased with a seductive laugh, shaking your head as your hand squeezed it a bit harder, stopping at the tip to make poor Donna suffer a bit more.

A discreet moan of protest was her only response, as she struggled to maintain her composure, to pretend that your touch wasn't taking her to the limit more and more.

“You're making me be… Rude…” she murmured, making you laugh softly, always watching the end of the table, watching that those eyes didn't rest on your actions. “Stop, stop… Sto…, sto per…”

You laughed amused when her hand grabbed your wrist, when the forbidden pleasure of that situation started to be too much for her.

“Okay, I'll stop,” you teased unpleasantly, pulling your hand away just as she was about to release. No, the fun had only just begun.

“Cazzo…” she protested, stuffing her shame back into her dress, kicking the floor in frustration at having missed the chance to release, thanks to you, of course.

“Is everything okay?” you asked again, in a petulant tone, earning a furious stomp with a heel that dug into the fabric of your boot. “Ouch! Hey, that hurts!”

“Do you want me to tell you what is hurting me?” she said, in a louder tone, which unintentionally caught the attention of the Angie doll, who turned towards you.

“I don't know… Is there a prize if I know?” you continued joking, pretending when the puppet walked slowly across the table.

“Ugh,” the lady sighed, crossing her arms, moving to ease the awkwardness of her situation. “You are unbearable.”

“You adore me,” you mocked, looking with interest at the doll, who seemed to study your each one of your gestures.

“What are you doing, fools? Didn't you hear us?” the doll asked, making you a bit nervous. You just hoped they hadn't noticed.

“Oh, did you say something, Angie?” you asked, amused by the brunette's shaky movements.

“Yes, we are going to play, play, play!” she said excitedly, apparently unable to figure out her owner's big problem.

“Sis, sis…” Moreau said, getting up from his seat and approaching Donna, who moved away, embarrassed while the fish man tugged at her dress as if he were a child. “Let's play…”

“Yes, Donna, let's play,” you said, with a childish expression, earning you (surely) a furious look from the lady, one you couldn't see.

“See, see? Your girlfriend wants to play,” the deformed man said, to who you smiled, gracefully displaying your glass of wine, causing another of his silly laughs.

Donna murmured something you didn't understand and then sighed, relaxing her posture a bit and nodding slowly.

“Good!” the monster rejoiced, walking happily towards his companion Angie, who looked at you with a certain air of suspicion.

“You want to play, silly? You're up to something...” the doll accused, pointing at you unpleasantly. You pushed away her wooden hand with an amused expression.

“What do you want to play, Donna?” a happy Moreau asked to the dark lady, who simply shrugged.

“What's your favorite game?” you asked, calmer, stopping torturing Donna, at least for the moment.

“I like hide and seek,” Moreau said, playing nervously with his hands. You smiled, looking at the lady out of the corner of your eye.

“Perfect, let's play hide and seek,” you said, getting up from the table and clapping your hands. You couldn't see her, but you felt the fiery gaze of the brunette, who stood up clumsily.

“My Donna and the fool are a team, and you and me, Sal, will look for them,” Angie explained, approaching the monster to plan a strategy.

You took the brunette's arm and got close to her ear.

“Come on, don't let them find us…” you said with childish enthusiasm, while Moreau shouted a countdown.

That hide and seek was a good game to play was no coincidence. The Lord’s swamp was immense, full of possible places to escape from him and Angie. Yes, everything you did was perfectly calculated.

Donna and you arrived at an old mill, quite far from the monster's little cabin, a perfect place, for a perfect plan.

“Okay... It's not very cozy... But it will do,” you commented, running a finger through the dust and humidity of a barrel. “Donna?”

“Lasciami stare, I'm mad with you,” she whispered, crossing her arms and leaning on a pile of boxes, letting herself fall with a haughty posture.

“Oh, are you? Why?” you asked amused, curiously exploring that sinister place.

“You know why,” she said, sighing, removing her black veil to show you her accusing face, one that only provoked more soft laughter from your mouth. “How could you do that? They could have seen us.”

“But they haven't…” you said, playing with an old fishing tackle. “Relax, honey, everything was controlled.”

“Controlled? I knew you were up to something,” she said, with a nervous laugh, looking away, playing with the black cloth in her hands.

“I was just having a little fun,” you said passively, disgusted by the humidity of the place that, on the other hand, offered many more possibilities.

“At my expense,” Donna protested, sighing tired of your attitude. You knew it wasn't that bad, and that she, as much as she denied it, was also having fun.

“Don't be mad, darling…” you purred, approaching her and lifting her chin with your finger. Donna smiled slightly but shook her head, pulling your waist. “I just wanted to give you a good time.”

“I'm just saying that…” she said, surrendered by your caresses on her face, by your good girl look. “If you wanted to do that to me, you could have done it at home.”

“That's very boring…” you protested with a tone full of malice again.

“It's not boring. It's what it has to be,” she said in her defense, blinking confusedly, not knowing if you were reproaching her for something. In truth, you weren't, you were simply looking for some variety in those intimate moments.

“Oh, yes, of course…” you sighed amused, snatching the veil from her hands and placing it on your face, moving away with a cocky step. “(Y/N), don't do those things, they can see us, let's make love in the same boring bed like we always do,” you said in a mocking tone, imitating the voice of the brunette, who, with a gasp, removed the veil from your face.

“Don't you know what modesty is?” she asked, offended by your mockery, but unable to avoid an amused smile. You pouted and shook your head.

“No, is it Italian?” you said ironically, frowning.

Donna sighed, opening her mouth to say something but regretting it instantly, playing with the black fabric in her hands.

“You know I love you, right?” she whispered seriously, as if her thoughts were tormenting her again, something you couldn't allow. You smiled sincerely, kissing her slowly, leaving the mockery aside, for the moment.

“That's a great achievement,” you joked in a soft voice, playing with her hands, sharing a brief moment of real love, far from teasing and provocations, just a look of sincere love. “Hey, I doubt those two will find us for a while.”

“What are you implying?” the brunette asked, moving away, with a frown but a relaxed posture.

You looked out the old window, searching the swamp for your pursuers, there was no trace of them. The show could go on. You smiled mischievously, approaching Donna, moving your hips sensually, with that same sparkle in your eyes that she identified instantly.

“You're not thinking about…” the lady in black murmured, with a slightly more relaxed smile, knowing that this was a much safer place.

“Mm, I don't know what you think I'm thinking, but it seems to me that you want to finish something, don't you?” you asked, whispering in her ear, making her hands grab your waist and gently pull you while capturing your lips in a hot, wet, fiery kiss, one that she surely would have liked to give you moments before.

“I don't want you to think I'm boring,” she said, amused, placing a lock of hair behind your ear, keeping your body pressed against hers.

“Mm, okay, I'll be good, what do you want?” you said seductively, moving nervously, with a mischievous look. Not at all, you had no intention of being good, but Donna didn't know that.

“On your knees, you owe me that…” she sighed, embarrassed for asking you something like that, unable to express her desire directly. You knew she loved that kind of things, but she still had a hard time admitting it, always so shy… You loved it. You loved her with all your soul.

“Oh, okay, okay,” you said amused, playing with her hand and looking at the black veil she was holding. “But with one condition…”

“Mm?” she murmured, with a smile that tried to hide her shyness.

“Put this on,” you said, pointing at the black fabric, which Donna looked at curiously.

“The veil?” she asked, scratching the back of her neck, with a visible blush on her cheeks.

“Yes, it turns me on. Put it on,” you said amused, bending down little by little to fulfill her wishes.

The brunette shrugged but obeyed, hiding her face while you played with her dress, stimulating her erection to be able to please her.

“I thought... I thought you hated it...” she sighed, closing her eye and leaning better on the boxes when your hand released her shaft again, caressing it effortlessly, causing it to grow in your hand again, something that made you moan.

“You know, it depends on the circumstances...” you murmured, moving your hand slowly, causing a soft moan of protest that made a shiver run through your body and your wet entrance.

“Stop talking…” she sighed, resting her hand on your head to guide you to your destination, to soft kisses on her erection, placing your lips all over it, settling you on that cold wooden floor.

“It's so hard… I love it…” you whispered, licking your lips at her arousal. “You seem to be in a hurry.”

“Shut up,” Donna protested with a marked accent, with an impatience that you had provoked, burying her hand in your hair and forcing you to meet her expectations, something that you did happily, of course.

In a delicate and careful way, you embraced her body with your lips, going up, down, matching the movements of your hand, licking, kissing, causing a sea of ​​wet and obscene sounds in that old mill, perfectly coordinated with her soft moans.

“So good…” Donna moaned, satisfied by your delicate kisses, by your caresses with your tongue, by your mouth embracing every inch of her skin, tasting her bright arousal, sucking and stimulating rhythmically, smiling discreetly at the trembling of her legs.

“Get up,” she told you after a few moments of silence, when her erection began to tremble in your mouth, when the overwhelming excitement and pleasure she felt indicated she had reached her limit again.

You obeyed with a smile, pulling aside the veil to kiss her, so she could taste herself, so she could moan at the sensation. It was a quick kiss, before, grabbing you by the shoulders, she turned your body playing with your waist.

“Turn around, come on…” she whispered as you, knowing what she wanted, pulled down your underwear, bringing your body closer to her erection, letting it slowly enter you, helped by the guidance of her hands on your hips.

“Donna…” you moaned at the sensation, at the intruder slowly making its way into your wet walls, at how they stretched, at that new but terribly pleasurable position. “This, this is so good.”

She laughed softly, grabbing your body, wrapping her arms around it from behind as her hips moved slowly, enjoying your wetness, the tight and intense embrace of your body on her shaft.

The moans mixed together. You couldn't tell if it was you, or it was Donna. The old mill was desecrated by her soft movements, her caresses, her firm grip on your body as she slid comfortably inside of you.

The sensation was terribly pleasurable, and for a moment you decided to let yourself be carried away by the pleasure, to let her release in her favorite way, inside of you. It was a pity that a distant scream prevented it.

“Where are you?!” a shrill voice called you from afar, Angie, who seemed to be approaching the old mill.

You tried to move away, but Donna stopped you, pulling your body, penetrating you again with a hurried moan.

“Hey, they're looking for us,” you said amused.

“Don’t, don't listen to them, (Y/N), let, let me... Finish...” she whispered, totally dazzled by your body, by the pleasure.

“But Donna...” you whispered amused, letting her play with your hips, but in a slower way. “Poor Angie, you're going to create her a trauma...”

“Just, just a little more... Sto per venire, tesoro...” she begged, moving erratically.

The evil thoughts returned to your mind, the desire and pleasure that teasing her gave you overcame your own lust, slowly moving away, causing her to moan desperately.

“What are you doing? Come back, come back here,” the lady in black asked, pointing at her trembling shaft. “(Y/N),” she growled as you pulled your underwear back up, peeking out the old door.

“Hey!” you shouted, calling the doll. “We're here, losers!”

Donna put her erection away again, approaching you and covering your mouth with one hand.

“What are you doing? Taci!” she shouted at you, her voice cracked with frustration at your little torture.

“Come on, Donna, remember that we're still playing,” you joked, pushing her hand away and smoothing your dress, carefully placing hers too, mockingly, hiding her still incipient arousal.

She growled, clenching her fists on either side of her hips.

“With me, (Y/N), you're playing with me,” she protested furiously, kicking the weak wooden floor. You laughed, waving your hand to dismiss it.

“I am, it's funny,” you said, peeking out, watching the doll and the fish man approaching you.

“Funny? Sei una strega malvagia…” the lady in black hissed, huffing angrily. You looked at her with wide eyes, feigning offense.

“Why are you saying something so mean to me, Donna?” you asked mockingly, coming closer and kissing her cheek. She pushed you away in a gentle way, but one that emanated resentment.

“It's what you are,” she said, crossing her arms, hiding her still evident arousal with her hands, murmuring to get her dress back to normal.

“Got you!” Angie shrieked, tapping your leg so you had to run after her, which you did in a funny way.

“Come on, Donna, run!” you joked, earning another furious growl from the lady in black.

You lost, but at least you were able to have some fun, maybe you were making poor Donna suffer too much. She didn't speak to you for the rest of the afternoon, and not even on the way back.

“Hey...” you said, holding her arm as you walked through the woods next to an elated Angie, who did nothing but rub her new victory in your face. “Donna...”

“I don't want to talk to you,” she said, without removing your grip, but looking away and walking faster.

“Oh, come on, it was just a game, don't be mad,” you said with a childish pout, stopping her fast walk, almost pulling her. “Hey, smile.”

“I don't want to,” she protested, with a tone that was a bit comical, but that was still terribly spiteful. “It was cruel.”

“It's not my fault that they caught us,” you said amused, resting your head on her shoulder as you walked, causing a tired sigh from the brunette, who, surrendered to your charms, kissed your hair through the veil, a gesture of affection that you loved.

“If you hadn't screamed, they wouldn't have done it,” she said in her defense, walking slower, almost stopping.

“Oh, so you were having fun, huh?” you joked, giving her a nudge. She laughed shyly, shaking her head.

“Yes” she said dryly, grabbing your hand and interlacing your fingers, resuming the walk home. “I don't want you to think I'm boring.”

“Bah, I don't think you are, I was just joking, darling,” you said with a soft, affectionate voice, far from the teasing of the whole day, at least a bit far.

“You always say everything as a joke...” Donna sighed, looking at the sky, which was darkening little by little.

“Let me make it up to you,” you said, stopping walking and slowly surrounding her, tying your hands around her waist. “Come.”

You pulled her to a slightly secluded place, near the old gardener's cabin.

“Hey!” Angie protested, who noticed your absence. “What are you doing?”

“Angie, go home, Donna and I have to talk,” you said to the doll, who screamed offended by your order, walking near you.

“No! You disgusting fools!” she shrieked, jumping angrily in the snow. “You want to make babies!”

“Yes, exactly, go away,” you said, crossing your arms, with a haughty posture.

“(Y/N)…” Donna sighed, resting a hand on her forehead and shaking her head. “Maybe we should wait until we get home and…”

“You boring spaghetti,” you said, savoring each syllable, causing Donna to stiffen, clenching her fists again.

“Angie, vai a casa,” the brunette ordered in a stern tone, unintentionally walking into your trap again. She would do anything, anything to show you she wasn't boring.

The doll growled, but couldn't disobey. However, she cursed your names several times along with a lot of insults.

“Get there, let's get this over with,” the lady in black ordered you, pointing to an old tree for you to lean on while, discreetly, she caressed herself. You shrugged and obeyed. “Bend over.”

“Hey, hey, what's the rush about?” you joked, letting her pull down your underwear, almost with a growl, positioning her sensitive shaft at your entrance, grabbing your waist so you wouldn't dare to escape again.

“You said you were going to make it up to me,” she whispered, moving slowly, playing with your wetness before penetrating it. “I want to release, and I want it now.”

“How demanding,” you purred, enjoying the wet contact, the contrast of the cold place with the burning heat of your bodies. “Hey, hey, hey, hey...” you protested when the tip slipped in, stretching your walls again. “No, no, no...”

“What do you mean by no? Please, tesoro, I can't take it anymore...” she said with a desperate moan, stopping just as you ordered her.

“I didn't tell you that you can't do it but...” you said, pretending to think, moving so she could get out of you. “I think you said something before… What was it?”

“Cosa?” she asked confused, her hands scratching your back in desire.

“Yes, yes… Something about me being… What did you say? Oh, yes, an evil witch,” you joked amused, letting her play confused in your entrance, but not allowing her to continue.

“Oh, come on, that was because, because… I was, I was…” she protested, kicking the snow, laughing nervously at your attitude. “I, I'm sorry, (Y/N), I, I shouldn't have called you… That… But, but please, I need… Please…”

“I'll let you release, Donna, but not inside of me,” you said, feigning a stern, but amused tone. She protested again, with a moan of pity.

“Why?” she asked, surely fed up with you. If you didn't know her, you would never have played with her like that. “You know I love it…”

“I know, but you've insulted me so... Well, do it the way you want, but not inside,” you finally said.

“(Y/N), I'm feeling like calling you that again,” Donna hissed, still gently moving her hips, rubbing her erection with your wet folds.

“That's my offer... You can wait until tomorrow if you want... Or you can...” you joked, biting your lip and matching her movements with yours, letting her caress you in an incredibly pleasurable way.

“Oh okay...” she growled, moving faster, causing you to moan in weakness at the unexpected pleasure, moving her shaft between your legs, sliding between your thighs, brushing against your wetness, covering it.

“It's, it's good...” you said, surprised by your own decision, by that new and exciting pleasure. “Hey, don’t, don't stop…”

“I'll stop if I feel like it. I'm sick of your little games,” the brunette growled, giving you a soft spank, one that made you moan, that made your voice taken by lust echo in the old forest.

“Deep down you like them…” you mocked, noticing how her hips moved faster and faster.

“Yes, unfortunately…” Donna murmured, with an almost inaudible voice, rubbing between your legs in an increasingly erratic way. “I, I'm going to do it… I…I, I can't hold it anymore…”

“Do it, my beautiful Donna…” you said with a kind tone, giving her permission to get her release, one that, with a moan uncharacteristic of her, she achieved, impregnating your legs with wet and hot caresses, ones that made you writhe.

“Cazzo…” she whispered, leaning on your back, bringing your body closer to hers while her seed ran down your legs in an obscene way. “Don’t… Don’t do this to me again…”

“Well then…” you said, putting on your dress, with that erotic heat in your legs, with your breath taken by that overwhelming pleasure. “Next time you make a cake, make it for me.”

[namazunomegami]

Into the Void

Pairing: Geto Suguru x gn!reader

Synopsis: Geto is so succumbed to his ideals that you have no choice but to run. But the hunt for you is more than a simple chase. It's resurrection. It's repentance. Just like in the parable of the lost sheep.

CW: canon compliant, established relationship, predator/prey, injuries, blood, toxic dynamics, heavy religious symbolism, emotional distress, dissociation, tiny bit of hurt/comfort, yandere behavior, Geto is a manipulative ass how surprising

WC: 5.2k whoops

Credits: my dear @notveryrussian for proofreading but tbh I should start calling you my editor from now on lmao. I'm glad you enjoyed my sneak peeks so much 💕

Song rec: since I can't control myself, I picked 3 songs by Nine Inch Nails that gives the perfect vibes to the story. For the exposition, I recommend Heresy, mostly because the lyrics resonates with the reader's thoughts about Geto. For the escape/chase part, I picked Eraser for the creepy vibes and reader's slowly deterioriating sanity. For the closing part, I picked A warm place because it's a comforting yet a bit gloomy track

A/N: Saying that this idea possessed me is an understatement. Initially I only wanted to put effort into the whole chase scene but obviously I started to add lore into the whole thing. And since they grew on me and I simply love their dynamic, a part 2 is on the way yaaay.

Minors shall not interact unless they wanna get punched.

And a usual warning for dark content. I wanted to keep it mild but I couldn't. Maybe I'm a lil bit too skilled when it comes to writing about fear.

It’s all too painful to think that maybe running away with Geto wasn’t the best idea.

Of course you loved him, you loved the twins too and the makeshift family you created, it really healed some of the wounds you received in the past. But you wished it would’ve stayed that way. Living together, somewhere far away, isolated, in peace. Have a fresh start, build a nest for the four of you and fill it up with love.

But he had other plans.

There were a lot of improvements in the initial phase of your plans. Building community, uniting the herd. You enjoyed some reverence from the followers too. Eventually the initial number of breakthroughs began to stagnate, despite all the effort. It became routine, like you were being dragged through the same day for years and years without end. When you were faced with even more setbacks, you started to realize that you basically never left the temple and it soon began to feel like a cage. Golden and holy. It was draining to see people lose their sense of individuality and how he became their only source of validation. It was torment. Living life as an idol of worship tucked into a forgotten corner of a church. Praised like a twisted Gothic Madonna with a blue cloth over your head, but in reality you weep, you’re their Mater Dolorosa, with swords piercing your sorrowful heart.

The most devastating thing about realizing you’re not fit to run a cult, is the fact that you lack the most understated yet important aspect of it: believing in the agenda you want to spread. How could you guide all those helpless, simple-minded sheep while questioning whether your destination is real or not? Maybe that Canaan has nothing to do with milk and honey, instead it’s just a pile of rubble.

You soon got tired of it all. His drive, his goal, all too impossible to achieve. Maybe he knew he could never make it happen, but it consumed him regardless. You’ve lost the most cherished parts of him to his hatred, his deeply repressed rage against any injustices he had to deal with after the infamous Star Plasma incident.

You weren’t sure about your feelings towards Geto anymore. Were you afraid of him? Angry at him? Bitter? Disappointed? Worried? It all turned into mush, a grotesque, black liquid as the thin walls of the temple slowly made you feel like they were closing in on you. You had no idea how much time you had, until your unresolved feelings will taint the whole place.

You always circled back to the worst possible action to protect your soft, aching heart… When you thought that nothing will change for the better, you wanted to run away. You wanted to hide. The ambivalence of your feelings towards him weighed on your heart and conscience, like a thousand stones. You loved him, yet you loathed what has become of him. Despite that you trusted him with the map of your soul, made it through all the highs and lows of your relationship so far, all the deep abysses of pain and suffering.

Maybe you should run, just for the sake of it. To test how it will make you feel. Will it make you feel freed? At ease? Will it lift the weights on your chest? Will this sense of incoming doom vanish?

Maybe you should find Gojo. He wouldn’t condemn you, but he would be disappointed. If you set your judgement and resentment to aside, he’s the only one who can talk with the higher ups to scratch your name off the list of curse users who are on death row.

How much time did you need to forge your plan? Not even a single minute. It was only natural for you to memorize everybody’s routine, how to distinguish the sound of their steps, to pick a timeframe when nobody is lurking around the halls. The first (and probably last) time you were glad those who have hurt you gave you a skill, besides the ability to harness cursed energy of course. They made you stealthy, alert, observant.

And when Geto left you to cater to his followers, you decided to put your plan into action.

Your body is strung tight with the tension of waiting, agitation making you feel as if you were unraveling at the seams - but something deep inside of your mind pleaded for you to stay. Agony and anxiety were plaguing you until you’ve found enough courage to get up and sneak out. Now, you had the chance to show off everything you’ve learned: sliding the doors shut so slowly that they don’t make a noise, walking down the corridors with socked feet, carefully putting the middle parts of your feet on the floor, instead of your heels, easily avoiding those parts that creak.

Sometimes, when he was immersed in his thoughts, he was amused by how faint your steps sounded.

An involuntary instinct warns you. It’s trying to convince you that he can see you through the eyes of bodhisattvas residing in the thangka paintings decorating the walls. You almost give up your quest as you glance at the depiction of Vajrabhairava. In all its anger, with its six faces and twelve limbs. A dreadful beast that defies death itself.

You don’t want to do this to him, do you?

You look away from the painting, focusing on getting your shoes on and climbing out through the window. As you’re squatting on the windowpane, you can see all of Tokyo stretched out beneath you. You’re a little bit annoyed that all temples are built on a mountain. A long way to go, but you can never know when this place will turn into a funeral pyre.

It’s a little bit too easy. There’s no sign of surveillance curses nearby, you only need to slide down on the wet tiles, jump up high, land in the mud and let yourself be swallowed by the darkness of the forest. You specifically picked your least conspicuous clothes to blend into your surroundings perfectly. And the cold and murky night will let you go safely. The leaves will conceal your tracks.

So many things are working in your favor tonight.

You know there’s no need to rush. You can only draw attention to yourself if you are running around, creating noise and disturbing the wildlife. You don’t even use a flashlight, you have to get used to the darkness, the full Moon will guide you with all her dazzling light. And after that, Tokyo will do the same, with its crowded streets and all its places to hide.

There’s a weird kind of tranquility in your heart. How the cold prickles your skin, the moisture in the air, the faint noise of the creatures dwelling under the leaves, up in the trees, singing, chirping, crawling. The scent of wet soil, the gentle caress of the wind…

Now, you feel free.

As you walk deeper and deeper into the woods, you feel lighter, you feel like you could fly away, like you could dance all the way towards your destination. You’re thinking about actually doing that, as if you got possessed by a strange spirit…

But the uneven, slippery ground makes you fall right into the mud. You squirmed a little, trying to get hold of a tree trunk and then…

Silence, dead silence.

Your heart sinks deep in your chest.

You know what it means. When nature falls silent. There’s…

There’s a threat nearby.

A primal instinct tells you to run.

There’s no way, there’s no fucking way that he already noticed you were gone.

Twigs whip at your skin as you’re running mindlessly. Wherever you end up, it will be fine, as long as you can enter the outskirts of the city. The cold night air stings your throat, your heaving breath leaves your mouth in puffy clouds. You feel the urge to cough, deep from your bone-dry lungs.

The ground beneath you turns soft and steep. You lose your poise, stumbling and rolling all the way down until you fall from a high clod of rain-washed soil. Your body collides with a cold, wet, yet incredibly hard and flat surface, fraying the skin on your palm and face. Your back and shoulders will be bruised by tomorrow, painting your body with black and blue spots. The pain ripples through your entire being, paralyzing you for a couple of moments.

As you slowly gathered your battered self from the ground with a grunt, you realize you landed on a road. It’s a good sign, you’re not so far from civilization. But instead of following the road, cutting through the forest is the wiser decision.

Your relief is short-lived, just like a may fly.

A sinister feeling takes hold on you. It makes you freeze, squeezing your insides. Like you’re sitting in the jaw of an eldritch beast. You slowly turn back to the direction of your fall.

The lights are flickering.

You grab on the guardrail for dear life. You try to fill your lungs with shaky breaths, your heart desperately beating against your ribcage. Your trembling knees barely keep you upright, yet nothing can make you move. You have been found, you’re defeated, there’s no point in running away from him. The injuries, the already forming bruises will only deplete your strength.

How could you fight him? You’re aware that if he wanted to, he could break your bones and twist your body at the joints with an arm behind his back.

How could you outrun him? He’s capable of summonning a swarm of curses before you even take a step.

How could you make war with him?

Three of the lamp lights were already out, you stared into the darkness, the boundless abyss right before your eyes. You can’t even force yourself to blink.

And when the lights came back on, he was just standing there. Without breaking a sweat. Your pulse feels non-existent.

What infuriated you even more was that he wasn’t wearing his gojo-kesa. The motherfucker even gave you a head start by changing into something comfortable before he came to fetch you. Or simply he noticed your absence later than you expected.

Whatever, both is bad news for you.

He doesn’t utter a single word, he merely walks towards you. Slowly cornering you. Feasting on the terror on your face. Meanwhile you can’t unravel what could possibly be going on in his mind. The only thing you notice is that those violet sparks in his eyes are so sharp they could cut yours out of their sockets.

Should you give up? Should you beg for forgiveness?

But then, an idea blooms inside your mind.

You don’t hide your fear, you let your body tremble freely, fingers desperately clinging onto the metal, with your shoulders hunched to protect your neck and your wide, frightened eyes stare back at him. Letting him believe that you won’t fight back. That he can take you back to the temple and throw you back into your cage.

And when his foot hits the bisector, you jump. Right into the nothingness behind your back.

You fall on leaves and broken twigs again. You roll and roll with such speed you can’t comprehend the growing distance. Not even having an idea of how far you’re from him. Small rocks, branches, hardened roots of trees, bones all cut, scratch and pierce you. But you endure it, you’ll undergo any torture if it meant you’ll be freed. Your only hope is that the adrenaline will deal with the pain.

Suddenly, you violently crash into a tree, the ridged texture imprints deeply into your stomach. Acid bursts from your throat. Your diaphragm didn’t avoid the hit either, breathing is not unlike Sisyphean task as you try to get your shaking limbs to stand. Your mind is disturbed by the lack of air and your desperate attempts at getting yourself together. You’re wheezing like a dog. You must look pathetic, you think.

It takes almost all of your mental strength to calm down and slowly breathe through your nose, your lungs finally opening. But Geto won’t let you recover, you hear the fallen leaves getting crushed under his feet. You take a few sharp, ragged breaths, like it’s the last drag of a cigarette before the train comes and then, you move.

You hide behind a thick pine tree, palms covering your mouth and nose. The lack of oxygen is just another frustrating hindrance to your successful escape plan. Dizziness fills your head like a thick fog and sucks the strength out of your shins, needing to lean against the trunk to keep yourself standing. You try to conceal your cursed energy with all your might. A tracker who’s untraceable is a useful pawn in the hands of the higher ups, this skill made you a cherished student back in the day. Back when everything was so… no, it’s only the nostalgia making you wistful, it wasn’t any better.

The rustling gets quieter, you wait until the sound eventually dies. An almost muted sigh of relief leaves your lips in a thick cloud, dancing in the cold air.

From the corner of your eye, a floating form cuts through the pale moonlight.

Looking closely at its shape, you realize what kind of curse it is. The beetle looking one that attacks instantly once it senses movement. You can’t believe it, you’re going to -

The curse drags itself into your aura, scanning your form that is fused with the pine. Every muscle is tensed, you’re stiff as a board, you suppress every reflex in your eye and empty chest. You’re just like a statue, a corpse, showing no signs of life. Only an agonizing scream echoes inside your skull. A scream that puts mental breakdowns to shame.

It’s like an eternity until the curse finally disappears from your sight.

You definitely look exhausted, your body is limp and heavy like lead. But you must keep going at all costs, even if you have no idea how many curses are sent after you. You walk around the mountain instead of going down like he’d expect it.

Slowly yet surely, you calm yourself down. You know that you’re still in his grasp, but you still have a chance to outsmart him. You go deeper and deeper, you’re near the heart of the forest now. The moonlight barely crawls through the leaves, it’s easier to navigate according to what you hear rather than to what you see. The surroundings are growing eerie, you ache for light and warmth. And the longing sucks a bit of spirit out of you.

Before you can start questioning yourself, the sound of running water fills your ears.

A narrow, yet fast running stream plowed through the forest. Though you were unsure of staying close to the stream, going through it and getting to the other side sounds like a smart idea. As you take a reluctant step, you realize the water is ice cold. And when you dive into it further, enduring the strong current, it’s not as shallow as you believed. You’re submerged all the way up to your thighs. At its deepest point, the stream hugs your waist. The cold makes your movements slow and rigid, your teeth clang together in a frenzy. The bottom is filled with smooth, flat pebbles, they make it easy to - 

You slip on the rounded, polished stones and fall into the stream. The freezing temperature makes your skin shrink, it prickles you like a thousand needles. Scared, you crawl around the bottom, trying to get a hold of something and emerge back to the surface. A sharp, burning pain wakes in your palm, tears streaming down your cheeks. You try to swallow your scream, but it wants to burst from your lungs, you grunt and whimper until you can bite down on your sweatshirt, letting the material muffle your shout. Your gaze fixates on your hand and even in the darkness of the night, you see blood oozing from the deep cut, from your own torn flesh. The urge to retch is strong.

You palm is plunged back into the cool water, in hope of easing the pain.

He calls out your name right behind you.

You crawl out of the water, running from him, just as before. It doesn't matter how many times you trip, fall, stumble. It doesn’t matter how your fresh wounds end up in the mud, you don’t have it in you care about the pain or the looming threat of an infection. You hear him trying to reason with you. You must come back home, you’re injured, you’re bleeding. He must take care of you.

Why are you running? Where could you go? Who’s going to help you recover?

No, you mustn’t let your determination crumble. But oh… it sounds so easy. Giving in to your hopelessness.

An evergreen bush becomes your shelter to collect yourself and check on your wound, which is aching from all the dirt and is still bleeding. Water is dripping from your hair, your clothes are soaked, makes it easier for the cold night air to bite into you, to shake the whole length of your body. Your fingers are hardly moving and have no strength in them. The adrenaline is starting to wear off. You feel alone, small, and vulnerable. You’re freezing, scarred and aching. All the things you see in the dark twist into creepy, threatening forms. Everything that surrounds you is suddenly dangerous. As a lonely spider crawls within your field of vision, you flinch. The world around you is evil and everything is after your flesh.

And the only person who can save you is the one you’re running away from.

What are you going to do now? Fight, flight, or freeze? Which instinct is going to win this time? Because comprehensible thoughts won’t work on you. Every little layer of a fully-fledged human with a conscience has been stripped from you. You left them scattered everywhere in the woods. You’re nothing more than a primordial shell of a being.

Ceremonial horns wake in the distance, soon followed by howling. They let the dogs out to hunt you down. Poor, little hare. Your own stupidity has woken up the beast.

Who is like unto the beast?

You defeat the paralyzing dread and decide on flight. You dash out from the bushes, but - Oh… your eye. Your soft doe eye. There’s something in it. And your tears have an oddly metallic taste on your tongue.

And power was given him over all kindreds, and tongues, and nations.

You wish you could see yourself from the outside, but you’re probably nowhere near as majestic as you think you are. Right now you feel like you’re the fastest, stealthiest creature who’s ever lived, even if your muscles are almost torn, weak, and tensed. This is the last crumb of your strength, this is your all.

And all that dwell upon the earth shall worship him.

You don’t dare to look back. You know he’s there. He’s so close, he’s orbiting around you like a moon does with its planet. As if all of this is a dance. A hunt is a dance with a coital rhythm. And mother nature is the audience to your deadly waltz.

And he doeth great wonders, so that he maketh fire come down from heaven on the earth in the sight of men.

He takes your hand in his. Gentle and kind. To not scare you any further. You snap like an electric current under his touch, but you break free and zigzag between the trees.

He grabs your waist. Forcefully. It scares you this time. You escape from his embrace before he can swallow you whole. But he might have bit your throat during the process, you feel something trailing down your collarbones. You hear your bones crack.

It was all a mistake. You are a mistake. But mistakes can be forgiven, right? He has forgiven you so many times, you can’t even think of a number.

You slide down on a slope, leaves stick to your clothes, and you drop onto a thick trunk of a fallen oak. Tensive pain ripples in your side. You should stand up and run, but you can’t move. You won’t move. What’s wrong with you? What kind of prey gives the fight up before its last breath? But you think about your frozen limbs, the pain in your palm, your back, your shoulder blades, everywhere. You think about home… you want to go home or be left here to die. But the thought of dying here, alone, makes your heart palpitate rapidly, like there’s not enough air to fill your lungs. Your breathing becomes desperate, panicked even. Your chest hurts, your ribcage is ready to break apart by your racing heartbeat. You press your palms against your head, clawing into your hair. Every little morsel of you is bursting into a tremor. The connection between your mind, your body and the world cease to exist. And that lovely, unlimited stretch of space inside your consciousness is shaken, it’s in utter chaos. Breaking into tiny little pieces, like glass, like porcelain. Tears and plucks like paper and fabric. Shrieks and wails, rejecting the only thing that makes all creatures on this plane of existence agitated over their own mortality.

You’re doomed.

Unconsciously, your limbs curl into the very same position you took when you saw the world for the first time, protecting your belly and face, making you seem small. Geto knows you only do that when you fear what might happen to you, despite being unaware of the kind of terror your brain had subjected you to. That’s why he approaches you slowly, making no sudden movements as he picks you up gently, like one would lift a porcelain figure from the ground. When you open your eyes, he had already settled you into his lap as the manta ray curse lifts the two of you up to mount the skies.

You have no idea if he hunted you down or saved you from your own demise.

What a defiant, ungrateful creature you are, you think. You tried so viciously to run away from your burden, and now you feel safe with him again, you dare clinging to him, you dare seek his warmth. The contradicting thoughts and desires torture you on the way back. There’s only one faint voice inside your head that’s capable of calming you down, able to keep your sanity intact…

You’re the lost sheep, and he’s the shepherd who searched all over the world to find you. And he’ll bring you back to the flock, and he’ll love you more than the rest of them.

Your false god. Your fallacious savior. Will he forgive you if you repent on your knees? Until they get bloody and bruised?

Back at the temple, he refuses to let you take even a step on your own. You weren’t born to run, to soil your soles with the ground that filthy monkeys walk on. You’re meant to be worshipped, to claim the whole world as yours beneath dainty, soft feet.

The warm lamplight and the comfort of your shared room helps you unwind. To shift back into a much more civilized, humanlike state. And as you practically glue yourself to the heater, you notice more dirt, more cuts, more blood marring your flesh than you expected.

When you take off your grimy sweatshirt, shoes, and socks, Geto is towering over you. There’s nothing imposing about him, he looks rather troubled as he sighs.

“What do I do with you?”

You roll your eyes. Oh, the good old rhetorical question. He has no idea if he should treat your wounds first, bathe you or break your leg just like the Gospel says.

“Come, let me take a look at your hand.”

You see your reflection in the mirror, and you’re horrified. Your right eye is bloodshot, a deep cut is splitting through your lower lip. You’re drenched in mud, already dried on your face along with some patches of wine dark blood. Together they seal the scraped skin on your cheek, makes your hair stick together into thick strands, accessorized with pine leaves and other remains from your little hike. You’re blistered and torn, you can barely recognize yourself.

It's pleasant to rinse your hands with warm water at the sink, but the sight makes your stomach twist. That nasty wound is too deep, it has to be sewn shut. A shiver races down on your spine when you see the first aid kit. He soaks a fresh gauze pad with wound solution and guides it towards the gaping cut with a pair of tweezers. The sting is horrible, the burning sensation rivals acid being poured straight into your flesh, it makes you grunt and hiss. He gives you a moment to breathe and collect yourself then he continues, despite your whimpers and twitching, tensed fingers. But the pain pales in comparison to when he swipes a new, clean pad inside your wound, cleaning it of all the filth. A pathetic cry erupts from your throat.

“Stop.” you sob, pulling your hand away to hug it close to your chest. You’re too distressed to realize that the temporary discomfort is necessary. But maybe this whole act is nothing but another one of his silly little games.

He places a finger under your eye, close to your lashes and collects your tears. The sight of you crying is somehow not worth of savoring to him. Before any little drop of your sorrow and regret can roll down your cheek like diamonds, he smears them, as if they could make your misery vanish. Well, they can’t. It frustrates you that you can’t let your feelings manifest because he’s ready to devour them just like his curses.

He doesn’t care that your face is caked in dirt, blood and tears, he lifts your chin up to kiss you. Deeply. You’re not reprimanded for not kissing him back.

You were right, he’s definitely toying with you. He makes it hurt before he soothes the ache. He creates a connection in your mind. Like you’re the dog of Pavlov, slowly conditioned to associate him with anything that makes the human heart fill with delight.

The tiles attract your attention much more than watching how the curved needle dives into your skin, how the thread closes the wound proficiently. Your features soften for a moment. Shoko would be so proud of him... Not for the reason he got so good at it though. He learnt to treat his wounds for the sole purpose of not letting a non-sorcerer doctor ever touch him.

He’s crazy. Vile. Petty. And delusional. It drives you crazy too.

But when your stitched hand is wrapped up in bandages, you seriously think about thanking him for putting up with you. For not being angry at you.

“Maybe this will make you reconsider your actions next time.” he remarks in a flat tone, concealing what’s going on in his mind.

You keep your gratitude to yourself.

But it’s not an easy task when he continues spoiling you, with so much care that it rivals motherly love. How he rinses all the grime out of your hair, how he gives you a moment of peace in a tub filled with plain, warm water, no bubbles or scented oils to irritate your scarred, sensitive skin. He dries you, brushes your hair and fills the whole bedroom with the calming notes of lavender and cedarwood coming from the incense burners. But he’s just so fixated on your injuries… every scratch, every surface level cut is thoroughly sanitized. It’s still humiliating, even when you’re the one sitting comfortably on the bed and he’s kneeling on the floor.

You’re afraid the extra pampering will twist your reasoning and resolve. That’s all part of the mind games he plays. You know he’ll go out on his way to prove that the world outside is cruel, that this is the only place where you’re safe, loved. In his proximity, under his hand.

And somewhere, deep down, you admit that he’s close to convincing you.

It makes you mad, you want to tear him to shreds, you want to weep for him just like Mary did under the cross. There’s still care, there’s still love under all those layers of burning hatred. What remains is twisted though, but it is there.

After you’re patched up, he glances up at you, thumb brushing your lip right next to that nasty cut. His other hand is resting where your thigh and knee meet. It’s a sign, a warning.

“Was it worth it, little lamb?” his tone is soothing and playful. So close to being outright mockery.

You reflect in silence, averting your gaze from him. All those scars and discolored skin, your disturbed mind, and the ache in your bones - you realize that your stupid little plan was futile. Totally unnecessary, it’s no achievement you can be proud of. At least if you’re not as masochistic as to pride yourself on your injuries. But the fact that he can recognize the parallels coats your answer with bile.

“No.”

Because you know that you can be so much more… There’re unlimited possibilities to a repented non-believer. And now you know that being his doubting Thomas has no benefits.

Maybe you did lose your faith in him, like the lamb in that story, to eventually realize how much you need him and vice versa. But you’re not satisfied with being a lost sheep. You just haven’t decided on your role in his Gospel yet. This is your call, you don’t know exactly which part of him calls out to you, but you’re satisfied with either of them. Whether it’s a prophet, a messiah, a beast, or the devil itself. The fallen Morningstar who used to be the favorite.

This can be your true Genesis.

“Go on, break my leg if you want to. There’s meaning in that, at least.” you dare echo his last words to Gojo, clean and low.

And your bones remain whole.

You’re relieved. Though you’re sick of his maneuvers with your mind, you’re aware their purpose is not to hurt you or punish you. These aching limbs of yours go limp as he crawls into bed next to you. The arm you were scared of coils around your waist. Viciously tight, much like a snake. The snake that corrupted Eve in the garden. The one that made her sin, got her cast out of paradise, the one that turned her whole world upside down. And maybe Eve did fall in love with the serpent, the worst creature that God had ever created. But even though he caused the fall of mankind, the serpent freed you from the clutches of a jealous, ungrateful god who denied knowledge from his own creations. Now you have the passion to rebel, to prove your creator wrong, to avenge his mistreatment. Give in to the temptation of your snake, believe his honeyed words, accept the fruit for a second time. Because you still remember the taste, oh so sweet and luscious. And with all the power he wields, you can win back your lost Eden or re-build it on earth, the home you’re both yearning for. It’s a promise between the two of you, silent, because words are not needed, only closure.

Something warm blooms inside your chest. Yes, that’s it! You can finally feel it now…

The very first ounce of belief.

[aakaneeee]

ROUND 26: AKANE VS. TOV

Everything is shaking. Around her, nothing is clear anymore, lines blurring like watercolor, colors dissipated as if they were particles of dust, the blinding lights shining between the clouds. She can barely hear: everything is loud, too loud, and it's ringing in her ears like the buzzing of a thousand muttering aliens. It feels like they are judging her: no, them. Her opponent was no different: they both had the same fate of losing everyone in the blink of an eye.

If she dies, Naz will go crazy. She'd change completely. She sees her as pure: or at least, purer than her. She doesn't want that to change. If she survives, the next round won't give her certainty. It's something she's learned long ago: in this competition, tomorrow is never certain. She never knows what will happen. She just wants to rest: bury herself in the comfort of something soft, like a cloud, be softly illuminated by stars so as not to be left in complete darkness, and of course, stay together with Naz: forever. And know that eternity is promised.

But no: never has she considered a life where everything is perfect. It's out of her league, out of her possibilities. The heavy fog around her life will never rise. She's older than most contestants, she'd know best escape is impossible.

No.

Escape is possible.

But not for her.

Never for her.

Beneath the muffled sounds of still playing instrumentals, that were already blending in her ears, she hears the scores tallying. She doesn't dare to look back: she's afraid of what she'd see. She wants to die not knowing what is happening to her, if she loses. The sound of the verdict calculating is foreign to her compared to her opponent. Her second round was stopped because of a double kill, and she was left without the experience. It feels new to be on the stage, despite not being.

Her eyes gently closed, sparkly white makeup in it's full glory, adorned by the stage lights. Her performance was good. Was it good enough? She could almost feel Kiba's scrutinizing gaze on her. They were already upset with her, because she cut her hair without permission and mauled the original dress she was given, choosing her own white gown, like a bride to the altar, like a corpse to the funeral. It could mean anything. Nothing and everything at once. It would start up controversies: perhaps that's what her owner wanted her to do anyways. She's already brought them enough fame. And unfortunately, their mannerisms got to her. She's even chosen a calm song. But no: it was for her own peace of mind. It felt like the lyrics were familiar, like a warm embrace of her lover, guarding her from the scarred world.

I promise you, soon, the autumn comes.

She reached for her pocket. Just in the case. Her finger placing itself oh so gently onto the trigger.

To steal away each dream you keep.

The sound stopped, foreshadowing the announcement.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Breathe.

Curiosity killed the cat.

And so, her face fell. 50/50, huh?

Anything can happen. But she knows what will. And she knows what she wants.

She begins walking: slow, but long purposeful strides along the stage, down the stairs, her eyes stuck to a certain someone. They escaped for too long: death was imminent. She didn't want to go down alone, so simple. Everyone should have imagined that an "ANAKT honor student" would not fall without a fight. No, it wasn't a fight. Because she knew she was about to win everything she wanted, and yet, lose it all, too. She didn't have anything except Naz and her own life, anyways.

The muttering and surprised gasps of the public grew dead silent as a gun was pointed towards guardian Kiba's head. She wanted to do it with a straight, unfeeling gaze, but the ominous tie had put her under pressure. She would've much rather to just lose with a small score, than be in the hands of fate. Fate was never on her side. Between rapidly falling tears, she realized she's not ready to die. There weren't many things waiting for her. But there was one, that was worth millions. She will anyways, so at least she should do something for the upcoming humans that would be put in a disgusting adoption center.

And she pulled the trigger.

Gasps rose again, but she didn't hear them for long, as her own fated bullet pierced through her skull. Blood gushed, and she fell to the ground, her dress' veil flowing gracefully behind her, as if it were a ghost, as if it were a star's tail when it falls out of the sky.

"I love you, Naz."

And so, a shooting star was born.

'A shooting star's meaning is the end of the beggining. Some say, it's a sign of humility, others, that it's about the vastness of the Universe. But for her, it was always the same thing. Even though it's falling, it's up in the sky, like a celestial being, and is a sign of undying love. And yet, the differences in between make such an arduous affection impossible.'

@sotogalmo @nottoonedin @junebluues @billwasnot @paradisedisconcert @4listr @lookatmysillies @solei-eclipse @apriciticreveries @ivanttakethis

[birdofdawning]

Helena leans over to change the radio station. "Honestly, I would have hoped that the glib pleastries of Masters of Ceremonies would have improved since my time, but I am afraid this is not the case. I'm sure I heard half those inane blatherings at the Pavillion in the '90s and they were old hat then."

Myka checks her wing mirror. "I think you're being too hard on Rockin' Eddie and Rockin' KDBW, " she says. "He's trying his best to keep Muskogee 'boogeying' thru breakfast'. He's been very clear about this. And anyway, it's not as easy as it seems, being a radio announcer. Especially when you're on air alone, without someone else in the studio to talk to."

"Why, it seems perfectly simple to me," sniffs Helena, "You just open your mouth and say the first silly thing that comes to mind."

"No, there’s actually a lot of preparation and practice involved."

Helena gives Myka a shrewd glance. "You seem to know a lot about the subject. Is this another one of your abandoned careers?"

"I don't have 'abandoned careers'," says Myka, frowning, "Stop saying that. But yeah, I hosted a late night show on college radio for a couple of years."

At this Helena sits up straight. "No! Really? Well!" She eyes her companion anew. "You are a dark horse Miss Bering. And so you too, I imagine, would utter those strange animal cries and then exalt your listeners to 'get down to the rhythm while they get up to the java'?"

"No, of course not," says Myka, "It was a late night show. People were going to bed."

Helena, who has been bored and irritable since they left the airport four hours ago — not that she would have admitted this, even to herself — finds that she is now quite cheered up. "And did you also play 'the greatest hits of the '70s, '80s, and beyond'?" She gasps. "Did you play 'Killing in the Name Of'?"

Myka shakes her head. "What is it with you and that song? And no, as I said it was a late night show, so it was relaxing music. And my show was mostly classical and old jazz. Some baroque and early stuff. Some choral." She changes lanes to let another car pass. "College radio is more, uh, eclectic than stations like KDBW Muskogee. People play all kinds of stuff."

"And did you have a sobriquet? Like Rockin' Eddie?"

Myka pauses. "Uh, yeah."

Helena waits.

Myka clears her throat. "I was, um... Velvet."

"Velvet."

"Yeah. The show was 'Vespers with Velvet'"

Helena considers this. "Surely it should have been 'Compline with Velvet'? If it was a late night show?"

"I know!" Myka grips the stearing wheel tighter. "I told them that! But they said they liked the alliteration. And so I had to introduce 'Vespers with Velvet' every Sunday night knowing it was wrong!" She shakes her head at the old frustration.

"But why 'Velvet' to begin with?" asks Helena. "Please don't misunderstand me, I think you have a lovely speaking voice. But I wouldn’t call it velvety."

"Oh, I didn’t speak like this," says Myka. And then her voice drops half an octave. "I spoke like this."

Every hair on the back of Helena's neck stands up. A wave of anticipation passes down from her scalp, running through her body to settle heavily in her centre.

She leans back in her chair and ever-so casually crosses her legs.

"Forgive me," she says, "My mind was momentarily elsewhere. Could you repeat that, please?"

[noforkingclue]

Hello! Can you write a Dark!Morpheus x reader where they tell the story of the most popular myth of how to sandman courted the primordial being of love (the reader) by inspiring artists to write songs,books and ballads in attempts to woo her in a sort of Persephone and hades sort of way if that makes sense .it work and they are seen as like THE couple and Morpheus is just head over heals worshipping the ground she walks on both then and now and reader obviously adore him as well.maybe they have a few kids?

So I focused more on the darker side of this request and I didn't include the bit about children. Hope you don't mind and enjoy the fic!

Title: A Story

Warnings: dark fic

Everything tag list: @greenrevolutionary, @byebyebreezywrites, @spngingerbread21, @layazul, @lov3vivian, @simonsbluee

Are you sitting comfortably?

Good.

Then let me begin my tale of the Lord of Dreams and the Goddess of Love.

A burning, passionate love story that has lasted longer than this world has been around. It wasn’t often that another being captured the Dream Lord’s attention and yet this Goddess had done just that. Her siblings and fellows Gods and Goddess had warned her about the power and danger of the Endless but she paid them no heed.

And that, my listeners, was to be her undoing.

So, I hear you ask, how did he manage to court the reclusive Goddess?

You see, the answer is quite simple- by inspiring the humans that she cared so much about.

Dreams of inspiration is what he gave to the humans. Poetry, books, paintings, plays, all of this he provided for the humans. To shower each other in declarations of love that they otherwise would not have said. They had the ideas but he provided them with the ways of putting them into words.

That’s how he got the attention of the Goddess.

How happy she was that her humans and how charmed by the Dream Lord despite the continuous warnings from those around her. Of course this didn’t go unnoticed by the humans. Myths and legends sprung up about the two of you. How the God of Dreams gifted human s with divine inspiration to court the one he loves the most. These were the myths that humans needed the most. In hard times these were the myths the humans turned to the most. All other relationships paled in comparison to theirs. You see, there was no drama or fighting between them. Just love.

Ah, I see your cynical smile and perhaps you’re right.

In fact, there is no ‘perhaps’ about it.

You see, these were stories created by human and-

Oh. I see you’ve already clocked it.

The Dream Lord inspired the humans who created the stories…

Yes, you’re correct, how do we know these stories are fact or fiction? But that’s the same with any myth isn’t it? The lines between what happened and what is made up is often blurred and that is the case with this. Humans are romantics are heart.

The truth is, yes the Dream Lord did inspire humans and that did captivate the Love Goddess. However, the Dream Lord asked too much of the little Goddess. He wanted her to reside in the Dreaming with him. To leave her family and become completely his. To never walk among the humans again. To have his heirs and to never mention her old life outside the Dreaming.

And she didn’t bend to his commands.

You ok? Oh, you don’t like how this story is turning out? I’m afraid things rarely turn out how people want them to.

Now, there’s something else you should know about the Dream Lord. It isn’t just dreams that he controls.

It’s also nightmares.

At her refusal the human were plagued with horrific nightmares. The Endless are older and more powerful than the Gods, even the ancient ones. The more the Goddess refused his affections the worse the nightmares became. Until she agreed to meet, to relieve the humans pain and suffering at the hands of the one she thought she could trust.

But when it came time to meet she couldn’t face him. The trust that had been built up had long since gone. So she did the only thing she thought she could do.

She ran.

She disappeared from existence. None of the other Gods or the Endless knew where she had gone or if they did they didn’t let the Dream Lord know. The Dream Lord searched endlessly for his little Goddess but he couldn’t find her. He even couldn’t find her dreams, the mind he used to enjoy spending so much time in.

Which brings us up to now.

The Dream Lord has escape the prison where he was held for one hundred years. With all that time he’s done quite a bit of think and from what I hear he’s determined to find his Goddess. This time, nothing is going to stand in his way.

Hmm?

What’s that?

What does this Goddess look like?

Heh.

My dear, just look in a mirror and you shall see. Surely you don’t think of me as stupid?

Pleasant dreams and good luck.

[sith-shenanigans]

An Exchange of Burdens (Pt. 1)

A Fallen London ficlet, in which Amias makes an arrangement. Heart’s Desire spoilers below the cut.

Divider may be found here.

It’s evening in false-summer, the gaslights burning low outside, on the day you first die.

It’s difficult not to be nervous. You considered having a drink, but the thought made you nauseous. The settee in your apartment feels too soft, too springy, to the point that it’s awkward to sit on the edge. Your fingers tap out a rhythm on one of the armrests—a half-remembered beat from an opera that seared through your mind even as you conducted it. It comes to you in moments of tension, now, when you’re about to fling yourself into the unknown. Even the echo has a sort of power, rattling around in your brain.

You’ve gotten on, since you got here, with the more inhuman of London’s denizens. Devils are fascinating, charming; even the one across from you, in her utterly un-charming way. They wear humanity like clothing—as impeccable as their suits and gowns, but still just a cover, and you don’t carry on conversations with somebody’s fashionable non-Polythremic hat. They delight in things humans wouldn’t, often in ways that humans would hate to have turned on them. Animosity is sometimes a game, as much as affection.

Rubbery Men are difficult to understand, even now, but you’ve tried valiantly to cross the gulfs of language and mindset to make connections. Clay Men are at once very simple and very complex; they sometimes strike you as the overlap between person and action, infused with purpose from the moment of birth. Or, if not, left Unfinished in the dark.

The less said about the Masters—whatever they are, under those robes—and whatever you think about them, the better. You know they’re trapped here. You know that they can get drunk on music, and that they’re captivatingly ungainly when they dance. You suspect they have more than a human number of limbs.

That aria, its soaring immolation, is the closest you have been to being something else. You find yourself remembering it in moments where you’re small or afraid.

Virginia’s animosity is no game at all, except in the ways that it is; poison-sweet, or just poisonous. She’s been knocked out for now, but the Marvellous doesn’t stop. If she kills you for good, she makes two more enemies: Pages and the Manager, incensed that they’ll be unable to go on with the next rounds. She knows she can’t afford that. You know some part of her is tempted, just to prove that you aren’t so clever after all.

But you—you’re not really worth what a Master will do when it’s denied. You know that, too. It’s exhilarating. The song thrums in your skull. This unnecessary risk; this total certainty.

You smile. “Pleasure to see you again,” you say. Soft, calm, in control. You are not on the verge of vibrating out of your skin. “I’d offer you a snifter of brandy”—muscaria, of course—“but I’d hate for you to think I was putting off the moment.” You would love to put off the moment. You could hang in nauseating freefall forever. You’re also a bit concerned she would force you to drink it, which would be a perfectly decent way to die if it didn’t smell precisely and entirely vile. Go to the place you’ve been avoiding, yes, but you’d rather not go there humiliated and reeking like a field of fermented, poisonous mushrooms.

On the table between you is an array of implements, set out on black cloth. They glint or gleam as appropriate; the vial of poison has been guaranteed non-permanently-fatal. It’s laced with something that should make pain easy to forget. All the blades have been sharpened to fine edges—no rusty, blunted gutter-blades for you, after all the time you’ve spent trying to get away from them. You probably take a few too many shortcuts through back alleys in Spite, but that’s no reason to disrespect your own efforts.

Perhaps Virginia would have preferred something more painful. She smiles too, half-lidding her vicious hot-brass eyes, and folds the cloth back over the tableau. “Thank you, my dear,” she says, “but I shan’t be needing those.” She stands, stepping around the table in nearly the same dangerous motion, and you have half a breath to contemplate what she’s about to do before she’s on you.

At your feet, a tigress drowses. A criminal, caught consorting with Fingerkings. With every favor you scraped together during the Coilheart Games, you managed to convince the Court of the Wakeful Eye to let you carry out her sentence—which you already have, when you forced in the poison that slows her breath. Now you fist your fingers into her fur as Virginia’s press into your throat. Your pulse is a glass drum. In a moment, you fancy, it will turn to light.

Her grip tightens. Instinctively, you try to draw in a breath. You can’t. Something—some survival instinct—is screaming. Virginia is still smiling.

You can’t help but struggle. But she holds you down and sends you off.

[Previous / Next]

[superfluouskeys]

wip whenever ♥

Thank you so much to @myreia for the tag!

It is once again time to bother you with original thing! Up til now I've been posting pretty much sequential pieces but I'm skipping ahead a lil bit this time bc I'm way too excited about the Lore TM.

part 1 || part 2 || part 3

It's been awhile since I bothered ppl so let's see I shall tag @eemamminy-art @delirious-comfort @quinnthebard @thepapernautilus @yourlocaldisneyvillain and anyone else who feels like sharing a wip!

===

At first glance, the town of Nodig does not appear so very different from Godsplace.  It has the same small, crowded feeling and a similar sort of age-old architecture.  But as they make their way into the little town, Tamsin quickly decides that two places could not be more different.  There are streetlamps and shops, all of them well-lit and welcoming, and the streets are bustling with people even at this late hour.  The people are happy, smiling and laughing and greeting one another as they pass, not huddled together with eyes downcast, afraid to be seen or heard.

The tavern, too, bears almost no resemblance to the one Tamsin knows.  That place is well-known as the dominion of lechers and drunkards, not a place anyone who cares a whit for his reputation would like to be seen.  This tavern is clean and well-tended, and there are a mix of men and women, most sat at tables and ensconced in their own private conversations.  They barely take any notice when Althea and Tamsin enter.  Nodig is used to travelers from all over the world.

The only person who takes any note of their arrival is the man standing behind the bar.  He is grey-haired and nondescript, and he greets Althea with a curt nod of his head.

“I’ve brought an unexpected guest,” says Althea.  “I hope it won’t be any trouble.”

“Of course not, Miss,” says the man with another nod.  Then he disappears into the back room.

As the bartender leaves, a man sat at the far end of the bar turns on his stool to take a look at them.  He speaks up in a clear, piercing voice.

“Unexpected guest?” he wonders.  “Not a soon-to-be initiate?”

Although he is sitting down, he appears to be a slight man, and his sweater hangs loosely upon his shoulders.  He has dark hair cut in a simple, clean style and wears thick, dark-rimmed glasses.  He doesn’t look particularly young or old, but he lacks Althea’s gravitas.

Althea, for her part, seems markedly unimpressed.  “Tamsin,” she says, her gaze fixed upon the wall somewhere behind the bar, “this is Vivius Moonbright.”

Tamsin looks from Althea back to the man, matching the name to the face.

“A pleasure, I’m sure,” says Vivius, extending his hand in greeting.

Tamsin takes his hand.  “Moonbright?” she repeats curiously.  “Forgive me, but I’ve never heard a name like that.”

Vivius laughs good-naturedly.  “Yes, it does sound rather frivolous around these parts,” he says.  “And in most parts of the world, if I’m being honest.  But in my homeland of Almyst such names are quite common, I assure you.  Moonbright, Silvermist, Windsong, and so forth.”

Tamsin smiles.  “They sound like names out of a heroic tale.  What is it like there, in Almyst?  Do you miss it?”

Vivius hums.  His thoughtfulness strikes Tamsin as markedly different from Althea’s.  It is bright and animated, like the overture to an old, favorite song.  “It is beautiful there,” he begins.  He gestures that Tamsin should sit, and retakes his own barstool next to her.  “And the people are largely…how shall I say this?  Good-hearted, to be certain, but decidedly serious.  The nation has a difficult past, and its people reflect that, in some ways.”  With a wink, he adds, “And let me tell you, they would not take kindly to any comments on their peculiar naming conventions.”

“Oh,” Tamsin flusters.  “Forgive me, I meant no offense.”

“None taken, I assure you,” says Vivius, waving a hand dismissively.  “And you, Tamsin?  Where did our Keeper Althea find you?”

Tamsin glances nervously over her shoulder toward Althea, hoping for some guidance, but Althea is still pointedly ignoring them both.  After all she has been through in recent memory, Tamsin is not inclined to trust in someone Althea doesn’t seem to like very much, even if he seems perfectly friendly.  But Althea does not acknowledge her, and so Tamsin is forced to make up her own mind.  She reasons that whence she hails is no great secret.

“Godsplace,” says Tamsin at last.  “Have you heard of it?”

“Heard of it, yes,” says Vivius.  Even when he speaks severely, there is a certain lightness to his voice.  “Not for the best reasons, though.  I’m sure it possesses many charms that go unreported.”

“Maybe,” says Tamsin charitably, but she labors to think of any at the moment.

“Not too sad to be taking your leave, I see?” Vivius observes.

“No,” Tamsin agrees with a self-effacing smile.  But it feels wrong to speak ill of her homeland without some further explanation, and so she amends, “There’s…not really much left for me in Godsplace.”

“Ah,” says Vivius knowingly.  “And so very much to be found for you at the Academy.”

Again Tamsin glances uncomfortably in Althea’s direction.  “You know much about it?” she presses hesitantly.  “The Academy?”

Perhaps it is her imagination, but Tamsin is sure she hears Althea let out a quiet, derisive scoff.

“Actually,” says Vivius, with the air of barely-contained excitement, “I am nearly as new to the Academy as you.”

Tamsin whirls around to face him fully.  “I beg your pardon?”

Vivius ducks his head and shrugs sheepishly, the kind of affected modesty borne of one who is in truth quite proud of his achievements.  But before he can say anything else, Althea cuts in coldly.  “Don’t bother demonstrating.  She can’t see.”

Both Vivius and Tamsin look up, surprised by her sudden interjection.  Althea is still looking away from them.

Tamsin’s mind is slow to catch up.  New to the Academy, demonstrating, can’t see—  “You have the Gift?” she turns back to Vivius.

Her tone is perhaps more openly incredulous than she had intended, but the idea is something of an absurdity.  She’s never heard of a man with magic.  Why, the people of Godsplace would be in an uproar.  She tries to imagine one of those gruesome scenes in the Town Square with the roles reversed, nonmagical women in official uniform dragging unwitting young men up onto the stage to put them to the flame.  It would never happen.

Again Vivius shrugs good-naturedly.  Tamsin begins to feel acutely embarrassed by her inexperience.  “I’m sorry,” she says quickly.  “I don’t mean to be rude, really, it’s just that…”  It’s just that where Tamsin comes from, women are put to the flame for witchcraft, a fate even the most dreadful man, someone a thousand times worse than Teddy Page, need never fear.

“It’s all right, Tamsin, I’m quite accustomed to the shock,” says Vivius, holding up his hands in a show of surrender.  “Men who possess the Gift are exceedingly rare, but we do exist.  As I would gladly demonstrate, but the Keeper informs me such a show would be lost on you for the moment.”

“Yes, what a shame,” says Althea icily.  “One wonders why you ever left the Academy at all, Vivius, if you’re so fond of impressing wide-eyed idiots with parlor tricks.”

Tamsin winces at Althea’s cruelty, but Vivius seems remarkably unfazed.  “Don’t mind the Keeper,” he says to Tamsin.  “She’ll be a different person once she gets her meal.”

“I wouldn’t count on it,” says Althea.

As if on cue, the bartender emerges from the back room balancing three large plates on his arm, all filled to overflowing with foods that are unrecognizable to Tamsin.  She’s been so preoccupied, she barely even noticed her own hunger, but now her mouth waters, and her stomach aches.

The food is rich and heavy, not at all what Tamsin is used to.  She cannot identify a single thing on her plate—even the type of grain is unknown to her.  The meat is cooked in a way Tamsin could never have imagined—it seems to her to be covered in some sort of bread crumbs and cooked in a heavy oil.  When she wonders aloud at this ingenuity, she draws both Vivius and the bartender into conversation with her, and they happily explain the origin and preparation of each of the unfamiliar foods, and many others besides.

Althea continues to ignore them.  She eats her food at the other end of the bar in self-contained silence.

In spite of Althea’s coldness, Tamsin finds herself warming to Vivius.  He is friendly and forthcoming, and he doesn’t answer her questions with long, weighty pauses or meandering riddles that aren’t really answers at all.

“Keeper Althea mentioned that there aren’t very many new students at the moment,” Tamsin prompts him, attempting to sound casual.  To her left, she would swear she can almost feel Althea bristling, but Althea doesn’t say anything.

“Yes, well, it’s to be expected,” says Vivius.

“Why is that?”

“Well, because of the prophecy,” says Vivius, as though this should be obvious.  He takes a bite, evidently unaware that this warrants any further explanation.

“Prophecy?” Tamsin echoes.

Vivius looks up mid-bite, his eyes rendered somewhat comically wide by the thick lenses of his glasses.  He finishes his food and sputters, “Oh, goodness, forgive me, I really thought even the nonmagical knew about that.”

“Not me,” says Tamsin simply.

“Oh, well, uh—“ Vivius glances somewhat nervously toward Althea.  “I don’t know if I’m the best person to explain it.”

When Althea remains steadfastly silent, Vivius amends, “But I’ll do my best.”

He puts down his fork and steeples his fingers while he thinks.  “So, how to put this?  I think I ought to start by saying that the average person cannot actually confirm whether the prophecy really exists.”

“It does,” says Althea quietly.

“Right,” Vivius falters, “as I’ve said, the average person.  It’s important because interpretations vary widely the world over.  And of course, like all prophecies, the actual contents are extremely vague and open to interpretation.”

“What are the actual contents?” Tamsin asks.

Again Vivius glances hopefully toward Althea, but she keeps her counsel.

“The story goes,” Vivius continues cautiously, “that a child born at the crossroads of time will set the darkness free of its shackles.”

A moment’s silence follows.  “That’s it?” asks Tamsin.

Vivius nods.  “That’s it.”

In spite of her stony silence, Tamsin glances back toward Althea.  “But that’s hardly anything!  That doesn’t answer my question at all!”

Vivius chuckles.  “Yes, it is infuriating, isn’t it?”

“Why does that amount to no new students at the Academy?” Tamsin presses, not a little exasperated.

“Well, let’s break it down, shall we?” says Vivius, in the manner of a kindly schoolteacher.  “What do you suppose qualifies as a ‘crossroads of time?’”

Tamsin balks at him for a long moment before she even deigns to consider what he has said.  Nameless nobodies do not get much education in Godsplace, and it has been a long while since she was a student of anything.

“All right,” she sighs at last.  “I don’t know.  The start of a new year?  The changing of an Era?”

Vivius nods.  “Excellent guesses.  Also the most common interpretation.  Most people believe that this fabled child was born at the changing of the Era, perhaps even at the very turning of the year, right as the clock struck midnight.  If so, how old would that child be now?”

“Sixteen,” Tamsin answers easily.  The child would have been born in the same year as she.  “But then how—“

“And what sort of person do you imagine could manage a feat like breaking the darkness free from its shackles?  Someone ordinary?”

Tamsin falters.  “Well, no, I suppose not.”

“Almost certainly one of the Gifted, yes?” Vivius nods.

“Sure,” says Tamsin.  “But what does that even mean?  Setting the darkness free and all that?”

“Now that explanation I shall leave to your teachers at the Academy,” Vivius laughs.  “Suffice to say, there is darkness in this world, in a very literal sense.  It is a kind of magic not so very different from your own Gift.  Very powerful.  But dangerous.  Unpredictable.  It is said that once the darkness finds you, you can never truly be free of it, even if you manage to resist its whispers all the days of your life.”

Tamsin shivers involuntarily.

“No one knows exactly what it means, setting the darkness free of its shackles.  How could we?  Scholars may theorize, but they are going off of next to nothing, little more than stories almost as old as time itself.  But a world plunged into darkness does not sound very appealing on its face, now, does it?”

“Well, no,” says Tamsin uncertainly.

“As I’ve said, interpretations abound the world over, most of them probably wildly inaccurate.  But nearly everyone agrees on one thing: the prophecy cannot come to pass.  It would destroy the world as we know it.”

Such heady concepts are, for the moment, wholly beyond Tamsin’s comprehension.  She is more focused on one simple matter.  “You still haven’t answered my question,” she points out.

Vivius laughs, abashed.  “No, I suppose I haven’t.  There may be many reasons that so few young ladies of your age have made their way to the Academy.  Many have likely been hunted down and killed, as, I’m given to understand, is the practice in Godsplace.  Many, I expect, are in hiding, hesitant to submit themselves to the Academy’s scrutiny.”

Tamsin considers this, her mind reeling.  “Because, what?  What would happen?  To this…person the prophecy speaks of?”

“Well, that’s the thing, isn’t it?” says Vivius with a shrug.  “How can they know?  Public opinion on the matter is not generous, to say the least.”

“Should I be worried, then?” Tamsin wonders.  The idea had not occurred to her.

“Well, I don’t know,” says Vivius.  “You were born at the changing of the Era, but when?”

Tamsin shrugs.  “Sometime in the summer.  I’m not sure exactly.”

Vivius nods, as if that is the end of it.  “Well, then, it’s unlikely you’ll run into any problems at all.  The prophecy is open to interpretation, of course, but these things tend toward the dramatic.  To that end, perhaps we’ll start seeing more new students sooner than later, now that the timing is off.”

They fall into silence after that, Tamsin consumed by her thoughts, and the others concerned with their food.  When they have all cleaned their plates, the bartender comes to collect them, and he tells Althea that he has prepared another room for Tamsin.

‘Wonderful,” says Althea, offering the bartender a smile and a nod as she accepts her keys.  “Thank you.”  For the first time since they arrived, she looks at Tamsin.  “I’ll be turning in now.  Shall I show you to your room?”

“All right,” says Tamsin, trying very hard not to scramble to her feet.  “Good night, Vivius,” she says.  “Will I see you again soon?”

“It’s been a pleasure, Tamsin,” says Vivius with a wave.  “I’ll be heading out before dawn, but come and find me when you make your way to the Academy, won’t you?”

Tamsin nods, and she feels distinctly relieved to have at least one friend to look forward to at the mysterious Academy.  She turns around to find that Althea has just barely waited for her, and quickly scrambles to follow Althea through a small doorway and up a narrow staircase.  Outside, the moon is uncommonly bright, and it casts strange shadows through the open window.  The stairs shift and creak ominously beneath her feet, and the banister feels ready to work itself loose.

When they reach the second floor, Tamsin dares to speak up.  “May I ask you something?”

“You may,” says Althea.

“You don’t seem to like Vivius much,” says Tamsin.

Althea glances over her shoulder.  “Is that a question?”

Tamsin averts her gaze, embarrassed.  “Well, am I wrong?” she wonders self-consciously.  “Why don’t you like him?”

Perhaps Tamsin could have anticipated the way Althea weighs her question with a heavy sigh.  She stops in front of a door in the middle of the hallway and produces a key.  She ushers Tamsin inside and closes the door behind them before she even begins to answer.

“It’s not exactly that I don’t like Vivius,” says Althea at last.  “But have you ever in your life heard of a man with the Gift?  Even in stories?”

“Well, no,” Tamsin admits.  “It is strange to think of, but…”

“Strange, yes.  Almost unheard of,” says Althea.  “The thing that troubles me is that no one seems to know how it happens.  I mentioned to you earlier that the Gift is hereditary?  Not so with men, at least as far as anyone can tell.  Which is not very far at all, since there are maybe a handful total, in all of history.”

“Even still,” says Tamsin hesitantly, “you make it sound like it’s his fault.”

“As I’ve said, I’ve nothing against Vivius specifically,” says Althea curtly.  “But I do not trust his magic, nor do I support allowing a man into the Academy, no matter his talents.  He could just as easily go across the water, where he would be welcomed.”

Tamsin considers this.  “Do…others feel as you do?” she wonders.  “Other Keepers, I mean?”

To her surprise, Althea chuckles.  “You think my views are unusual?”

Tamsin averts her gaze.  “Well, I wouldn’t know.”

“But you disagree.”

“Well.”  Tamsin doesn’t know enough to agree or disagree.  She likes Vivius, but she trusts Althea.  She fiddles with the strap of her traveling bag.

“Opinions on the matter are mixed at the Academy,” Althea elaborates at last, with surprising good humor.  “Which, as it happens, is another reason for my objection.  Vivius’s mere presence at the Academy is the subject of endless debate, all of it a colossal waste of time.   There are far more important matters.”

“Like the prophecy?” Tamsin wonders, before she has fully decided to speak.

Althea sighs.  Again, she looks a little amused.  “It’s not as though I’m keeping things from you on purpose, Tamsin,” she says.  “There’s a lot to take in.  And frankly, the prophecy is not the sort of thing a new initiate should be most worried about.”

Still, Tamsin cannot help but ask, “You said earlier that…that you know it’s real.  You know it exists.”

“Yes, well,” Althea averts her gaze.  “I am among the lucky few.”  The light from the full moon catches in her eyes, and Tamsin is reminded of the way they glowed when she used her Gift.

Tamsin considers this.  “Is that why you came to Godsplace?” she wonders.

Althea quirks a brow at her.  “After a fashion,” she says.

“Is that why the burnings happen?” Tamsin presses.  “Because of the prophecy?”

“Not exactly,” says Althea.  “Godsplace has a long history of archaic practices.  But I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s the reason you’ve noticed them happening more frequently.”

“Then…”  Again Tamsin fidgets uncomfortably with the strap of her bag.  “Then there are people in Godsplace who know about it?”  Could Bryce have known?  Would he keep something like that from her?

“Perhaps.  But this is all pure speculation, you understand.  I came to Godsplace because I heard about the burnings and I had a feeling I should go and try to intervene.  As it turned out, my feeling was about you.”

“Me?” Tamsin echoes, stunned.

“Well, yes,” says Althea, as though it were obvious.  “Following my intuition led me right to you in your hour of need, after all.  And I’d have allowed you to stay and say a proper farewell if I felt we had the time.”

“But…” Tamsin stammers.  “But I thought you said you came to Godsplace because of the prophecy.”

“I did,” says Althea.  “I’ve been traveling trying to find anyone who fits the description.”

“But I don’t fit the description,” says Tamsin.

Althea hums.  “No, not exactly.  Nevertheless, you are a Gifted who would likely have been put to the flame without my intervention.  An equally worthy cause, I should think.”

Tamsin shivers.  “But then…why are you looking for the prophecy?” she wonders.  “What will you do?”

Althea considers this.  “It’s more about what I will not do, if I’m being honest.  Many would see the prophesied child dead, as if something so banal would put an end to all the world’s problems.  If I can find her, I would spare her from that fate, and see that she is properly trained.”

“Why?” Tamsin asks.  “Would it be better?  Would that avert the prophecy?”

“I cannot know for certain,” says Althea.  “In many ways I am as much in the dark as anyone else.  But is it not better to try to avert such a prophecy with the power of reason?  With information and preparation?  Rather than expecting brute force to unmake the delicate weave of fate?”

Tamsin doesn’t know what to say to that.

“I would not see what is sure to be a talented young lady put to the flame before she can even realize her potential,” says Althea with a small smile.  “And I mean that as much for you as I do for the prophesied child, whoever she may be.  What happens after that is another matter, best left for when the time comes.”

Tamsin nods slowly.  Perhaps Althea is right, after all, and she has asked for more knowledge than she is ready to handle.  It is a lot to take in.

Althea pats her shoulder.  “Get some rest, Tamsin.“

It is perhaps a mercy that Tamsin is so unfathomably tired.  Her head is spinning, and on any other night, the brightness of the moon might have kept her awake thinking until her time for sleep had passed.  But almost as soon as she lays down, she feels herself drifting off.  In her dreams, she is being led into the Town Square all tied up with heavy rope, but she is not afraid.  She knows the flame cannot touch her anymore.

[itsblueflamebae]

Good Omens: A story of Twin Flames

Since my previous post turned out to be messy, I'm doing a full analysis on why I think Aziraphale and Crowley are twin flames.

!!! Season 2 spoilers !!!

Trigger warnings ‼️: mention of suicidal thoughts, mention of depression, my English

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

I'm feeling something

Like I'm being possessed

A woozy glare from afar

A force that leads me into the fog

Even blue hotter than a flame

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

First of all, who are twin flames?

This is the connection of two souls who, at the creation of the universe, were one single soul, but separated and acquired two incarnations. Let's omit the part about divine female and divine male energy, we are interested in a slightly different interaction in this dynamic. A Runner is someone who is afraid of reuniting with their other part of the soul for one reason or another, because they finds a million excuses why they shouldn't be together and runs away. A Chaser, as the name implies, runs after the Runner all the time, trying to explain to them that there is no reason to be afraid, and thereby starts a vicious circle.

The stages of that path is very simple:

1. Good morning sunshine: Twin flames meet each other for the first time

2. I’m just like you: They develop close relationship (friendship!)

3. Just married: Everything is fantastic, Twin Flames can feel strong desire and connect towards each other

4. Oh no: Conflicts because Runner is scared and wants to run away as soon as possible

5. Opening Sequence by TXT: Runner surrenders to calm down and triggers Chaser.

6. Dark Night of the Souls: Chaser’s ego must die and reborn to do their higher self work, it’s gonna be painful as hell

7. Fight is over: Chaser surrenders this path to God (how ironically for Crowley and Aziraphale) and does their work on themselves. If everything is going according to the plan, the Runner’s gonna come back healed as well since they’ve done same work

8. Happily Ever After: reunion of the souls, wedding and everyone is happy

For more in-depth information about this path, its features and stages, I will ask you to go to other sources, since I will focus only on the most striking manifestations of this phenomenon and what is right for our case.

So why Ineffable Husbands are twin flames?

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

Dancing on my own style and disappeared

(I'll like it, I'll like it like that)

The woozy blue light turned splendidly

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

Reason N1: Their connection

They have known each other since the creation of mankind. They may not immediately connect, but they were attracted to each other for reasons unknown to them. Friendship? Of course. Interest? Sure. This was the beginning of the great end for their nervous systems.

As soon as they began to get closer, they began to learn more and more about each other. Favorite things, hated things, weaknesses, hobbies that are dear to the heart. They trust each other like no one else, and they care for each other. Aziraphale was not afraid to give the sacred water to Crowley for nothing, because what other angel would refuse a request to get an instrument of death for demons, if not an angel who knows about the demon's suicidal tendencies and worries about the possible outcome?

They are on the opposite side, seem quite different, but in fact have a lot in common. A demon with a sense of compassion and an angel that is greedy for human trifles? A fallen angel and an angel who love music, dancing, Earth and go against the system to be together? A demon and an angel whose paths diverge to weave together again no matter what? They could be on different sides and not see each other for decades, but meet in one place and continue communicating as if there was no endless abyss. And their paths were similar, only the tasks were different. And let's face it, Crowley's favorite song is called "I'll be your mirror", that says a lot.

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

Burn it to the point you burn your hands

Crossing the unknown boundaries and spread it out to the end

It’s quite beautiful on a free day

As long as it burns, I can't stop my desire

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

Reason N2: Chaser and Runner

In my opinion, Crowley is the most patient Chaser of all living on Earth. He realized that he was lost forever and did not rush Aziraphale, although he gave hints of his feelings in every possible way and tried to take a step in angel’s direction, which was immediately rejected (“you’re going too fast for me”, “there’s no our side”, “Oh Crowley, nothing lasts forever” and “I forgive you”).

Aziraphale, in turn, does not reject Crowley completely and keeps him as friend, although he also has ambiguous feelings for him. It is worth noting that Aziraphale rejects Crowley not for the reason that he considers himself unworthy of him (this is the most common reason for running away in such a dynamic. sounds toxic, but here we are). Not at all. He runs away from Crowley because he is afraid that Heaven is unworthy of Crowley. Aziraphale is ready to create the best conditions for him, but while these conditions are not there, he sees an infinite number of obstacles and therefore rejects Crowley's feelings over and over again. (A)typical Runner with (a)typical Chaser, yes.

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

The unknown veil hides in fear

This darkness sees a glow to get out of it

No matter what's over there

It's just a blue curiosity

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

Reason N3: Their unconditional love

The most important task for the Chaser is to stop running after the Runner, put themselves first, cure their traumas, work on themselves and continue to love the Runner unconditionally. Well, Crowley surely does love Aziraphale unconditionally. He can determine the reason for his call by the tone of his voice, knows how to find a common language and smooth out the situation, eventually escape together to Alpha Centauri together, stop time and prevent a whole apocalypse just to be with Aziraphale. It seems to me that words are superfluous here (“We could’ve been us”).

Of course Aziraphale loves Crowley infinitely. He is ready to reshape the old foundations of Heaven for him, but he is a Runner. As soon as the Chaser stop their pursuits, the Runners begin to realize that they are actually connected. The Chasers' work on themselves makes Runners also work on themselves and think about their relationships, because their souls was once one single whole, Twin Flames are connected at the highest level.

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

The collapsing limit, it feels so thrilling

Dig deep into me

It carried me away from the moment I first saw you

In a mysterious light of color

Like you've been waiting, now I'm burning

Shine dazzlingly

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

My predictions for S3

Crowley is doomed to face his Dark Night of the Soul – the most painful part of the Twin flame journey. Since he is completely separated from Aziraphale, he will learn all the colors of the feeling of how slowly and painfully his ego will die (this period is also called Ego Death), which can be accompanied by suicidal thoughts, uncontrolled and causeless crying, loss of strength, lack of appetite and other joys of depression + obsessive thoughts. It is at this moment that he must understand that he is a full-fledged person without Aziraphale, he is not alone, because he has or will have friends, and that in the end he has himself and that’s not bad at all.

As soon as Crowley starts working on himself and lets Aziraphale go, no matter how painful and impossible it would be, preserving his love for him, this will encourage Aziraphale to also work on himself so that they grow morally and FINALLY SIT DOWN AND TALK (my apologies, it’s just painful to observe their long-lasting miscommunication). If everything goes well, then the cycle of endless catch-ups and swings will stop, Aziraphale will dance "you were right, you were right, I was wrong, you were right" dance, they will solve the main problem of the third season, whatever it may be, even though another apocalypse, and after that Crowley and Aziraphale will kiss and live happily ever after, the end, we would all sigh in relief.

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

Will-O' the-wisp babe

Oh, baby It's blue flame

Will-O' the-wisp babe

(That, that, that is faction)

••• ━───── • • ─────━ •••

Conclusion

First of all, I want to thank all the people who were involved in the creation of the second season for all the work done. The second season turned out to be excellent, I simply have no words to express all my admiration.

Secondly, I want to warn everyone that I omitted a lot of details of the Twin Flame path so as not to load the text with details. For example, one interesting fact is that during the second phase and for almost the entire time, Twin Flames can have an infinitely strong desire for each other, but they are stubbornly silent about that. Plus they can feel each other on an emotional level and know when one of them is in trouble (Crowley, I’m looking at you). There are a lot of little details that I can't prove or use like proof. For example, the authentic thoughts of the characters at one time or another, or their feelings in a period of time that the story does not cover. But since I recently started to understand this topic of the Twin Flame path, I was curious to describe this theory and my opinion about the relationship between Crowley and Aziraphale. I still deeply like the idea that they are both full-fledged personalities and not halves of each other. And they really perfectly complementing each other, like two pieces of the soul that reunite into one after six thousand years of separation.

After all, the theory about Twin Flame is not based solely on romantic feelings. This is primarily a path for personal growth for the sake of oneself, and only then for the sake of the second part of one's own soul, enclosed in another body. This is the path of self-perfection and love, although I understand that the whole path from and to sounds like something somewhat unhealthy. But that's the point – from broken and broken to healthy, through thorns to the stars.

Two independent and different personalities. An angel and a fallen angel. Angel and demon. Aziraphale and Crowley. Two twin flames.

Will-O’ the-wisp babe,

Oh baby it’s blue flame

Will-O’ the-wisp babe

That, that, that is faction

[theslasherslut]

A soldier's love story.

A/n: This is my attempt at trying to make a love story with you and könig

_____

Y/N was a skilled and fearless operator who had joined the KorTac unit to fight against the Legion, a ruthless terrorist organization that threatened global peace. She had been on many dangerous missions, but none as challenging as the one she was about to embark on. She had been assigned to infiltrate the Legion's base in Al-Mazrah, a war-torn region in the Middle East, and gather intel on their plans and weapons. She had to go alone, as backup was too risky and conspicuous.

She arrived at the drop zone and parachuted down to the ground. She quickly hid her parachute and made her way to the nearest village, where she hoped to blend in with the locals and avoid detection. She wore a hijab and a long dress, and carried a concealed pistol and a knife. She knew she had to be careful and smart, as the Legion had eyes and ears everywhere.

She walked through the dusty streets, looking for a place to stay for the night. She spotted a small hotel that seemed decent enough, and entered the lobby. She approached the receptionist, who greeted her in Arabic.

"Hello, I need a room for one night." She said in Arabic, hoping her accent was convincing enough.

"Of course, miss. That will be 50 dollars." The receptionist said, smiling.

She handed him the money and received a key. He pointed her to the stairs and wished her a good night.

She climbed up the stairs and found her room. She opened the door and entered. She locked the door behind her and scanned the room. It was small and simple, with a bed, a dresser, a TV, and a bathroom. She checked for any bugs or cameras, but found none. She sighed in relief and put her backpack on the bed. She opened it and took out her laptop and satellite phone. She turned them on and contacted her handler.

"Y/N, this is KorTac HQ. Do you copy?" A voice said through the phone.

"I copy, HQ. This is Y/N. I'm at the hotel." She said.

"Good. How was your landing?" The voice asked.

"Smooth. No problems." She said.

"Excellent. What's your next move?" The voice asked.

"I'm going to scout the area tomorrow and look for an entry point to the Legion's base. I'll report back when I have something." She said.

"Understood. Be careful out there, Y/N. You're our only hope." The voice said.

"I will, HQ. Over and out." She said.

She hung up the phone and closed her laptop. She put them back in her backpack and hid it under the bed. She decided to take a shower before going to sleep. She grabbed a towel and entered the bathroom.

She stripped off her clothes and turned on the faucet. She stepped into the shower and let the warm water wash over her body. She felt tense and tired from the long flight and

the stress of her mission. She tried to relax and clear her mind, but she couldn't help thinking about what awaited her tomorrow.

She finished her shower and wrapped herself in the towel. She dried herself off and put on some fresh clothes from her backpack. She brushed her teeth and combed her hair. She looked at herself in the mirror and gave herself a pep talk.

"You can do this, Y/N. You're strong, smart, brave, and beautiful. You've trained for this your whole life. You're not afraid of anything or anyone. You're going to get in there, get what you need, get out alive, and save the world." She said to herself.

She smiled at her reflection and nodded confidently. She turned off the light and left the bathroom.

She walked back to the bed and pulled back the covers. She got in and snuggled under the sheets. She reached for the remote control on the nightstand and turned on the TV. She flipped through some channels, looking for something to watch before falling asleep.

She stopped at a music channel that was playing some of König's songs. König was another KorTac operator who was famous for being a singer as well as a soldier. He had millions of fans around the world who loved his dark and haunting voice that sang about war, love, pain, and hope.

Y/N was one of those fans too. She had always admired König for his talent, his courage, his charisma, his mystery...and his looks. He was tall and handsome, with piercing blue eyes and jet-black hair that he usually hid under a sniper hood that covered his face from view. He wore a black leather jacket and jeans, and a silver chain around his neck that had a pendant with his name on it.

Y/N had never met König in person, but she had seen him on TV, on the internet, and on posters. She had heard his voice on the radio, on her phone, and in her dreams. She had a crush on him, but she knew it was hopeless. He was a star, and she was just a soldier. He probably didn't even know she existed.

She sighed and watched the TV screen, where König was singing one of his hit songs, "Bulletproof". She listened to the lyrics and felt a connection to them.

"I've been shot at, stabbed, burned, and bruised

But I'm still standing, I'm still fighting, I'm still alive

I've been betrayed, hurt, lied to, and used

But I'm still trusting, I'm still loving, I'm still fine

I'm bulletproof, nothing can break me down

I'm bulletproof, nothing can shake me now

I'm bulletproof, I've got a heart of steel

I'm bulletproof, I've got a will of iron

I'm bulletproof..."

She closed her eyes and imagined that König was singing to her, that he was telling her that he felt the same way as she did. That he was strong, brave, and unbreakable. That he was also lonely, scared, and vulnerable. That he needed someone to love him and protect him. That he wanted her.

She smiled and drifted off to sleep, dreaming of König.

[hebimoonlightwrites]

heyho~! sry for going anon, but i really love your writing and ive been following you for a while but i also wanted a way to support you so here i go!!

i was thinking a bit (a lot) about who to request for cause i dont really have a favorite in hypmic… lets ignore the fact that ive been a crazy hypster for 4 years! anyways, i was wondering if you could pick a character for me based on some info about me? think of it as like one of those “which character from __ would be your s/o” except this time youre making the decision! sorry for being so indecisive dbdbcbejd but it would make me really happy if you had fun while writing this, if even a little! (btw if you cant/dont want to deal w/ this rq, dw!! and also sry for any spelling errors TT)

she/her pronouns! angst to fluff preference, s/o relationship!

some tidbits about me: i enjoy singing a lot! i also voice act a little, mostly for rhythm game fandoms! im a member of a professional choir part time, and i sing vocaloid songs a lot mostly when im alone! i hate singing too loudly though, especially in front of other people. i have a social anxiety disorder, which makes it hard to do a lot of things, im quite open, cheery, and light/soft hearted if you get to know me, and a bit of an airhead i have to admit- but i really do care for others even if it doesnt seem like it. very quiet in front of people i dont know well, and i come off as a bit gloomy and harsh to people im not familiar with, so i dont have many friends or people im close to at all. love/hate relationship w/ the idea of “love”, since i didnt really grow up around people who expressed that at all. but id be a very compassionate and dedicated lover. a bit hesitant for physical contact due to trauma and ptsd. only fine around people i can really trust. still a bit hesitant though, sometimed it triggers bad trauma. i dont like talking about family stuff since it was sorta abusive and not pleasant. i really enjoy vocaloid and utauloid, and cute j pop w/ mesmerizing dark backstories. i dress in mostly oversized vests/sweaters, in an attempt to make my frame seem smaller. some of my other intrests are: psychological horror games, pokemon, animanga, hypmic, enstars, milgram, given, sasaki to miyano, sanrio, etc etc :D i really like astrology and reincarnation stuff a lot! i can read people’s thoughts easily, which is kinda a pro/con alike. my sense of humor is… limited? i usually dont really show my feelings to other people. i lash out quite a lot… i really like soft plushies, stickers, sleeping, and sweet stuff! bubble waffles, taiyaki, hard milk candy, ice cream, konpeito, to name a few! i loveee stars, and hearts too! if im not listening to music or sleeping, im probably spaced out somewhere! i really like people who arent afraid to approach me, rather id be delighted if anyone came and just said a simple hi! people who can look past my quiet demeanor and can help me cope w/ some of my pain are the best! maybe just someone nice ig?? and someone w/ a lot of empathy! (bonus if they are a good cook cause my cooking… uh…) my favorite animals are cats, otters, foxes, anything cute! some characters i kin from various fandoms are: ramuda, hifumi, yuno kashiki, chuuya nakahara, mafuyu asahina, mika kagehira, ai hoshino, etc! i really like the colors pink, red, purple, and black! i want someone who can just tell me that i will be loved, and im important!!!! i think? not even sure if im capable of loving someone even- hehe just a silly thought though

thank you so much hebi!!

sending lots of love and stars your way!!

-neru

also i forgot to add this but, i HATE bugs. kinda scared of them too. especially the small ones. btw gl on exams hebi!! -neru

Writer's corner: Hi, sweetheart! Of course I can do something like this! You're the first one requesting about it, so I'm sorry if there's something you maybe don't like! (feel free to tell me and correct me!♥) Also, you really seem a nice person, actually!! Feel free to text me each time you want to, dear!!♥ I'm going to develop this like a kind of description and explanation of the reason why I chose that character, okay? Of course, feel free to tell me if there's something you want me to fix! Plus, if there's something that makes you uncomfortable, I'm sorry! It's not my intention, dear♥ qwq

Warnings: So sorry! It's the first time someone requests me something like this! So sorry if it's bad qwq♥

⭐𝐖𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐫𝐨𝐦 𝐇𝐘𝐏𝐌𝐈𝐂 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐛𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐬/𝐨⭐

As I got the information about you, I immediately understood what kind of precious person you are..

⭐First of all, I got the idea that you are that kind of woman (maybe girl? idk, but I prefer using "woman" in general, since I don't know if you're younger or older qwq) who prefers to get lost in her own world, in those things and thoughts that are able to make her happier! You seem that kind of woman who seems a bad one, but who is actually compassionate and selfishless! You say that you're harsh towards the others, but I think you are so, not because you're a bad person, but because you are afraid instead-- Yes, afraid that someone could hurt you in any way!

⭐You said that you have some traumas, and well.. then it's because you went through so much pain that you're afraid of showing your true self! Because I seriously think that other people are sure that what they see is your true self when it's actually a kind of mask- oh better, an armor- you're using to protect yourself! You're both a strong and weak woman: you've gone through a lot of pain but you are still keeping going on!♥ You only told me that you like to sing and to voice act, but I bet that you do those things perfectly and that you're very talented! Maybe even the greatest singer among the choir!!

⭐In short, you immediately gave me some BusterBros!!! or Bad Ass Temple vibes, since you even mentioned your being otaku and your love for astrological things and reincarnation! Plus, the fact that you love plushies a lot and that you are very capable to understand people around you deeply and easily, well.. You're literally someone I'd ship with one boy among BusterBros or Bad Ass Temple!

⭐But to be sure to choose the perfect one for you, I really need to focus more on what you'd like to have in a relationship... ...also I don't really know about your age, so... I'm imagining you're like... 20-25..

But what do you want in a relationship?- You told me you'd like to have someone who can understand you, who can let you cope when you need to get out of your chest that pain you've inside.. and someone who can cook!!

---->If we take a look at all the BusterBros and Bad Ass Temple boys.. well:

⭐Jiro: I don't think he can actually cook and he also doesn't like horror stuff (while you said you like horror and psychological games). But he's well-versed in anime due to Ichiro, soo... I guess you could get along well with him anyway!

⭐Saburo: I mean.. he would agree with you about the pda fact and about the family one.. But he would really be a good gamer/friend! I can picture you both playing video-games.. I don't know, though, if he likes horror ones.. but he likes fantasy ones for sure! In any way, I don't really know how good he could be at comforting you! Maybe he'd be the best, since he also looks kind of harsh and unfriendly while he's actually a kind boy...-

⭐Kuko: Literally the best to talk to about your passion for reincarnation stuff! I'm also sure he would comfort you and even let you cope, but after that he would even fill you with Buddhist moralistic sentences and would try his best to give you some advices as well.. BUT he doesn't seem the one who can cook-----

⭐Jyushi: I mean.. you could be his sister actually in my opinion! You like plushies, just like him. You are introverted and went through pain just like he did.. You like astrological things just like he does! I mean.. You're exactly the same! But.. Sorry, Jyushi.. I don't think you would be able to fully comfort Neru when she needs it! Jyushi would literally start crying or make the situation sadder somehow in my opinion, and you literally need someone who can cheer you up and remind you that you're amazing and worth it- not someone who makes you feel even sadder! (sorry, Jyushi- qwq♥)

⭐Hitoya: He's another one who could actually be perfect for you, in my opinion! I mean.. he's a kind-hearted man who lives for justice! I bet he would fight against your "enemies" and do his best to make you feel appreciated and loved. Also I'm sure he'd be happy to listen to you when you need, and he would be great at comforting you, but.. I mean.. it depends on your age, sweetheart! qwq♥

I know it could sound basic, but...

Ichiro would be the best in my opinion!

⭐We're literally talking about a young man who's working hard each day at the Odd Jobs Yamada only to keep letting his brothers go on studying! If we think about it, it's really generous, actually! Ichiro is literally the one supporting not only himself and his own economical needs, but even his brother's ones and the apartment they all live in!!!

⭐The perfect boyfriend and husband, in my opinion!

⭐Also, he's kind-hearted! I'm sure he wouldn't mind listening to you while you're coping and letting all your pain out of your chest. He would definitely stop doing whatever he is doing only to get to you and comfort you! I'm 100% sure that he would also tell you something like: "Cry if you need to, love.." and would also be capable of turning around if you prefer to cry alone, without showing him.

⭐Otherwise, if you ask him to comfort you by hugging you, he would do it without any hesitation! On the other hand, he would respect your time and would avoid to get some PDA if you preferred not to get it!

⭐You could also play some games together or even read mangas too!

⭐I bet he would also cook your favourite dishes and sweets as well, maybe even teaching you how to cook! I'm 100% that Ichiro would also support you and tell you that your cooking is not that bad!

⭐He'd be there each time you feel like you need to remember that you're an amazing and valuable woman!

⭐"Hey, Neru! You can be yourself while you are around me! Stop being afraid of messing things up! You're amazing just the way you are!"♥

TOP 3 characters, results:

⭐1- Ichiro

⭐2-Hitoya

⭐3-Kuko

©hebimoonlightwrites_tumblr Please, do not copy my contents nor repost it without my permission.

[careless-with-your-heart]

Lay You in the Ground: an iZombie AU Fic (Ch.2)

Tomorrow comes, and Catherine finds herself outside The Scratching Post at noon. It’s well before opening—which she knows (from watching the place for the past week) is promptly at eight o’clock—and she knows he is inside. Waiting. And she knows he’ll be alone, because he’s too self-assured to think that she’s any danger to him.

He’s right, for now. She knows what he is, but she doesn’t care. In fact, it is exactly for that reason—what Blaine Mcdonough is—that she chose this place. To hide from darkness in an even blacker corner of the night, in the shadows where even the worst people are afraid to go. She’s good at finding criminals because she was raised by one. A lousy one, but a criminal nonetheless.  

At the thought of her father, Catherine shivers. She pushes the memory of his dead eyes from her mind, inhales the crisp, damp air to try to clear the phantom smell of coppery blood—too much to leave any doubt about whether or not she could have saved him—from her nose.

Vegas is behind her, and hopefully, Seattle is far enough away.

Catherine hefts her backpack over her shoulder and slips inside the bar, grateful for the heat that envelops her as she enters the dimly lit space. There have been too many cold nights on the streets, and she soaks in the comfort of being, for the moment, sheltered. Not safe, of course, because she would never fool herself into thinking that she could relax in a place like this, but at least out of the weather.

The Post is empty, at first glance. The brick of the wall is actually warm under her fingers as she trails over the rough surface near a chic leather sectional, The Scratching Post emblazoned above it in neon. She drops her bag on the sectional and digs out her phone. The burner isn’t fancy, but it’s “smart” enough that she can stream a playlist as she goes to the bar, slipping behind it.

Her phone finds a place on the liquor shelves, and as the soft strains of Ryan Adam’s voice fills the otherwise quiet room, Catherine finds the spoiled bottle that she’d pointed out to Blaine the night before. It’s been replaced with a fresh one, this time an amaretto liquor that isn’t cream-based. She lifts the heavy amber glass, turning to place it on the bar as she sings along with the song.

Hey, you're my wrecking ball

Won't you come and maybe knock me down

Next to the bottle she sets out two empty shot glasses. Then, rummaging around behind the bar in the mini fridge, she finds a plastic pour full of cold espresso, one of heavy cream, and simple syrup. She lights one of the tea lights that sit on the bar top and sets a rocks glass atop it, drizzling the simple syrup in until it covers the bottom. Into the shot glasses, she layers espresso, amaretto, and heavy cream.

Lying in the bed at night

Feeling like I'm somebody else

Catherine’s voice merges with the song, and she watches as the simple syrup heats and bubbles in the rocks glass. When it begins to darken slightly, losing clarity to a hint of caramel color, she plucks the glass from over the tealight, flipping open the ice bin and burying the bottom of the glass in the cold.

And all the walls we built, they rise and they fall

While she waits for the syrup to cool, she finds a bottle of sanitizer, fills two sanitizer tubs with warm water and sets them under the counter at each end of the bar. Her playlist switches to Foxes, and she closes her eyes and smiles as she grabs the broom from a clip on the far back wall.

Run and hide

It's gonna be bad tonight

'Cause here comes your devil side

It's gonna ruin me

She feels him as she starts to sweep behind the bar. She can’t see him, but she knows that those forget-me-not eyes are trained on her. 

Read the full chapter two at AO3 here: Clickity Click Click

Or, Start at Chapter One Here

[agent-oo-z]

Atavia is a ranger through and through. All of my characters have been so far, it’s my favorite class and I’m very autistic so it’s what I’m most comfortable playing. She’s a wood elf and has the urchin background.

The song I feel best encapsulates and represents her is Blackbird by The Beatles.

Atavia’s biggest theme/motif is ravens. The Raven Queen necklace being part of her gear for the rest of the game after she finds it, her respect and appreciation for death as a part of the natural cycle, the obvious “raven black hair” thing(it even has similar iridescence to raven feathers in real life under the right lighting!), the general “corvids like to steal/collect shiny things” and “corvids hold grudges and defend their family/friends/flock” thing, night time and darkness and ravens and crows being symbolic of death and that being central to her as a character, you get the idea.

But the lyrics are also pretty accurate to her. Her entire life story has been “being put in shitty situations and persevering regardless of the setbacks you experience.” She recognizes being an orphan who grew up on the streets was not great, but it doesn’t feel like some sort of massive tragedy to her. As she is loved and cared for and supported by her various companions and romantic partners she comes to realize that yeah, her early life was pretty rough. Just because it could have been worse doesn’t mean it wasn’t bad.

Atavia has her own tag, because I adore her. #bg3 Atavia Tav

I guess I’ll tag @doperel but no pressure of course

Anyways check out below the read more to see some songs I almost picked but didn’t and why!

Honestly finding a song for Atavia was strangely difficult. Because her defining characteristics and themes and motifs are all so specific, and finding something that suits her without sort of being in opposition to one or more of her “key components” was tricky.

For example:

In A Week by Hozier. The acceptance and reverence towards death, the deep love of her partners, but it’s a bit too centered on romance to work well for her without simplifying her down to ‘girlfriend who worships the Raven Queen’

Our Prayer by The Beach Boys. Simple, hauntingly beautiful, but a bit too melancholy and abstract

Like Real People Do by Hozier. Again a bit too centered on romance, but mostly it’s because Atavia doesn’t really have any dark secret past or some event she’s ashamed of.

High On A Rocky Ledge by Moondog. A song about love and devotion, about doing the impossible to show the person you care for how much they matter to you. It’s another melancholy one, which is why I didn’t pick it. Atavia’s devotion is intense and strong and firey like sunshine so it wasn’t quite right in tone. And she’s more than just how much she loves her partners.

Love Me Tender by Elvis Presley. Girl needs to be loved but can’t admit it. If her deepest secret desires were a song it would be this. But she can’t admit it for ages.

Don’t Fear The Reaper by Blue Oyster Cult. Again the whole “not being afraid of death and dying” things. But that’s not really all of who she is. It’s a big part of her to be clear. But it’s not everything. This is what Atavia would use to communicate her own acceptance of her approaching death when she grew old, so that her surviving friends and family and loved ones would know she was ready for it and at peace.

In general it felt like most of these songs were either too specifically about romance and love or were too broad and abstract.

What Song?

So, a little game - what song encapsulates your Tav/Durge? Post a picture of them, their name and class and a link to the song that represents them with the reason why.

Ayressa Aedihle - Bardlock (College of Lore/The Arch Fey)

This song was a find from a few years ago, but it’s become Ayressa’s song because it’s what I imagine her voice to sound like. Haunting vocals echo through this song and while its lyrics aren’t hopeful, it does speak of a sort of eternal love.

I suppose it’s more appropriate for any iteration of Ayressa who loses Gale - either to the Orb or Sneaky!God syndrome but I still think that it has a place with Ayressa getting a happy ending.

Your turn.

[sadprosed]

𝑺𝑪𝑬𝑵𝑨𝑹𝑰𝑶  𝑷𝑹𝑶𝑴𝑷𝑻𝑺.

↬   OF  FAIRYTALES,  FOLKLORE  AND  FAEKIND.

scenarios  inspired  by  various  settings,  encounters  &  magic  tucked  between  pages,  fashioned  by  the  author.

+   feel  free  to  change  pronouns  /  roles  !

FAIRYTALES.

‘  let  me  guess,  you  thought  a  true  love’s  kiss  would  help  you.  ’

‘  you  will  always  follow  the  trail  in  the  wood,  and  it  will  guide  you  on  the  same  path,  to  the  same  cottage,  the  same  witch.  it  will  always  be  your  undoing.  ’

‘  i  have  never  seen  a  more  tragic  creature.  how  might  i  help  you  ?  ’

���  you  must  take  this  knife  and  plunge  it  into  his  /  her  /  their  heart.  ’

‘  forget  yourself.  that  is  how  you  break  your  curse.  ’

‘  remove  this  thorn  from  my  hand,  and  you  will  be  rewarded.  ’

‘  i’m  tired  of  being  a  prince.  i  think  i  would  actually  enjoy  being  a  frog.  ’

‘  tell  me  of  the  beast,  and  i  will  hunt  it  for  you.  ’

‘  mice  are  never  just  mice,  and  pumpkins  are  rarely  just  pumpkins.  ’

‘  i  don’t  think  breaking  a  spell  should  be  this  simple.  ’

‘  i  never  thought  i’d  return  here,  to  the  site  where  it  all  began.  ’

‘  are  you  an  orphan  ?  it’s  just  that  they’re  always  finding  themselves  in  magical  predicaments.  ’

‘  the  mirror  speaks  falsely  in  your  ear.  it  is  your  true  curse.  ’

‘  my  heart  feels  uneasy,  although  i  am  free.  is  it  supposed  to  ?  ’

‘  i’m  sorry,  it’s  just  that  i  thought  this  is  the  part  of  the  quest  where  the  animals  ought  to  start  talking  to  me.  ’

‘  of  course  i  plan  on  going  to  the  ball.  why  wouldn’t  i  ?  ’

‘  jealousy  has  made  more  witches  out  of  women  than  adam’s  rib.  ’

‘  where  has  choosing  goodheartedness  and  having  golden  hair  ever  gotten  you  ?  ’

 ‘  are  you  a  helpful  wizard,  or  the  kind  that  sits  in  a  tower  reading  moldy  books  ?  ’

‘  i’m  dreadfully  bored.  who  knew  waiting  for  a  prince  was  so  strenuous  ?  ’

‘  we  all  have  towers  we  must  leave,  and  magic  that  will  try  to  thwart  us.  ’

‘  i’m  afraid  for  the  clock  to  strike.  the  hour  will  ring  in  the  place  of  my  heartbeat  when  we  must  be  parted.  ’

‘  i  had  no  idea  carpets  could  fly.  or  pigs  for  that  matter.  ’  

‘  what  would  happen  if  the  knight  did  not  arrive  to  the  castle,  and  the  dragon  made  a  den  of  it  and  a  hoard  of  its  people  and  prize  of  its  princess  ?  ’

‘  i  sometimes  think  i  was  switched  out  at  birth,  like  a  lizard  in  a  bird’s  nest.  i  belong  somewhere  else.  ’

‘   in  another  kingdom  exists  a  throne  and  a  crown  that  is  mine  by  right.  ’

‘  if  i  did  not  wake  up  one  day,  i  would  still  be  waiting  on  a spinning  wheel,  dutifully  bored.  ’  

‘  something  in  me  knows  you  are  here  for  my  heart.  ’

FOLKLORE.

‘  in  all  the  myths  i’ve  heard,  it’s  never  been  worthwhile  to  approach  strange  sights.  it’s  best  to  turn  around  and  pretend  you  never  saw  them.  ’

‘  nothing  is  folklore  until  it  exists  longer  than  consciousness  remembers,  and  lives  in  spite  of  it.  ’

‘  i’ve  heard  your  name  before,  in  songs  and  lengthy  ballads.  ’

‘  whatever  has  led  you  here  to  me,  there  is  destiny  in  its  making.  ’

‘  the  beast  returns  every  century  or  so,  and  tries  to  devour  us.  it  will  come  again  before  long.  ’

‘  a  pretty  face  is  not  nothing.  it  earns  you  a  hearth  and  a  kind  hand,  after  all.  ’

‘  their  lips  are  red  as  blood,  and  their  teeth  carve  ruin  into  throats.  ’

‘  aren’t  dragons  supposed  to  breathe  fire  and  make  a  fuss  about  having  their  treasure  found  ?  ’

‘  someday  you  will  become  a  pilgrim,  a  saint,  or  a  favored  story,  while  i  will  be  a  voice  on  the  wind.  ’

‘  the  stories  say  brides  don’t  live  to  the  light  before  demons  devour  them.  why  should  i  become  one  ?  ’

‘  there  was  another  girl  like  you  once,  in  a  small  town  like  this  one.  i  can’t  remember  if  she  became  the  monster  or  died  trying  to  escape  it.  ’

‘  remember  to  festoon  the  hearth  with  garlic,  or  rosemary,  or  one  of  those  mundane  herbs  that  keep  evil  out.  ’

‘  that  sounds  like  nothing  but  a  tall  tale,  but  i’m  certain  smaller  minds  would  eat  it  up.  ’

‘  to  cross  this  bridge,  you’ll  have  to  pay  a  heavy  toll.  ’

‘  don’t  stray  too  far  from  the  path  set  before  you,  or  something  interesting  might  happen.  ’

‘  i’ve  passed  that  yard  of  crops  a  million  times,  but  the  crow  never  moved  from  its  post  until  this  morning.  ’

‘   it  is  as  though  ancient  fears  are  still  in  us  like  scars  or  stitches.  ’

‘  graveyards  aren’t  where  you  find  ghosts.  look  for  them  in  places  that  feel  like  memories  you  shouldn’t  have.  ’

‘  stories  reap  princes  from  peasants  as  if  their  skins  were  crops  in  the  ground.  ’

‘  what  form  does  your  fear  take  ?  surely  not  that  of  a  bear  or  a  lion.  such  things  are  too  assuring.  ’

‘  i  found  myself  where  everything  was  too  familiar  to  be  real.  ’

‘  in  safe  beds  on  cold  dark  nights,  we  learn  to  face  the  monsters  in  our  own  minds.  ’

FAEKIND.

‘  you’re  not  to  partake  in  a  fairy  feast.  don’t  you  know  it’s  the  food  that  will  devour  you  ?  ’

‘  i’m  sorry  you  did  not  read  the  eyes  of  the  trees  before  finding  yourself  here.  ’

‘  i  wish  to  go  back.  i  want  to  forget  everything.  ’

‘  you  think  that  believing  in  us  is  enough  to  protect  you  ?  that  it  will  kill  us  if  you  forget,  and  we  prey  upon  your  unknowing  ?  ’

‘  step  around  the  ring  three  times,  like  a  backwards  clock.  that’s  how  you  get  to  fairyland.  ’  

‘  i’ve  never  heard  such  sweet  music  before.  ’

‘  where  the  trees  begin  to  twist  and  groan  in  their  roots,  remember  you  must  not  make  a  right  turn.  ’

‘  i  didn’t  feel  like  i’d  stepped  into  another  world,  but  like  it  stepped  into  me.  i  knew  i  was  there  and  forgot  i’d  left  anything  behind.  ’

‘  how  amusing.  a  human  !  ’

‘  would  you  be  my  bride  if  i  were  to  take  you  into  the  ground  ?  ’

‘  i  know  of  tunnels  you  might  take,  the  burrows  of  trolls  and  rabbits.  ’

‘  don’t  take  anything  from  this  realm,  none  of  it  is  worth  the  price  of  keeping.  ’

‘  there  are  courts  by  many  titles  in  the  lands  beyond  the  veil,  all  of  them  other.  ’

‘  names  are  not  like  currency  here;  they  are  more  precious  than  diamonds  and  legacies.  ’

‘  did  you  think  all  of  us  looked  like  goblins  ?  ’

‘  getting  here  is  easy,  but  getting  home  is  quite  the  trick.  ’

‘  i  shall  give  you  a  riddle,  and  it  will  puzzle  you  until  you  know  the  answer  but  forget  your  own  soul.  ’

‘  a  bloodline  is  nothing  when  you’ve  outlived  civilizations.  ’

‘  refusing  my  hospitality  is  like  human  sin,  and  it  will  bring  worse  upon  you.  ’

‘  everything  here  is  and  isn’t,  and  things  are  and  aren’t.  ’

‘  on  lonely  nights  i  stare  into  the  trees,  and  a  strange  face  leers  back.  ’

‘  the  thrones  here  are  made  of  bones  and  blood,  and  built  upon  decay.  ’

‘  a  third  time  is  not  a  charm,  but  a  bargain.  it  says  that  you  want  something  enough  to  wager  your  sense.  ’

‘  it  is  dangerous  to  think  that  magical  beings  do  not  have  human  intensities.  ’

[jackoshadows]

“It’s only Pyp who says I’m too dumb to be frightened. I get as frightened as anyone. I used to be scared of Jon, whenever I had to fight him. He was so quick, and he fought like he meant to kill me. I never said, though. Sometimes I think everyone is just pretending to be brave, and none of us really are. Maybe pretending is how you get brave, I don’t know.” - Grenn, ASoS

I thought I would write a little about Jon’s colorful and eclectic group of side characters at the Wall.

There’s Grenn and Pyp (Pypar). Pyp often makes fun of Grenn as being craven however, as with many other characters we see that, he is actually brave for fighting and training despite being afraid. Grenn is not very clever and we are introduced to him as the bully who attacks Jon until we realize that it’s Jon who has been the bully. Grenn is often the butt of jokes, is big and clumsy and is seen as simple, but it’s him and Pyp among others who remind Jon of his duty when he tries to leave the Watch in book one. He’s a steadfast and a loyal friend.

Pyp had stabbed a turnip with his knife. "The night is dark and full of turnips," he announced in a solemn voice."Let us all pray for venison, my children, with some onions and a bit of tasty gravy "

Of the two, Pyp is definitely the more witty and funny one with his large ears that he can wiggle and able to do different voices and accents. Pyp used to be from a Mummer’s troupe. Alliser Thorne mocks him as a ‘mummer’s monkey’. It’s Pyp who often tries to lighten the mood with what Sam calls his ‘stupid japes’.

“Here come our breakfast arrows,” Pyp announced cheerfully, as he did every morning. It’s good that he can make a jape of it, Jon thought. Someone has to. (…) Jon had to think that it was better for them to smile at Pyp’s jest than to brood over Alyn’s corpse.” - Jon, ASoS

There is Todder more familiarly known as Toad, another of Jon’s friends - a singer of bawdy songs learned at his father’s winesink.

"You make us look bad," complained Toad.

"You looked bad before I ever met you," Jon told him.

There’s Satin who Jon thinks of as quick, clever, pretty and brave (Wait isn’t that how he thinks of Arya as well? Hmmm...) Satin was a prostitute from Mole’s Town and is currently Jon’s steward. I thought it was rather adorable that Satin searched for and got some lace for Alys Karstark to wear in her hair for her wedding.

It's the builders for me. What use would rangers be if the Wall fell down? - Halder AGoT

There is Halder who is assigned to the builders and carves the wolf’s head for Longclaw. Pyp, Grenn, Toad, Halder are part of the group of friends who bring Jon back to Castle Black when he tries fleeing the NW back in AGoT. There’s Mully, Jon’s guard. There’s Matthar who had the Septon light a candle for Ned when Jon got news of his execution.

There’s Emrick, Horse, Jace, Hop Robin and Arron - recruits that joined after the great ranging, who fought alongside Jon to defend the Wall. They are close in age to Jon, trained under him, Horse comes from Moles Town and probably thinks highly of Jon and despite following the Seven most of them say their oaths to the Weirwoods.

Then there’s of course Dolorous Edd Tollett, who reminds me of Marvin the paranoid android in The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy or even Eeyore from Winnie the Pooh.

"The dead are likely dull fellows, full of tedious complaints - 'the ground's too cold, my gravestone should be larger, why does HE get more worms than I do...'"

Edd Tollett lets us know how dreary and depressing life is at the wall in different ways. Apparently Edd joined the Watch because Yoren told him that women like a man in uniform 😂. There’s so many Edd quotes to choose from.

"I never win anything," Dolorous Edd complained. "The gods always smiled on Watt, though. When the wildlings knocked him off the Bridge of Skulls, somehow he landed in a nice deep pool of water. How lucky was that, missing all those rocks?"

"Was it a long fall?" Grenn wanted to know. "Did landing in the pool of water save his life?"

"No," said Dolorous Edd. "He was dead already, from that axe in his head. Still, it was pretty lucky, missing the rocks."

“We’ll defend the Wall to the last man,” said Cotter Pyke.

“Probably me,” said Dolorous Edd, in a resigned tone.

Dolorous Edd is a loyal friend to Jon Snow, someone he trusts and ends up  steward of Long Barrow under Iron Emmett, in charge of the Spearwives.

Then there are the other brothers like Cotter Pyke and Ser Denys Mallister, leaders and commanders in their own right, who vote for Jon Snow as LC rather than for someone like Janos Slynt.

“Lord Snow,” said Cotter Pyke, “if you muck this up, I’m going to rip your liver out and eat it raw with onions.”

Cotter Pyke is a bastard from the Iron Islands and is described as being violent, but we see that he is dutiful to the Watch and wants what’s best for it. He’s rough spoken and illiterate, but he does what Jon wants and leads the mission to Hardhome despite disliking the Wildlings.

He smiled a tired smile. “Do not make me die regretful. Your uncle was a great man. Your lord father and his father as well. I shall expect full as much of you.” - Denys to Jon

Denys Mallister has waited a long time to become Lord Commander and yet graciously gives way to Jon Snow

"Jon, you have the Wall till I return."

For a moment Jon thought he had misheard. It had sounded as if Noye were leaving him in command. "My lord?"

"Lord? I'm a blacksmith. I said, the Wall is yours."

Donal Noye, who gives Jon command of the Wall, whose compassion is what Jon recalls best and who dies fighting a giant in the Tunnels under the wall. Donal Noye who trusts that Jon has not turned deserter, who carries him one armed to Maester Aemon to treat his injuries

If any man in the Night's Watch can make it through the Frostfangs alone and afoot, it is you, brother - Qhorin Halfhand to Stonesnake

Man and boy I've served the Watch, and ranged as far as any. I've seen the bones of giants, and heard many a queer tale, but no more. I want to see them with my own eyes - Ebben

The Rangers who go with Jon scouting beyond the Mountains to discover Mance’s plans - Qhorin Halfhand, Stonesnake, Squire Dalbridge and Ebben. Qhorin Halfhand who teaches Jon to be a leader, Stonesnake who was last seen at Skirling pass and is still unaccounted for, Ebben who is killed by Rattleshirt and finally Squire Dalbridge.

It's always pretty women in my dreams. Would that I dreamed more often - Dalbridge to Jon Snow

Squire Dalbridge is the epitome of what the Night’s Watch is supposed to be. Brave men risking their lives to defend the realm and yet their bravery will never be known. Dalbridge is killed after staying behind to hold off the Wildlings thus allowing Jon and the others to make their escape.

"Honor set you on the kingsroad... and honor brought you back." "My friends brought me back," Jon said. "Did I say it was your honor?" - Jeor Mormont

"It takes a man to rule. An Aegon, not an Egg. Kill the boy and let the man be born." You are half the age that Egg was, and your own burden is a crueler one, I fear. You will have little joy of your command, but I think you have the strength in you to do the things that must be done. Kill the boy, Jon Snow. Winter is almost upon us. Kill the boy and let the man be born. - Maester Aemon

There are the wise men of the Watch, Jeor Mormont and Maester Aemon, from whom Jon learns the basics of leadership and the responsibility of being a member of the NW.

“Well, that’s so,” said Yarwyck. “Anyway, now that I’m standing here, I don’t recall why I thought Slynt would be such a good choice. That would be sort of kicking King Stannis in the mouth, and I don’t see how that serves us. Might be Snow would be better. He’s been longer on the Wall, he’s Ben Stark’s nephew, and he served the Old Bear as squire.” Yarwyck shrugged. “Pick who you want, just so it’s not me.” He sat down.

There are the dissenters, Bowen Marsh and Othell Yarwyck, who end up participating in mutiny and assassination, but it’s worth remembering that Yarwyck suggests that the Watch vote for Jon rather than Slynt.

Hobb's sausages were made of grease and salt and things that did not bear thinking about.

There’s three fingered Hobb who was kind enough to give Sam salted ham for his birthday, and deaf Dick and half blind Clydas.

"The bloody buggers got my leg." Spare Boot plucked the arrow out and waved it above his head. "The wooden one!"

Spare Boot and Dornish Dilly and Red Jack Crabb, Owen the Oaf and Fulk the Flea, half-mad Easy.

"What is it you smell, Dywen?" asked Grenn. The forester sucked on his spoon a moment. He had taken out his teeth. His face was leathery and wrinkled, his hands gnarled as old roots. "Seems to me like it smells . . . well . . . cold." 

There’s loyal, veteran ranger and tracker Dywen with his wooden teeth who is currently missing.  Garth Greyfeather, Black Jack Bulwer and Hairy Hal who Jon sends to range beyond the wall for information and who are killed by the Weeper, with their heads mounted on spears in front of Castle Black. The rangers like Garrett Greenspear and Luke of Longtown who accompany Jon on his duties.

Men are men, vows are words, and words are wind - Iron Emmett

Leathers crossed his arms. “That battle down below? I was on t'otherside, remember? Now I wear your blacks and train your boys to kill. Some might call me turncloak. Might be so … but I am no more savage than you crows. We have gods too. The same gods they keep in Winterfell.”

There’s Iron Emmett, newly arrived from Eastwatch-By-The-Sea and trains with Jon and is named commander of Long Barrow in charge of the spearwives.  The Wildling recruits Jax and Leathers who joins the NW and is appointed Man at Arms for training the new recruits.

There’s Wun Weg Wun Dar Wun, the giant, with whom Jon holds conversations about his culture, learning the Old Tongue from Leathers. Wun Wun who loves platters of roast veggies

All in all the Night’s Watch gives Jon Snow a colorful cast of side characters to play with and if Jon does indeed end up leaving the Watch to entangle in Northern politics I will miss these crows and I hope most of them manage to stick around till the very end - especially Grenn, Pyp, Edd, Satin, Iron Emmett, Leathers, Wun Wun etc.

[jangofctts]

As You Are (Bucky Barnes x fem!reader)

Rated: Mature, Explicit 18+

Word Count: 6.4k

Warnings: smut, explicit language, mentions of alcohol, mentions of violence and injuries, light choking, brief thigh riding/grinding, vaginal fingering with them metal fingies, oral female receiving, unprotected vaginal sex (dont be a dick, wrap that stick), fucking on sam’s couch

a/n: ok hi this fic is very self indulgent bUT YKNOW WHAT WHO CARES EKJHEJHKEJH this is my first fic for marvel and AH I hope I did Bucky justice. ENJOY YALL

This had been a terrible idea. 

Right from the minute you tailed after he and Sam to the Baron’s extensive vintage car storage. Bucky had explicitly withheld any and all information regarding this little excursion to protect you but of course you’d shown up—none too jazzed about the little stunt Bucky pulled regarding the Baron. Fair. 

You were right—Bucky should have called but that overwhelming guilt of dragging you into another one of his problems stopped him from pressing that little call button. He never wanted to be the reason you ended up back on the run again. Though judging by the way things were going, it was more than likely you’d be in prison by the end of the week. 

Luck had your back in that sort of regard—too bad it could never rescue you from your own stubbornness and grief regarding that damn shield. 

You’d taken a devastatingly hard hit from Walker—a fractured orbital, a split lip and a dislocated shoulder. All preventable—if only Bucky kept better track of you before you showed up in that warehouse alone. Left to fight the shadow of what was once a symbol of hope for some—another man playing dress-up in something that will never belong to him. 

It was just their luck Bucky and Sam arrived in time—preventing you from becoming another red stain of violence splattered over that shield. 

James Buchanan Barnes is not afraid of much—but fuck. Seeing you crumpled over the concrete floor, all bloodied and struggling to raise a hand to protect your face… It was the same feeling as injecting his veins with a pure shot of adrenaline and anger shrouded in fear. He promised Steve he’d look after you… 

And as Sam carried you out of that warehouse you had the gall to tenderly tell them that you were just fine—as if your mouth weren’t full of blood and a face blooming with patchy bruises. The jealousy that sparked through Bucky’s chest when you clung to Sam’s chest did nothing to help that dark festering pit inside his ribcage he’s attempting to suture back together.

Bucky clenches his jaw. At least you’re asleep now. Curled up against the window, holding your injured arm in a way that limited the turbulence from jostling it. It’s the first time Bucky would describe you as fragile. He know’s you’re anything but that—stubborn mostly—yet most of all brave. It’s what Steve admired most about you—what Bucky loves most about you too. That vibrant spark flowing through your blood and how you’re not afraid to shout along to your favorite songs despite the odd looks you get. Bucky envies how self-assured you are, how you’ll never lose yourself because you know just where you’re headed. He wishes he still had that sort of drive instead of all this uncertainty and guilt clouding each muscle and fibre in his body.      

Bucky doesn’t realize the jet has landed until Sam stands and and places a large hand over your shoulder. Your face scrunches as you whine and curl further into your seat. “C’mon, kiddo.” You grumble something inaudible. “You want me to carry you?”

The delicate plates of vibranium clink together as Bucky’s hand tightens into a fist, jealousy flaring hot and bright. He quickly stands, too fast to be considering anything less than awkward. Sam’s brow quirks. “I can do it.”   

“It’s cool, man,” Sam says as he scoops one arm under your legs and the other around your back. “I got her.”

Bucky bristles. Whatever. 

It’s not like you and him have anything together. A one sided plague of affection that you’ll never know about—he wants to tell you. Fuck, the words burn through his tongue and collect like ashes between his teeth and yet they are never voiced from self sabotage. There’s no possible way to voice how you’ve haunted his thoughts and his dream since the moment his eyes met yours. How he’s memorized the lines of your smile and the sweet sound of your laugh, the sweep of your lashes and the rhythm of your steps. Bucky would know you deaf, blind, numb, in this world or any other twisted reality. 

He had said that he wasn’t afraid of much, but that’s not entirely true. Eternity, oblivion, crowded rooms, being alone too long. And you. You terrify him. You have the power to pluck at the very strings of his soul and unravel him completely until he’s no more—and you don’t even know it. Bucky Barnes is less afraid of dying than he is of loosing you but that fear never once provides him the courage to tell you. You may not be a scribbled name in his book, but he still hopes that one day he’ll earn the chance to strike his cowardice and put to rest the wretched ache in his heart that he feels for you. 

He wishes he told you in Wakanda, after the Blip, Riga, and right this instant. He watches Sam carry you out of the jet—what’s a little more time?

                          -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

The sun is beginning to melt into the horizon, turning the expanse of water into molten gold and shimmering blues. The hazy humidity from the late afternoon heat collects at the back of Bucky’s neck and the light breeze does nothing to cool. Bucky sighs and swipes at the bead of sweat creeping down his forehead with the back of his hand—he glances up. 

A ghost of a smile creeps across his lips. You’re exactly where he and Sam left you three hours ago. Surprising to be quite honest—you never did like to stay in one place for longer than ten minutes. You’re a pain in his ass, simply said.  

But now—now you’re haphazardly splayed out on the lawn chair you were forced into, a juice box loosely held in your good hand while the other still remains in the sling. He can’t tell if you’re asleep—Steve’s sunglasses do an excellent job of hiding your eyes. Yet as Bucky wanders closer, your head rolls to your right in greeting. 

“It’s rude to stare, y’know,” you grumble, lifting the juice box to your mouth. Your lips purse around the plastic straw. “And before you ask—yes, I have a very important job I’m currently overseeing.”

Bucky quirks a brow. “What—hogging the lawn chair?”

“No—“ You huff. You gesture with your juice box at the large cooler your sandaled feet are propped up on. “I’m the booze master. God of the ale, destroyer of sobriety—“

“Alright, Booze Master,” Bucky interrupts with a snort. “Why don’t you bestow upon me a beer, your majesty.”

You tap your index finger over your chin as a lazy smile fixes itself over your lips. “Granted.”

You slide your legs off the cooler and with a pained grunt you shift forward. Bucky shoots his arm out and steadies you back against the chair by your shoulder before you get any further. Your face pulls into a grimace.

“I got it, kid. Relax.”

Bucky pops open the cooler and fishes out a beer and pops the cap off between his left index finger and thumb. You watch with a frown, “I could’ve done that for you.” 

Bucky resists the urge to roll his eyes and takes a seat on the cooler. The bitter fizz floods his tastebuds as he takes a sip of his drink, a tangible silence blanketing the space between you. He gets it—people like he and you can never settle for complacency. As if the rest isn’t deserved despite the bloody knuckles and the shattered glass that slices through skin—the bruises and the broken bones. None of it is enough—not worthwhile to preserve yourself when other’s so desperately need your help. 

Or maybe it’s penance. 

Bucky sure as shit finds himself swallowed by the black maw of guilt each and every day. Battling the never ending shadow of doubt that clings to his soul like glitter to a an old carpet. Bucky believes it’s safe to say that you’re the same—every good deed you do added to the imaginary scale weighing against the bad despite it feeling hollow and insurmountable. Paying in blood to equate the amount you’ve spilled. A hopeless battle you both insist on fighting. 

Bucky sighs through his nose, bends at the waist and collects both your ankles in his left hand. You let him lift them both and settle your legs over his knees. You shiver, an eruption of goosebumps rushing up your skin at the cold metallic shock of Bucky’s vibranium thumb scrapinh over your bare flesh.

Bucky’s lips tilt down ever so slightly. “Did I hurt you?”

“Never,” you rush to say before he has the chance to flee. “S’just cold.” 

His hum reverberates low in his chest as those cerulean blue eyes fall to his hands. You clench your jaw until your teeth ache as his left thumb continues to stroke over the delicate skin covering the joint of your ankle. This is…new…

You’d been close with Steve and Sam, and by proxy Bucky—in some weird adjunct way. Compared to Sam’s teasing bumps of the shoulder and that infectious laugh far more addicting than the golden liquor of the sun, Bucky is frigid. Still attempting to shake off the whole Winter Soldier thing that’s molded onto his bones like stubborn permafrost. Touch had always been tricky with him—even a friendly pat over the back or a simple tap to the harm had him tensing under the touch—muscle and steel bunching to prepare for a harsh blow that would never arrive. Never from you.         

Bucky rarely sought out your physical comfort—you were always the one to initiate those friendly touches even if he was the type to just sit and ignore you like a grouchy old cat barely clinging onto that ninth life. The first time he breached that fragile barrier was in Wakanda—something in Bucky cracked and split into a cavernous ravine of nebulosity. Stitches shred apart then stapled back together as he grabbed your arm and wrestled you into a bone-crushing hug. You didn’t need to ask to realize he cried the entire time, gripping your shirt like a lifeline while he shuddered and sobbed into the crook of your neck. To him everything from the rain to silk sheets felt like shrapnel and the stars tasted like old blood and the past of things long gone—yet you were familiar. 

A comfort for the much needed healing of the scattered pieces of a man. You don’t mind helping him pick up the tidbits and reattach them with veins of silver. It’s the least you can do. 

The second time occurred after the loss of Steve. Some part of you had been wrenched out with his departure and he never bothered to return it. It doesn’t matter anymore—the hollow ache had been soothed with the Winter Soldier clutching you to his chest until you drifted off into a fitful sleep. A tether to a new reality you both partake in. 

Which brings you to now. There’s no cathartic reasoning behind his touch…it’s simple…a risky leap of faith into unknown territory. Bucky’s eyes lift to meet yours—curiosity swimming in those icy irises. You don’t mind—in fact you quite like the calloused warmth of his hand and the opposing chilly metal one tentatively exploring your exposed skin. 

“You have a scar here,” Bucky murmurs, skimming the thumb made up of flesh and sinew over the mottled skin occupying the crease of where the top of your foot meets your ankle. 

You bite the inside of your cheek. “I fell on barbed wire.”

“Clumsy,” he chides, quirking a dark brow. 

Your shoulders bounce with a huff. “I was like—twelve when it happened, James.”

His mouth quirks in a half smile, quite liking the validation of his name in the way your mouth speaks it. He wonders if you know the weight of granting you that leeway of calling him that. Shit—he doesn’t care what you call him, everything sounds lovely when you say it. 

There’s another silence—holding your breath until something splits and shatters into a million pieces. You’d be a liar if you said you didn’t want anything more than just friendship with Bucky but fear of rejection is a tricky thing. You take the easy way out and offer him the chance of something more on a silver platter. 

“Bucky?”

His fingers whisper up your shin as he inclines his head.              

“I’m tired. Drive me back to Sam’s?”

“Sure thing, doll.” 

                            -=-=-=-=-=-=-=-

Bucky holds the door open for you as you stumble in, escaping the hazy southern heat. He disappears into the kitchen as you make a beeline straight for the couch, sighing loudly once the plush cushions meet your back. You lazily lift your head once you hear his familiar footfalls nearing. 

With him he brings two Otterpops, one blue raspberry and the other cherry. Once he hands it to you he takes a seat on your left, close enough that his thigh and shoulder bumps against yours. “Don’t tell Sarah’s kids that these were the last ones.”

You roll your eyes and promptly stick the Otterpop into you mouth. “‘M ain’t no snitch.”

His low chuckle reverberates through his chest. The silence that follows isn’t an awkward one as you enjoy the cold treat—it’s filled with the humming cicada bugs outside and the breeze through the wind chimes. Comfortable with the normalcy—just a couple of regular old people enjoying life for a suspended amount of seconds.  

Once you finish the Otter Pop, you crumple the plastic up and rest it on the coffee table. He does the same—hints of the blue syrup sticking to the cracks of his plush lips. You force yourself to avert your eyes. You cheeks heat with a flush as you rush to occupy your mind with anything but wild fantasies of Bucky’s mouth. You lean forward again, pointedly ignoring the way Bucky’s eyes track your movements as you shuck off your sling, the prickle of unused muscles and bruised ligaments rushing through the limb. You wince as you slowly roll your shoulder. 

The muscles in Bucky’s jaw clenches. You sigh—he’s still blaming himself for your injuries. “Does it still hurt?”

“Not everyone has freaky healing powers, Buck,” you snort. You rush to appease him when he frowns. “It’s getting better though. Still can’t sleep on it—but eh.” 

“I’m sorry.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. No matter how many times you tell him he’ll never believe you. That’s something only he can fix. Doesn’t stop you from telling him anyway. “Stop blaming yourself for my idiocy. I made my choice and paid the price for it.”

Bucky’s eyes drop to his hands. “Can’t help it, sweetheart. Steve told me to look after you.”

Your heart constricts within your chest like a fist. You inhale and reach out to rest your hand over his wrist. “Funny—he told me the same thing about you.”

It surprises him—his dark brows furrow as his mouth parts, but nothing comes forth. Grappling with the right words that fit with what he feels. He’s still learning how to give his soul a name that fits. Learning how to take the dark, twisted bramble of his heart and make it into something that doesn’t ache each time it beats. He’s still learning how to look himself in the eyes, point to himself and say that there’s nothing frightening in there. Not anymore. No more. 

You suck in a breath and muster up the embers of courage. Here goes nothing— 

You cup Bucky’s cheek, the scrape of stubble welcome against your warm palm as you gently turn his face to look at you. His eyes drift to yours when the mumbled syllables of his name tumble from your lips. His eyes are framed with dark circles of wildflower bruises, his small smile a moonbeam stark against battered skin. You’ve dreamt so many times of swallowing it whole and pressing him close enough that your heartstrings become entangled with no hope of separation. But that’s something for him to decide. 

You drop your hand cradling Bucky’s jaw, but before your hand completely falls Bucky surges forward. His large hands rush to cup your face, swallowing your noise of surprise as his plush lips fall onto yours. The syrupy flavor of a Blue Raspberry Otter Pop he stole from Sarah’s freezer lingers on Bucky’s mouth, mixed in with the smell of old leather and cracked cardamom. Bucky nips at your bottom lip, tugging once and then rolling it between the blunt enamel of his teeth. Despite all the bad jokes regarding his age and senior citizen status—fuck he’s a damn good kisser. Compared to him you feel clumsy, sloppy, but no matter how hard you search for his distaste he doesn't seem to care in the slightest—if anything he’s pulling you closer. 

Bucky’s kisses may taste like the middle of June and a first love, but desperation lines every action like a wound with jagged edges. It’s a slow process learning to be free, but one day he’ll transform into starlight—and instead of a kiss like fire, it’ll be like touching your lips to a constellation’s aureate mouth.   

When Bucky pulls away, sucking in air and resting his forehead on yours, you catch a whiff of his hair. Freshly washed and smelling a bit like Sam’s shampoo. Your lips quirk. You’ll make sure to keep that a secret from Sam.

You pull back just enough to meet his eye, resting your palm over his vibranium hand that still cups your cheek. “Am I the first person you’ve kissed since the stone ages?”

His lips pull into a cheeky smile. “Maybe.”

You laugh and roll your eyes, skating your palm down the front of his shirt, the heat of his skin near searing through the fabric. “I guess we have a lot of catching up to do, huh?”

Bucky’s lips smother your small moan as he drags you into another kiss. You can feel his smile as he murmurs his agreement between desperate kisses and the enticing warmth of his tongue skimming along yours. The next time you part for air, Bucky drops his strong hands from your face to instead wrap them around the curve of your hips. He tugs you over his right thigh with ease and breathes a gentle sigh of your name, beginning to pepper kisses over you cheek and down the slope of your jaw.

Bucky reaches your ear and carefully nibbles the cartilage, his voice a warm scrape in your ear. “I want you.”

It’s such a simple phrase…and yet…it tears through you and pools like a heavy weight right to your center. “Then take me.”

Quick as a strike of a match, you’re tipped backwards, cradled right between the arm of the couch and the back of it. Heat rushes through each limb and gathers in your cheeks as Bucky’s vibranium fingers skate up your chest and curl around the column of your throat—that hardened soldier he’s tried to bury bleeding through the cracks of his resolve. You don’t care. You gasp into his mouth as he squeezes ever so slightly while he pushes a firm thigh between your legs. Shit—this is how you’re gonna die—grinding on Bucky’s muscled leg while he’s got a hand around your throat. 

What a way to go.    

With his other hand he grips the meat of your thigh and pulls you higher, grinding the rough material of his jeans covering his crotch into yours. You whine and arch into him. You need more. 

You both stay here for a good while up until it feels like you’re ready to burst at the seems if you don’t have him now. Bucky is no better—cheeks flushed as he fumbles with the zipper to relieve the noticeable bulge straining against it. Impatient and needy, you shoo away his hands and do it yourself, easily sliding your warm hand down his navel and over his boxers to palm at his cock. Bucky’s hand twitches around your neck, a sweet groan filling the air when you softly squeeze him through the elastic.

“Fuck, you’re gonna…” Bucky trails off and buries his nose into the crook of your neck. “Gonna make me cum in my pants if you don’t—don’t stop.”

While the thought is tempting, you want this to last just a little bit longer. Rush after the glorious high of just being near him, his kisses, everything about him. Bucky grunts at the loss of your hand and mouths a wet trail of sloppy kisses up your neck and returns to your lips. When you part he sweeps a stray strand of hair and tucks it behind your ear. He smiles softly.

“Can I try something?” He breaths. Before he can even tell you what his idea is, you’re happily nodding along. “Wanna taste you. Been thinking about it ever since Wakanda.”

Oof. His words shoot straight your center. “Bucky—why didn’t you say anything sooner?”

His mouth quirks. “You make me nervous.”

Rolling your eyes you plant a kiss on his forehead and grant him his simple desire. Bucky sits and slides to the floor, close enough that he’s still able to hover over you. You lift your hips as Bucky tugs your shorts and underwear down and off your legs. Besides the general anxieties of being half naked in front of an incredibly attractive man and performing something so sinful on a friend’s couch—there’s a strange stroke of pride that alights through each of your vertebrae. A powerful man willingly dropping to his knees to please you. 

Bucky shoots you a smile and slides his hands around your ribcage, bends forward slightly and captures you mouth in a deep kiss. He parts and nips down your jaw and over your throat, sliding his tongue over the marks he leaves with his teeth as if to soothe the slight sting. You whine and arch into him as he slides lower, leaving an obvious trail of bruises and teeth marks in his wake until he reaches the collar of your shirt. Bucky moves his palms under the fabric to grab at your breasts, the flats of his fingertips rolling over your nipples that peak through your bra. You suck in a shaky breath when Bucky catches the pebbled bud between his forefinger and thumb, the hard vibranium of his fingers scraping over it. A low hum rumbles through his chest as he leans forward to playfully nip at your collarbone.

“I wanna see you naked.” Bucky admits as he slips his hands out of your shirt. You shiver as those chilly metal fingers gently come to rest on the outside of your bare thighs. 

“Not here, Buck,” you sigh. “T-they—fuck—they can come back any minute.”

Bucky quirks a brow, eyes dropping between your legs, then back up with a smirk. His plush lips part, yet before he can disprove your silly point—that your bare ass is already out and taking off the shirt would barely make a difference—you interject. 

“Shut up.”

His shoulders bounce with a chuckle. “You have such a way with words, y’know that?”

You make a noise low in your throat and reach out to sharply tug his ear. He easily bats your hand aside, hooks his hands under your ass and hauls until you’re all but hanging over the edge of the cushions. You squirm, unable close your legs or to relieve some of that burning tension collecting in your core as Bucky lowers himself and wedges his shoulder between your thighs. He slides his hand over your calfs and wrestles them over his broad shoulders—earning a perfect view of your pussy. You’re already wet—worked up and running on borrowed time. You roll your head back onto the back of the couch and clench your jaw. You don’t want to rush him but Christ—you really don’t want Sam or Sarah to find you like this.   

It feels like ages before Bucky’s lips touch your belly and then your navel with his warm tongue. With a grunt he shoves your shirt up to your breasts and circles your bellybutton with the tip of his tongue—his enhanced strength easily pinning you down as you jerk and giggle.

Bucky picks up his head and grins. “Try and hold still, doll.”

No sharp retort comes to mind. Fuck—he’s already got you so expertly wrapped around his finger. 

Bucky hums, satisfied with your weak nod and continues on.  

Bucky’s bare fingers trace minuscule patterns into the sensitive skin of your inner thighs, coaxing out a shiver that rushes through your body. They tickle towards the apex of your thighs and settle close enough to reach your aching center. He pauses for a moment and while you know he’s there, you curse when you feel his thumbs softly part the lips of your soaking cunt. They gently work up and down, smearing your wetness around but never enough to give you any friction as your body adjusts to the feel of flash and vibranium. You bite back a groan as your hips unconsciously twitch. 

Unsatisfied with simply touching you, Bucky shifts his weight to better reach your core. “Fuck—you’re so pretty.”   

There's a moment just before Bucky swoops down, face hovering close enough that you can feel his sticky, warm breath fan across you inner thighs. Anticipation grips your heart with an iron hold, and then— Bucky licks a broad stripe from the base of your cunt all the way up to your swollen clit. His mouth is molten, tongue like liquid velvet as you shudder and grab at his hair. Bucky grunts against you as you drag him closer by the short strands—greedy for any and all touch he gifts you. Bucky’s mouth slips around your clit, sucking and tracing circles over the bundle of nerves with the tip of his tongue. Your eyes flutter shut as a quiet moan wrenches free from your vocal cords.  

He trails lower, sucks on your labia, and makes his way down to your soaking entrance. The wet heat of his tongue circles your cunt, skips over it completely to catch the wetness before it leaks over the couch. Bucky opens his mouth wide and groans in appreciation, devouring your pussy like he’s been denied this his entire life. Desperation lingers on his tongue and all you are is the honey sweet taste of salvation. 

“Shit—Bucky,” you cry, throwing your hips forward in search of more friction.

It's perfect. So fucking delicious. 

You tense as the vibranium tips of his fingers, two of them, press at your entrance, teasing the clenching ring of soft muscle before sinking in. The chilly digits slip in with ease—all the way up to the second knuckle and when he draws them back, they're slick with your wetness. With a self-satisfied grin, Bucky thrusts them back in, then out—setting a steady pace that makes everything ache with desire. It leaves you just hovering over the sharp edge of ecstasy, the catch of his knuckles and imperceptible metal plating dragging along your walls pure torture. Fuck—he’s going to be the death of you—

Bucky’s mouth dips down a second time and sucks on your clit and with a few more curls and thrusts of his fingers inside of your clenching walls, your body seizes up tight. You're flying off that edge, faster than a fucking freight train. You cum onto his tongue and fingers with a strangled cry of his name, sparks of blurry white lining the edges of your vision as your back arches. Bucky continues to lick you through your orgasm, even as you buck and squirm in his iron hold. Supernovas implode behind your eyelids as heat, hotter than wildfire and jet fuel spreads from your center all the way up your stomach and down to your toes. You're shaking, lucid enough to hear Bucky murmur his praise—feeling the vibration of his groan, as he licks up the flood of your wetness over his tongue. 

Your brain swims in hazy bliss as you float back to reality. He's still curling his fingers into your pussy and it damn near hurts. You're too sensitive. Nerves rubbed raw and still throbbing—but you're too fucked out and still riding the waves of your orgasm to push him away. Bucky is all too happy to remain between your legs—takes this opportunity to tilt his fingers into your cunt faster, suckle and lave his hot tongue over your clit that burns from overstimulation—somehow you're back at the very edge again.

It's sharper than a vibranium razor against bare flesh. Your thighs shake around him as he twists his fingers inside you and bumps agains that tiny, little patch of nerves. You cry out as an orgasm floods through you veins, rupturing each cell in your being with molten pleasure. Your core pulses around Bucky’s fingers, fucking you through it until those burning waves of release eventually cease to a fading throb. You whine and push at his forehead because he's still going. You panic a bit—fucking hell, he’s gonna make you cry—but he pulls away, his mouth and chin wet with your slick. 

“Feel good?” Bucky purrs, resting his cheek on your thigh. 

If judging by the way you thighs still quiver and your chest heaves—then yeah—it felt good. 

Cheeky bastard.  

“Get up here—“

You grapple with his shirt, fisting the thin fabric, but he’s heavy and your entire body feels like jello. Your grip strength is all but laughable at the moment as Bucky clambers back onto the couch and grabs both of your legs, slotting his narrow hips between them. One leg is stuck against the back of the couch while the other hangs off the edge, foot skimming the hardwood floor to accommodate Bucky. Not the most comfortable but fuck it—who cares.    

Bucky grunts when you lift your hands and hook your fingers into the waistband of his jeans, tugging them halfway down his legs with a sharp yank. Already a dark patch of wetness stains the fabric of his boxers, the impressive bulge straining against the elastic and begging to be released. Your eyes meet his icy blue ones as you slowly pull his boxers over his cock. It bounces up towards his navel, thick and beautiful just like the rest of him. 

Impatient, Bucky’s fingers curl around your wrist and presses your open palm against his cock. He’s thick and heavy in your hand—perfect. The bead of precum that pools at his flushed tip smears against the inside of your palm as you experimentally roll your wrist, fascinated with the feel of his foreskin rolling over the steel heard flesh with each stroke.You give his a cock a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears. 

A sharp hiss of hair passes through his clenched teeth as you lightly tug on his cock. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the throbbing flesh, flushed and pulsing and all for you. His cock bobs when you let go—he huffs out a disappointed noise. “I need you, Buck—please.” 

Your previous two orgasms did seemingly nothing to soothe the growing ache for him. It prickles up your spine and singes through every nerve and bone—you whine and arch your hips, trying to touch your slick cunt to his cock. Bucky growls your name and pins your hips to the couch with ease. 

With his left hand, Bucky firmly grips your jaw, his stare folding into something serious. “You sure?”

Your tongue runs over your bottom lip. You grin. “Do your worst.”

Bucky curses and readjusts your calf slung over his hip and grips the base of his cock. You shudder as he runs the blunt head through your folds, slicking himself up with your arousal. You mewl and dig your nails into the flesh of his forearm as the wide tip of him pushes into your entrance—he shudders as you clench and arch. It doesn’t hurt, but he’s certainly not small in any way shape or form. You’ll feel him for days afterwards as your cunt swallows inch after inch. 

You both groan as he finally bottoms out. His jaw clenched tight as sweat beads at his hairline. Shit—he’s gorgeous—struggling not to loose control the moment he’s buried inside of you. You allow yourself to adjust for a moment but your own impatience rakes down your spine with claws of scorching arousal. You rock your hips in curiosity and squeeze around him. 

“Fuck—“ A ragged moans severs his words as your gentle rocking tilts into abrasive jolts. At this angle it’s difficult to fuck yourself onto his cock, but the measly thrusts are meant to tempt him. His left hand shoots to your throat, the chilly metal a stark contrast to your flushed skin. You dip your head back, exposing more of your supple skin—all his for the taking. 

You dig the heel of your foot into the small of his back and grab at his shoulders—tempting him into fucking you already. You’ve waited long enough. Bucky snarls your name, hooks one hand under your ass and pulls his cock nearly all the way, out only to slam back in with devastating force. There’s no time to adjust or gather your obliterated thoughts before Bucky sets a pace, desperate and feral. Each roll of his hips borders erratic, taking his pleasure without thought—intent on reaching his own end after being denied for what seems like a millennia—and maybe it has been. Bucky shifts, widening his knees as much as he can to sink lower onto your body—his soft hair tickles your cheek as his choppy exhales burn hot over your skin. 

Bucky turns his head to steal a kiss, open mouthed and catastrophic. No words are exchanged as he fucks into you with brutal strength aided by that damn super-soldier serum—there’s no need for them, not now anyway. You complete each other without the spoken utterances—still both a work in progress. Though most things are you suppose—constantly remaking yourselves, but instead of smashing the haphazard pieces back together alone—you have one another. You bury your hand in his hair and cry his name.  

You choke out another groan and feel your arousal begin to drip down your thighs—hear the thrusts of his cock into your cunt become shamefully wetter and damn—you really hope nothing gets on this stupid couch. You don’t want to explain that Sam. 

Electric heat sears down each vertebrae in your spine, blazing through each and every vein with the brilliance of a wildfire escaping the edges of the forest. This is gonna ruin you. Bucky’s hand reaches between your bodies and rubs tight, controlled circles over you swollen clit. There’s no build up to your orgasm—just a calamitous surge of warmth that sweeps your very soul off its feet. Your nails dig into Bucky's back as you shake and fumble for a foothold in your own consciousness—the steady warmth of his body a much needed anchor. 

You have no time to recover because he’s still going. Thrusting into your pussy with violent slaps that echo through the room and will more than likely leave bruises against your ass. Through the pressure of his hand over your windpipe—threatening to cut your air off completely—you garble out his name. Bucky drops his head to his chin, the weight of his gaze landing between your legs, watching the way his entire length disappears inside of you. When he raises his head he molds his mouth to yours. The soft, wet kisses rapidly morph into pricks of his teeth, his gravelly moans so pleasing to hear. 

You arch and tilt your head back as he presses you harder into the couch. The vibranium hand latched onto your jaw, works it open and slides a thumb past your plush lips. You lave your tongue over the digit—the metallic tang flooding your tastebuds. “Good girl—m’close. A little longer.”

Bucky’s panting breaths mingle with yours as his pace turns vicious. Chasing his high that he so desperately needs. Overstimulation bites at your nerves, but with a gentle tug to the soft strands of hair on the back of his neck and a sweet whisper of his name, Bucky bursts. His moan jumps up an octave, eyes slamming shut as he buries his face into the juncture of your neck and shoulder as he cums. He’s shuddering in your arms as his hips erratically jerk, hot spurts of his release coating your insides. You whine and tilt your hips up to prevent it from spilling onto the couch. 

Finally he slows to a stop, ragged breathing filling the air as the heat and weight of his body becomes a welcome comfort. Eventually that warmth grows stifling. He lazily pulls away, observing gaze drinking in each inch of bare skin exposed—the marks and the light sheen of sweat. You hiss as he curiously drags his thumb over the bite mark lingering just above your collarbone.

He parts his plush lips but before he can apologize, you interject. “Don’t—I like the reminder.”

Bucky shakes his head and drops down to tempt your lips into a lazy dance. “You’re a weirdo.”

You smile and cup his cheek. “I’m not the one with a staring problem. You know that you can’t kill people by glaring, right?”

Bucky kisses your cheek, your jaw, and then the dip of your throat. “You don’t ever shut up, do you?” 

You shudder as his softening cock twitches inside of you, another coal of desire flaring in the pit of your stomach. You flash him a coquettish grin. “Maybe if you give my mouth something to do, you’ll finally get some peace and quiet.” 

Something dark and dangerous flickers within those eyes. You shiver as one hand returns to your throat while the other draws teasing patterns over the outside of your thigh. He draws in close, nips at the shell of your ear and chuckles darkly. “You’re on.”

[vinylhazza]

For Keeps (G.D)

Summary: Jesse knows what she wants and isn’t afraid to say it, or rather demand it. Grayson, who carries respect and dignity like a shield of armor, walks the line of being the vanilla boyfriend he always thought she’d want, or the guy that listens to the devil on his shoulder and embellishes on the fantasies that won’t leave him alone every night. There is a first for everything, a time and place to try something -- or some one new. There is a chance to set the fire in motion. He might just take it.

Word Count: 4.9k

Warning: Strong sexual content, giving head, fingering, spitting, explicit language 

          There is a first for everything.

          The first time you ride a bike, the first time you try your favorite food, the first time you win an award, the first time you hear your favorite song, the first time you talk to the person you’re meant to spend the rest of forever with, the first time you overcome your worst fear, the first time you read your favorite book, the first time you travel to a different country, the first time you have thoughts that should damn you for eternity and for some...there is even a first time for eating pussy.

         It’s an embarrassment he’d never wanted anyone to discover let alone put to the test. Sure his friends had their time to talk about their extensive knowledge on female anatomy, but whenever the topic of him and Jesse doing anything outside the box he himself had placed them in, his lips were sealed. For one thing it wasn’t their business, for two he’s not entirely sure what he would say. He knew the time would come. He didn’t view their relationship like a race and he knew Jesse didn’t either. They’d been friends for too long and knew each other too well for him to base their relationship off of sex. 

       Grayson keeps his eyes glued to his hands holding Jesse’s hips tight -- unsure of what to do now that he’s got her beneath him and wanting him to have his way with her. He knows what he wants, but doubts that he has the courage to pursue it within him. He’d watch her with careful eyes as she peeled off each article of clothing before pulling him close by his belt loop and on to the bed to kiss her rough busy day away. A picnic was nice, but his complete and undivided attention was better. Even if his eyes trailing up and down every part of her body made her nervous. 

          He’d done plenty of things with his ex before Jesse, but none of those things had involved his lips and tongue anywhere beneath the waist. Not anything like he’s inevitably about to do. 

         “Cat caught your tongue?” Jesse had snickered minutes ago, a sly smirk lacing up her ruby red lips from so much kissing -- moment’s before he’d gotten them both all hot and bothered. He couldn’t help it when he was with her, his self control falters and he’s drunk off her touch once again, swimming in a pool of despair he can’t control. All he can think about is her. Wanting her. Needing her. Touching every single inch of her velvety skin. Wanting to do things to her. Wanting her to do things to him. Things he would blush at in the future.

         Jesse was a woman with desires he’d only dreamed of women having. She was shy at times but the devil danced in her bright eyes. Grayson knew she wanted things she’d never had the guts to say out loud and things she only wanted from him alone. It all made him a fierce kind of nervous, but gave him an electrified thrill. A challenge for him to explore the workings of her body and all the ways he can make her more satisfied than she’s ever been. He didn’t plan on letting her go anytime soon - and if he wanted to do her right, he had to go outside of his comfort zone for her.

         Knowing Jesse was more experienced did things to him that he couldn’t begin to hide -- but more than anything it made him jealous of every set of hands that had ever touched her skin before his. It made him reckless and competitive, focused and haughty. He was better than them, he could be better than them.

         He could rapture her into a whirlwind of pleasure that would ruin her image of every man except him, wanting no one's mouth but his, daydream of no one’s lips but his own, beg for no one else’s touch, want no one else’s hands but the ones holding her now. It wasn’t about him, this wasn’t about his pleasure for once, it was truly all about her. 

         Pulling him back into the flames, he’s burning up under her intense stare, waiting for him to do something, do anything. Anything but watch her long enough to find something less than stellar, less than grand, less than exceptional. With her fears unfolding she pulls him down for a kiss of her own, a soft feather of a thing he can feel all the way to his toes. She’d always been good at that, giving  him more to miss when she’s away. The way she hugs him close is one of those things.

         Grayson fell hard into love—which wasn’t particularly unusual for the hopeless romantic he was, but he always knew Jesse was set apart from the seasonal heartthrobs. He was truly bewitched by her creativity, wanderlust, unapologetic confidence, patience, and beauty.

         An enchantress she was, beautiful beyond anything he could ever deserve. Drop dead gorgeous with the personality to match, there wasn’t a head that didn’t turn when she walked into a room, not a man that didn’t fumble over their words at any opportunity to talk to her, not a woman who didn’t want to be her friend. Sure her beauty was undeniable, but her benevolent heart beat it all.

         He may never know why Jesse had leaned in to kiss him seven months ago save for three days in a hidden corner in Café Verona -- a quaint treasure he’d always hold dear to his heart. Fairy lights criss-crossed along the ceiling, soft Jazz waltzing with the beat of his heart, emerald green leather bench pressing into his thighs. But he’s glad she did. He’s glad she leaned in to kiss him when he’d been building up the nerve for weeks. So afraid to go there but more afraid of not knowing what would happen if he didn’t. He’s glad she took his chin in between her fingers to hold him still enough to feel her lips press to his securely, a warmth swarming in his chest where the heart shaped hole once was.

          If he flipped through the pages of his memory, he would remember a statue-like stillness about him before he sunk into her touch, caging her head in his large careful hands. Feeling the gasp she tried to hide, the smell of grapefruit shampoo and the way her flushed cheeks felt under his stroking thumbs. He would see himself fall into her, around her and through her, off the edge of the rocky cliff and into the dark blissful deep of nothing but her.

          He’d be eternally grateful she looked at him with utmost sincerity and whispered with a raw kind of intensity that he’d “driven her mad you see” -- and he’d heard it then, the brittleness of her voice because fear rattles her to the core, and she had been scared out of her mind. A crack that tracked through her careful confession and to the root of him. Jesse was scared of what he meant, what he was in terms of her heart, what he could be if she continued to kiss him the way she was.

          In that quiet moment he remembered what made her so deeply rooted in his heart: the laugh that rattled him, the soft smell of peaches and vanilla, the way she never drives without sunglasses because her mom who passed away much too early did the same, the dance she does when she finally eats the first bite of food after damn near breaking the world in half in hanger, the way she punches the roof of her car after making it through a yellow light because her best friend in high school did the same, the way she always turns her spoon upside down when eating ice cream, and the way she always has answers for everything no matter what topic, even the way she laughs entirely too hard at Family Feud. 

         For that reason alone he waited for the physical parts to come when they may. It was new and exciting sure, and he’d always loved her heart of course, but her body was uncharted territory. He was patient, yes. A gentleman guarding some assumed virtue, even if he knew better than to think she was anything but a seductress. Patient enough to tell her no when she’s had one too many drinks and not enough discipline. They’d been friends before anything else - the best of friends with a foundation of trust. He’s spent years trying to gain that trust and he vowed to keep it.

          Of course he could have been that guy on many occasions: possessive, selfish, greedy and crude. He could have played his cards and dealt his dirty hand at the wrong moment and still pulled out ahead. I mean hell, how often do guys get out of the friend-zone? But he wasn’t that guy. No matter the relationship status — they weren’t ready.

         They hadn’t been ready to cross that carefully drawn line in the sand, not until now. With the strawberry White Barn candle burning in the corner on the cluttered desk one could expect from a college student and a half full can of Arizona tea on the night stand...her face lit with a mystical kind of magic he’d only ever seen the day she leaned back after their first official kiss. 

         “Hold my hair.”

         Grayson found the words slipping off his tongue easier than they’d come all night. All he’s planned on was a simple date in the park that was tucked away and secluded from all the people that could interrupt, he’d even brought her favorite book and laid back on a soft patch of grass to listen to her melodic voice read to him. He’d planned to come back and share a peck or two while watching a new episode of Daredevil and holding her through the night. She’d had a long day full of texts to him, trying to get him to give her the okay to walk out of her low-paying job and not look back. He never planned on laying her down on his bed and caressing every inch of her skin until he was finally delving into a place he’d never been quite like this.

          He was nervous but he could do anything, be anything with her hand in his hair and her kind eyes watching him defile her. He just knew from this moment on he would have a reputation to uphold, as cocky as it sounded. He had to prove he wasn’t as lost as he felt. He felt like a virgin all over again, like he was doing something raw and real and scary. A secret only the wrinkled sheets would remind him of later.

          Her touch, her soothing him through something that frightened him has always been a crutch for him to lean on. When he got in a fight with his brother, she was there to comb through his hair and talk him through the proper apology, when he decided to change majors and had a breakdown so crippling he couldn’t breathe she rocked him through it until his breath was even once again, when he wrecked his new car on the way home from a party he never should have been at she was right there to give him a kiss on the cheek and help him call the insurance company and his erratic mother who loved her like a daughter. She led him through the rough parts of life and then some.

           He never imagined she would be leading him through something so sensual, but he needed her bringing him back to earth all the same.

          Jesse obliged with a grin of her own, feeling him shuffle down to trail a string of kisses across her torso and down to the base of her need and desire. The fireball of want burned in her stomach, turning her rational thoughts brown and charred. He was good at that, making her need him fiercely. She’d never wanted anyone so much, and even if she thinks back to past flings - she’d never been satisfied like she was with Grayson, and they’d done much less.

         “What are you thinking?” Jesse wonders, distracted by his soft supple lips and his nibbling at her hip, but wanting to hear the inner workings of his brain. Her fingers fidget, wanting to push him by his brown mop of hair down lower - just to feel him at last. She needed this distraction, she just needed his help to forget. Not that she hadn’t been waiting for months for this exact moment, there was just urgency in the way she’s stripped herself bare before him. 

          She almost expects him to wait for her direction, but jerks against him when he takes the lead all on his own. How could he not with her as his complete mercy, giving him the fuck me eyes and twisting a lock if hair around her finger? 

          Grayson thinks on that as he trails his mouth down, down, down to slick his tongue up the base of her, smirking to himself when she wiggles against him. “I’m thinking that I like you this way.”

          The contact was a shock to her nervous system and a promise of what was soon to come if she kept tempting him the way she was. She was a heathen with angel eyes. Someone infatuated with his innocence (at least he was more innocent than she) and curiosity to learn every curve and dip of her body. He made her feel powerful, unstoppable, undeniable. She craved it as much as he craved her own lips tracking across his skin - in the heat of the moment or in the still of the night.

          “Naked you mean?” She laughs then, trying to keep herself at least somewhat under control now that he’s grown some balls and taken the first step. She’s shocked momentarily that she didn’t have to practically order him into touching her.

           She grips her breasts at another bold swipe of his tongue. Rolling her hardened nipples between her fingers and tensing at the sparks flying up her center. The feeling of him spreading her open, blowing against her throbbing clit is almost too much to bear. Jesse curses then, a soft “fuck” she tries to reel back before he gets too big of a head. She knows it fell on eager ears when he delivers another bold stripe of his tongue up her center -- slow and deliberate. 

           “Unguarded,” he finally grumbles, rubbing away the goosebumps that pepper her thighs. She thinks for a moment that she could gave turned off the ceiling fan circling over top of them, but feared she might burn up if it wasn’t for the white blades blowing on her crown of hair going every which way on the pillow. 

          She ignores how right he is - that she’s never been this vulnerable with him before, but instead rolls her eyelids shut to feel him really delve into her - opening his mouth and pressing his tongue to her flat. This is just what she needed, her favorite person trying something new and succeeding at it. 

            For someone that’s never given head, he was pulling it off. He was going to ruin her.

           Glancing down at the yellow glow of the lamp illuminating the right side of his face, Jesse curled her fingers into his plush head of hair once again, somewhere between heaven and hell with no real knowledge of the difference.

           She moans at his lips wrapping around her, the suction to her lower region and the way his thumbs dig into her skin to hold her in place. No running this time, she had no choice but to feel it all. This is what she wanted right? 

          “This feel okay?” he teases, tentatively trailing the tip of his tongue around the place she wanted most. He loved to see her eyes alight with that devilish incomprehensible lust. He was truly winging it, doing anything he’d heard from friends or watched himself late at night, anything to further her soft pants and moans tumbling out of her O shaped mouth. She was too good to be true and felt like one lucky bastard. 

           Nodding down to him she groans, wanting him latched to her. “M-more than okay just keep going.”

          He never knew it could feel so pleasurable to be the giver and not the receiver nine times out of ten. He didn’t know how selfish he’d been and the opportunities he'd missed to feel compliant and...obedient. He liked it. He loved it. He loved the position he was in - her looking down at him like the goddess she was and always had been, him crouching down at the end of the bed to devour her in the best way he could, his hair disheveled, eyes dark with hunger, hands gripping her tight.

          He lets instinct take the wheel, peppering kisses to her clit and bringing his own  hand down to slip in a finger to add extra stimulation - pleased when Jesse releases another string of curses. Fowl language huh? Wonder what she’d do if he stopped-

          “You’re such a dick-“ she tugs at his roots, rolling her hips into his mouth that savors  her now, lips slick with her wetness. She tasted good, he’d concluded. It wasn’t anything like what he imagined it would be, no, it was better. It felt better than all of the horror stories he’d made up in his head. He’s sure if he wanted to - he could stay right down between her legs for hours -- until his lips were sore and his tongue tired. Stopping wasn’t an option. Not when she’s been waiting so long, fantasized too often. She huffs out again “Thought you’ve never done this before.”

            That must be a good sign, right?

           “Never,” he slurps at her, shaking his head and groaning into her core. He felt the slickness of her on his cheeks now. Bowing down to eat her out was harder than it looked, especially with back problems as it was. 

            Focused and drunk on Jesse’s gentle hip thrust into his mouth he hugs her thighs and stands upright, just off the edge of the bed, bringing her lower half up in the air with him. He can feel her trembling now, wide eyes gleaming at him with surprise and delight at the new and better position.

            She was losing it. She’d had him compliant at first, her soft-hearted boyfriend trying something new...but damn he was tugging the ropes from between her fingers and leading her to a path less traveled. Quick learner he was.

           “Grayson put me down! Have you lost your mind?” Jesse squealed, grinning at his closed eyes and moving lips, deaf to her antics. She was expected something quick, maybe even simple, but him switching up positions was not in the game plan as great as it was. 

           She could see it now, the guy that was always hiding just beneath the surface. She could see how her sounds urged him on and made him try harder. She could see his arms shaking from the weight of her legs and the effort it took to hold her pussy as close to him as he could. She could feel the heavy breath fanning out across her pelvis from his nose. She could feel the tickle of his hair dangling down and whispering across the skin of her stomach. She could feel that same ball of fire seated in her stomach slip lower and lower with each passing second - until the words that fell out of her mouth were nothing but strings of profanity would make a sinner blush.

             It was going to sear her in half, that fucking ball of fire. Hot lava stirring up a flood she couldn’t stop. It was splitting her in half just as his digits were now, pumping into her hard and fast, curling at his knuckles. His rings gleam from the yellow lamp-light and shock her when they touch her dewy skin. She had lost all sense of control.

            Hearing his own moans, hearing how desperate he was to keep eating her pussy and make her feel better than anyone had, got her inching towards the edge. It was a low kind of growl itching at his throat.

            The taste of her blurred his senses, the soft smell of her making his mind spin out of control, the tightening walls of her cunt around his fingers fucking her fast, the light sheen of sweat that glowed in the dim light of his room - he was a madman with no direction but forward. He had to keep going, for stopping would surely break them both. He would love to tease her, but knew if he stopped one more time she would kill him in a heartbeat. 

          “Open your fucking eyes and watch me.” He barked down to her, stopping only for a moment to glare at her. His fingers continued their fast paced in and out, in and out, in and out.

                         He’d figured if he was going to take it all the way, he needed to pull every string. Needed to pull out the nasty daydreams and make them a reality. This is something he would have for keeps. Something he’d want to do over and over, something he couldn’t wait to do again. Something he’d want to remember. 

          Peeling her eyes open she sobbed at the sight of him spitting into her pussy with a smile, staring at her darkly. Light eyes blacked into pits he ruined her through and through. He had to be lying, he just had to be.

          “Fast learner,” Grayson sneers, leaning forward to smear his saliva around her slick folds, arms circling her midsection to hold her close again.

           “ Fuckfuckfuckfuck- keep fu- keep going!” Jesse begs, barely holding on to the light threatening to slip away into the fire burning her up. “Doing so good Gray, so fucking good.”

             She had discovered soon in the relationship and the minimal sexual acts they’d indulged in that Grayson was a man that adored praise. He wanted someone to tell him how good he was doing, even if he already knew it. He wanted someone to look him in the eyes just as she was doing now and watch him succeed. He wanted complete undivided attention, verbal acknowledgment. 

              He sucked at her still, sliding his tongue into her quickly then — remembering someone in a poorly shot amateur porn video did the same to the tatted up blonde he was practically fucking to death, and hoped it would have the same effect on his beautiful princess begging for him to keep going. He kept note while he watched the video, knowing one day he would be standing where he is now relishing in the gold mine that belonged to him. He fucker her with his tongue, humming into her cunt for the added stimulation. 

               Fuck all she was the end of him. “Pretty pussy all wet for me, yeah? Want to cum? Bet you doubt me huh? Thought I wouldn’t do you right…”

               He chucked at the vigorous nodding of her head, the eyes rolling in the back of her head, the hand that leaves his hip to pull at her own hair. Her eyes squeezing shut in panic now that she feels the tip of the iceberg coming up fast. 

               “Don’t even know how crazy you drive me, how long I’ve wanted to do this to you.”

               Hearing him admit it only made her thighs quiver against his strong arms, only made her want more, made her creep dangerously close to the edge she was for once in her life afraid to fall off of. The crash into the sea would be the biggest shock she’s ever had. Jesse tried to focus on her breathing, trading the heaving for squealing when he dipped his tongue in her entrance to give her something to fantasize about. She’d never had someone tongue fuck her, let alone stair into her soul while they did it. 

              Fuck he was good. Too fucking good.

             “Baby you have t-to slow down,” she warns, the big splash terrifying and so close. He was a wicked man for doing just the opposite, spreading her legs wider and shaking his head against her again, eyes squeezed shut like he knew what would happen in only a few seconds.

               “Grayson step back,” she tried to warn more firmly, afraid of the unfamiliar feeling of something new about to happen, embarrassed already but too worked up to stop it. “Shit - Grayson step back!”

                And there it was, the strongest orgasm she’d ever had and certainly the wettest. Her release soaked the bed beneath, sheets spotted with her arousal and breath stolen from her lungs. She’s not sure when Grayson had dropped her, or whether her convulsing body wiggled out of his grasp during the black out she’d just had. She was spread on the bed in her own mess, her chest flushed, damp hair stuck to her forehead in waves, vision blurred, eyelids drooping in exhaustion, hand somehow in Graysons.

              He’s there then. He’s everywhere and nowhere all at once, his hand a ghost on her forehead brushing away those tendrils of hair, his thumb rubbing over her knuckles with tender care, his lips smoothing the furrow of her brows. Grayson is lifting her without a word, caging her legs around his waist, her arms around his neck, and smoothing her head against his chest to feel the weight of her there - just to feel the heat of her consume him.

              “Holy fuck,” she breathes, spent. 

              “I hope it wasn’t too much,” he whispers into her hair, hand smoothing over the locks while rocking her around the room, mind racing with every image of what he’d just done and the feeling of complete bliss flooding his body.

                He’s almost worried she fell asleep in his arms until he feels the shaking he can only assume is laughter, before she’s hugging him tighter. “Idiot. I can’t believe you’ve never done that. And I can’t believe I’m this tired. Feel like a rookie.”

               “Guess I passed the test then?”

               “Flying colors.”

                Jesse nuzzles in as far as she can, tucking in her arms against his chest and letting the state of Nirvana wash over her. With a sigh Jesse thinks over the shocking events of her boyfriend being 100% nastier than she’d initially thought — not that she’s complaining.

               She barely remembers Grayson running a bath, or setting her in the steaming tub with a kiss, or waiting for him to strip the bed with a giddiness sitting in his chest at all that they’d done, barely remembers him joining her in the tub and catching soap in the calm of his hand to smith the suds over her post-sex body. That’s the only way she would describe herself in the moment, her skin felt sensitive to the touch, sparks still shooting through her with the feeling of his hands on her.

             What Jesse does remember is laying with Grayson in a bed freshly made, arm draped over his stomach, head resting against his arm, lips peppering kisses against his chest randomly through-out the night. She remembers the feeling of adoration and understanding. What they’d done was both the most foul thing she’d ever done, but also the most liberating and beautiful experience. To lose yourself in another person in such a way that you’re utterly consumed by them was...foreign to the pair laying together in the still of the night.

              Jesse waited until Grayson was softly snoring until she said the only thing she’d never had the guts to tell him in the months they’d been dating. He’d been waiting on it patiently. It was different between friends, but it meant so much more when you don't want to say it to anyone else for the rest of your life. The moment she says it, she can’t ever take it back. Maybe that’s why she chooses the early hours of the morning to lean in and press her lips against his feather soft, blinking back the mist clouding her vision. 

              “Don’t know if you could tell...but I'm kind of in love with you...so just be patient with me please I’m trying for you.”

              Maybe she would get the guts one day to say the words while he’s awake, maybe face to face or with the lights off because she has some kind of comfort in the dark, or maybe it would slip out on accident. In any way that it happens, she hopes he will smile. She hopes that he knows how insanely incandescently happy he makes her each and every day, and how honored she feels that she got to experience another first with him.She hopes he will be comforted that his feelings are 100% reciprocated. She hopes that she gets to see that beautiful  smile he wears on special occasions -- the true smile that he doesn't show too often. For now she presses her lips to his once again, smiling softly as the slow ride and fall of his chest, arm holding her close, the ring she won him out of a shitty machine in the corner of a tattoo shop he’d stopped into on a whim secured on a thin chain around his neck, and the fluttering of his eyelashes while he dreamed.