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fawniswriting · 7 days ago

Text

Mr. Congressman

The above image does not indicate the reader's physical appearance.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

Synopsis: After Congressman James Buchanan Barnes buys you a drink at the bar, your night takes a turn for a more passionate one.

Word Count: 7.3k

Warning(s): no use of Y/N. use of the nickname angel and sweetheart. alcohol consumption. lots of flirting. smut (18+ mdni)—dirty talk, so much praising, handjob, vaginal fingering, oral sex (f!receiving), multiple orgasms (reader), unprotected sex (p in v), creampie. lmk if I missed anything!!

Author's Note: I decided to drop this while I'm rewriting the next chapter of Faithfully Yours. I've wanted to write Congressman Bucky for awhile but didn't know what kind of story to make until this idea came upon me. For the record, smut is my kryptonite, and it took a lot of miracle for me to even finish this up. I genuinely have developed a new kind of appreciation for all of you smut writers out there. Anyways, the concept of this story sounded a lot better in my head, but hopefully this isn't that bad for a first attempt and I hope you'll still like it xx don't forget to comment/like/reblog to support :)

“Your drink, Ma'am.”

The bartender slides a tall flute across the counter, settling it beside the empty glass of spritzer you downed earlier. It doesn't take long for you to recognize the fruity aroma wafting through the air, the rusty red liquid rising in tiny bubbles as you scrutinize the drink with furrowed brows.

The Minimalist Bar and Lounge is nestled on the ground floor of Rosewood Hotel in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. The bar's interior exudes subtle sophistication, its dim lighting casting amber reflections across the polished mahogany counter. Soft piano jazz hums through the speakers overhead, cruising into the low murmurs of the sparse Thursday night crowd.

You look up towards the bartender, a middle-aged man with laugh lines creasing his tan skin, and push the glass slightly towards him. “I didn't order this.”

“A gentleman sent it over,” he apprises, tapping his fingers against the counter with a knowing smile. “Says to tell you that you've got an admirer.”

Before you can say more, the bartender gives you a cheeky wink, striding away to whip up an order from another customer.

You drag the slender glass closer, spinning the drink around until the golden liquid at the top simmers into the red. As soon as you take an intrepid sip, the sweet tang of blackcurrant explodes in your mouth, compelling you to hum favorably at the familiar flavor coating your tongue.

You have barely set your glass back down when a deep voice suddenly erupts by your side.

“May I join you?”

The low, rough timbre of the voice sends a shiver down your back, chased away immediately by the warm presence that has settled next to you. Shifting in your seat, you tilt your head and lock eyes with another pair in cerulean, breath hitching in your throat when you take in the scent of fine spices mixing sedulously with bergamot.

Congressman James Buchanan Barnes is a sight to behold within the quiet establishment. With his tall stature and lean muscles stretching taut under the fancy suit, he is bound to attract every thread of attention in the room. The faint gray dusting his stubbled cheeks only adds to the man's overall charm, and as he peers down at you from his full, subjugating height, you can't help but ponder about how none of his pictures ever did his attractiveness justice.

Gathering your composure, you manage a small smile before nodding towards the empty seat beside you. ”Of course.”

The congressman doesn't waste time sliding into the stool, reciting his order towards the bartender with a practiced speech and a methodical gesture of his hand. His whole focus is back on you in a matter of seconds, bright ocean blue eyes taking in your features like curators would a priceless piece of Monet. You burn under his blatant appreciation, trying to mask the crack in your poise by taking another sip of your cocktail.

“How's the drink?” he asks, the curve of his lips discreet but genuine under the warm lighting.

“It's good.” You set the glass down, tilting your body to the side until your knees nearly touch his. “I gather you're the one who sent it?”

Congressman Barnes doesn't say anything in return. He only continues staring at you—as if nothing else exists in the world at that moment except for the woman sitting in front of him—but the glint of mirth in his pupils tells you everything you need to know.

Your knees bump into his. “Very smooth, Congressman.”

The corner of his lips tilt higher. “Call me Bucky.”

Your eyebrows rise.

Before you can give a response, the bartender returns carrying the congressman's order of a classic Old Fashioned. Congressman Barnes accepts the drink with an easy nod, his fingers curling around the short tumbler as he turns towards you again.

“It's what my friends call me,” he adds, smirking behind the rim of his glass.

“Is that what we are now?” you muse, eyes flicking twice between his hypnotizing eyes and kissable lips. “Friends?”

The man chuckles. He puts down his glass with a deliberate slowness, each stretch of movements calculated and needlessly arousing. Then, he leans in, just enough to steal the air between the two of you, just enough to make the world beyond to begin blurring around the edges.

“Angel—” his voice dips, the raspy edge floating along your skin, “—we can be whatever you want us to be.”

A shudder runs through your spine. You try convincing yourself that it is due to the chill in the air and the sheer material of your dress, but the simultaneous quickening of your heartbeat, along with the rush of goosebumps across your skin completely banishes that attempt. It was all your body's reaction to Congressman Barnes, and he knows this. He can read you like a goddamn open book—pinpoint the slightest change in your posture, detect the tiniest rise in your pulse, and spot the way your pupils dilate with each second your gaze stays locked on him.

He leans even closer, the ghost of his metal fingertips venturing the skin of your knee until he catches the silent gasp in your throat.

It excites him.

Biting your lip, you shuffle slightly to your side to escape his electrifying touch, putting on a pristine smile while pretending as though your composure weren't currently lying in tiny broken shards on the floor.

“Well, Bucky—” your voice is soft, baiting as you reach for your flute on the counter, “—thank you for the drink. How'd you know Kir Royale's my favorite?”

The smirk on Congressman Barnes’—Bucky's—face widens.

“Simple, sweetheart.” His velvet voice drips with amusement. “I just picked something that suits you the best.”

Bucky's fingers drift along the edge of the bar, brushing against your own hand and pulse point, lingering there as if committing the rhythm of your heart into memory. By the dark flicker in his gaze, you know that he must have caught the stutter in your heartbeat, the indisputable evidence of his infuriating effect on your being.

Without breaking eye contact, Bucky plucks the glass from your grasp, his fingers warm where yours have been.

“Something sweet,” Bucky murmurs, swirling the red liquid before lifting the drink to his lips. He takes a long, unhurried sip, letting the moment stretch, cerulean blue smoldering into your eyes over the rim. “Seductive.”

He sets the glass back down with a soft clink. Never once taking his attention off you. Tracing his heated gaze over your entire body in a way that sends fire searing through your skin.

“And dangerous,” he finishes with a husky whisper, heavy with tension and unspoken revelations.

“Dangerous?” Your eyes twinkle. “How am I dangerous?”

Bucky huffs a quiet laugh, flashing you his striking pearly whites. “You kidding me? A woman like you, looking like that.”

His eyes roam the length of your legs, landing on the skin of your thigh peeking through the slit of your dress, delicate and tempting. Bucky's tongue darts out, wetting his lips as he takes a moment to admire you.

“And that dress—” his eyes dip lower to your chest, drinking in the sight of your exposed collarbones and the shape of your curves, lingering too long as if it were the first time he ever laid eyes upon a woman, “—is the very definition of sin, sweetheart.”

A surge of delight curls your lips as you sway slightly in your seat, letting the dress grip tighter around your frame like a second skin, feeling the material shift just enough to taint Bucky's eyes with something prurient. Your fingers slither down the side of your body, half-conscious of Bucky's heated gaze that seems to map the path of your provocative touch.

“Do you like it? It's new,” you goad coyly, caressing your body through the silk. “I bought it today for a special occasion.”

Bucky's eyes crinkle at the corner, his pupils glistering with intrigue. “Yeah? Like a first date, Angel?” He takes a casual sip of the amber liquid in his glass, his nose scrunching up in thought as he plays along. “Bought it for a boyfriend? A husband, perhaps?”

You fight off the thrill traveling through your veins and answer, shrugging nonchalantly, “Something like that.”

The tip of Bucky's mouth lifts. “What a lucky bastard,” he says earnestly, eyes drilling into yours as if he wants to bury himself there.

You evade his intense stare, feigning interest at your cocktail instead. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“Well,” you pause purposefully, studying all of the sharp edges that forge the man sitting in front of you, picturing all of the tenderness that he has concealed beneath the crisp white shirt and that impeccable tux of his. “Are you here on business? Or something else?”

Bucky's eyes wander towards the rows of bottles and liquors lining the wall of the bar, tweaking his bow tie as though just now remembering that it was there in the first place.

“Business,” he replies, straightforward, the pad of his index finger circling the lip of his glass on the counter. But then his eyes fly upward, sealing you in place. “Maybe a bit of pleasure as well.”

You hum, leaning closer until you feel the neckline of your dress flitter recklessly from your skin, divulging parts of you that manage to reclaim Bucky's sole interest. “Is that so?”

His throats bob.

There is no mistaking the whirr of his vibranium arm as the fingers clench, metal plates shifting in tandem with the torrent of desire rushing through Bucky’s mind. He imagines dropping his head to your chest, trailing wet, open-mouthed kisses on the expanse of skin, coaxing gasps and sounds of pleasure from those perfect, alluring lips. He imagines sinking to his knees, running his mouth up the length of your leg until he reaches the one place that would make you quiver and crumble in his mercy. Worshipping at your altar like a madman finally finding the true meaning of religion.

Public decency be damned.

But before he can open his mouth, before he gets the chance to act on the budding ache tightening his slacks, the ringing coming out of his suit pocket stops him dead in tracks.

Bucky curses.

You study him curiously, taking in the augmenting scowl on his face as he glimpses at the screen of his phone. Nursing your drink, you let your voice soften while asking, “Something urgent?”

“No.” Bucky is quick to answer, shoving the phone back into his pocket like he is eager to be rid of the gadget. “Not at all. Nothing more important than you, Angel.”

The next round of ringing downright betrays his words.

It takes Bucky a copious amount of willpower to not launch the despicable device across the room. He grits his teeth, blue eyes hurling invisible daggers towards the number on the screen, a number belonging to one of the jerk-ass faces with whom he has no intention of doing business at this moment in time. Bucky wishes he could just block the sleazy bastard's number and be done with it.

But he can't.

Because as hard as Bucky tries to shed the new title when he steps out of the confined spaces of his office, at the end of the day, he is not merely Bucky Barnes anymore.

He is Congressman James Buchanan Barnes.

And playing nice with people he would rather punch in the face is, unfortunately, part of the unofficial job description.

Bucky heaves a sigh, running an exasperated palm across his face before his repentant gaze finds yours.

“I have to—” he pauses, voice thick with guilt and frustration.

Bucky expects you to scowl, to see the same kind of disappointment that is gnawing at him etching on your beautiful face. Instead, all he finds is your effortless smile, the kind that has the power to wage a war or two. It makes something inside him lurch.

“You should take the call, Mr. Congressman.”

You glide out of the comfort of your seat with ease, finishing your drink and collecting your stone-studded clutch in hand. Bucky moves to protest, nearly leaping out of his own seat to prevent you from leaving, but the soothing press of your palm against his chest renders him back in place.

“Finish the call,” you tell him, adamant. Above the counter, your hand skims forward, furtively sliding something under Bucky's own palm before your fingers squeeze his in fervent. “And when you're done, come find me.”

Upon your departure, Bucky turns his hand over, smiling to himself when he sees the key card with a room number scribbled on the paper holder. He examines your retreating figure once his head lifts, consuming the languid sway of your hips, the way your silk dress is clinging to every hard and soft edges that sculpt your captivating figure.

His body tenses with the urge to follow, to sneak his palm onto the small of your back and guide you towards where he knows this night is leading. But the shrill ringtone of his phone is relentless against his eardrums, ousting the compulsion away, forcing him to tear his gaze off as he answers the call with a clenched jaw.

As he brings the phone to his ear, Bucky's flesh hand flexes around the key card, letting the corner dig into the center of his palm, a silent reminder that the night is far from being over yet.

The clean smell of cotton bedsheets and the tang of lavender air freshener greet you the moment you step into your hotel room. Inside, though, your lungs constrict, yearning instead for the scent of cloves and bergamot that you left behind at the bar alongside the handsome gentleman who possesses it.

Your heels are discarded somewhere in the foyer before you tread indolently towards the bathroom, going to the sink to splash some water on your face, mindful not to mess the makeup you have expertly painted on earlier in the evening. The cold water does little to eliminate the heat on your cheeks, the same one that now travels through your entire body as your skin tingles with the phantom touch of a certain super soldier turned congressman.

It should be illegal—the facile power he holds over you.

The carpet is plush underneath your steps as you exit the bathroom, sauntering towards the balcony and delighting in the breath of late May’s fresh air that hails you when you walk through the sliding doors. Washington, D.C. sprawls out beneath you in a tapestry of scintillating lights and colossal silhouettes. From your vantage point, The Potomac snakes through the city like a ribbon of obsidian, its surface catching the occasional reflection of passing headlights, glinting in contrast against the ink-dark sky. The Capitol's dome gleams in the distance, a beacon of order and principle, while the Washington Monument stands unyielding like a silent sentinel.

The city buzzes with life even at this hour, cars speeding through the streets and far off laughter resonating from the avenues below. And yet, even with all of its grandeur, the city's view still pales in comparison with the images of him in your mind—the way his blue eyes darkened when he took you in, the way he ignited your body just from a single touch. No matter how much you try to focus on the cityscape, your thoughts inevitably circle back to him: Bucky Barnes. Every time you blink, he is there—braided into the crevasses between your heartbeats, dithering in the warmth still coiled beneath your skin.

As though summoned by the constant notions of him in your head, you catch the unmistakable sound of the front door unlocking, followed closely by the echo of heavy footsteps entering the room.

When you emerge from the balcony, Bucky is already standing in the middle of the lush executive suite, shedding off his tuxedo jacket and bow tie where they end up in a pile above the sofa. He looks up at the sound of the sliding doors being locked, the stress in his shoulders dissipating when his eyes finally find yours.

Examining him from head to toe, you lean your shoulder against the balcony door and ask, “How was the phone call?”

“Fine,” Bucky answers simply. “I took care of it.”

“Hm. Good.”

The atmosphere desiccates with tension. There is a flame starting in the pit of your stomach, one that you’re trying miserably to quell before it grows into something destructive and menacing. But the way Bucky is looking at you from the distance, so stubborn and piercing, suggests that he already knows what kind of turmoil your body is currently battling with itself.

Clearing your throat, you walk over to the assortment of liquors available in the mini bar, avoiding Bucky’s stare as you ask, “Would you like something to drink?”

Reaching for the undoubtedly expensive wine, you turn it over in your hand, nearly dropping the bottle when Bucky replies, “I don’t know, sweetheart. Kinda craving something else right now.”

Your chest hammers as you listen to the scratch of shoes against the floor, the surrounding temperature rising with each breadth of space Bucky erases with his footsteps. He is a fortress when he finally stands behind you—a man of battle and steel, whose hands have seen bloodshed beyond your wildest nightmares, whose same hands are now ghosting over your arms with a tenderness that tugs at your heartstrings.

Bucky drops his head on the nape of your neck, his breaths spluttering as he grounds himself with a grip around each of your forearms. Your stomach folds at the brush of his plump lips against your skin, the nudge of his nose as he breathes in your scent like it was an appropriate substitute for oxygen.

“What are you doing to me?” he bleats, almost to himself, sucking in a bruise to your pulse point that wrenches a gasp out of your throat.

“Bucky.” You sigh, the bottle of wine long forgotten as it stands lonesome on the counter. Turning in his arms, you are faced instantly with the intense blue of Bucky’s eyes, brimming with a hunger so conspicuous it threatens to consume you whole. You card your fingers through his hair, rejoicing in the gravelly rumble Bucky makes over the simple touch. “I could ask you the same thing.”

In Bucky’s company, the extravagant suite around you feels smaller, as if the walls were closing in to bear witness to the charged moment simmering in the meager space separating you both. Metal fingers sweep your jaw, featherlight yet sizzling, treading carefully before finding purchase on the side of your face. You barely register what is happening before Bucky’s lips are suddenly on yours—kissing you, claiming you, molding against yours in a dance of affection that soon bleeds into desperation.

Bucky swallows every whimper and plea, his tongue exploring your mouth as if the kiss itself has become his soul's main source of sustenance. His vibranium palm on your cheek is alleviating, but his flesh hand on your waist is rough, gripping tenaciously, pushing you back until your spine is pinned between his imposing frame and the mini bar's counter. His lips teeter away from the kiss to find your jaw, trailing a path down your neck until there is no inch of skin free from the adornment of his marks.

He slots his thigh between your legs, nudging against the place where you yearn for him the most, making you mewl.

“Bucky, please,” you cry out, grinding yourself down on the toned muscles of his thigh.

“Fuck, sweetheart. Can't believe you're wrecked and bothered already,” Bucky muses, eyes drifting downward to drink in the erotic roll of your hips. “And I haven't even started yet.”

You should be embarrassed, should be alarmed by the mess you have become from just a single kiss. But any semblance of self-consciousness in your body evaporates in the blink of an eye, especially when Bucky yanks at the flimsy straps of your gauzy dress without so much as a warning, tearing it clear from your frame and letting it pool in a pathetic heap around your feet.

“Bucky!” you shriek, half from shock and half from the cold air that has suddenly enveloped your skin.

The man only licks his lips. “I'll buy you another one.”

You do not protest after that—not when his eyes rove over you as if you were the long-awaited feast to his ravenous beast. A thrill runs down your spine, satisfaction blooming in your chest at the way his stare lingers on the lacy matching set you so carefully chose to don for the night. It was meant to be a simple indulgence—a cute little thing you bought on a whim after catching a glimpse of it while you were out window shopping with friends—but now, under Bucky’s shameless admiration, the lacy number feels like the most brilliant spending decision you have ever made in life.

“Goddamn, Angel,” Bucky rasps, his teeth sinking down onto his bottom lip. “You sure as hell know how to send a man to their knees.”

“And yet, here you are.” You raise your eyebrows. “Still standing.”

The grin he rewards you is a thousand times brighter than the sun. “Not for long.”

Bucky drops his head lower, trailing open-mouthed kisses across your décolletage, nibbling on the silky skin that borders the line of your lacy bra. He makes quick work unclasping the garment and tossing it to the side, the cool air briskly nipping at your skin before his mouth is back on you once more, lavishing attention on each sensitive peak until you are trembling in his arms.

“Oh, Bucky,” you murmur amorously.

“I know, sweetheart.” He pinches your nipple, forcing you to bite his shoulder to stifle your squeal. “God, you’re one beautiful thing.”

His journey continues southward, across your torso, all the way down to your most private area. Bucky is kneeling before you now—the madman finally paying reverence to his most beloved goddess—and he looks absolutely fucking ecstatic. The sight of him between your legs, mouth-watering and aching to taste, is enough to have your head spinning in anticipation.

“I can smell you.” Bucky groans, sinking his head to press a kiss on your clothed core. The contact sends you spiraling over the precipice. “So fucking pretty. My pretty angel.”

Bucky's hands caress the back of your thighs, the contrast between flesh and metal sending a jolt of electricity through your veins. He dips his head again, this time wrapping his mouth around your mound, and starts eating you out despite the barrier of your panties.

You moan wantonly at his sinful attention, nearly collapsing to the floor if it weren't for Bucky's firm support keeping you upright. He fidgets with the fringe of your underwear, holding the fabric to the side to coat two of his flesh digits with your wetness.

“So wet for me already,” he murmurs, lapping at his soaked fingers with a blissful look across his face. “Tastes like nectar, sweetheart.”

“Bucky,” you whine, pulling at his shoulder-length hair until his blue eyes are locked onto yours. “No teasing.”

The shit-eating grin on his face would have aggravated you if it weren't for how unbelievably gorgeous he looks, kneeling at your mercy.

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Without wasting another second, Bucky lets go of your underwear with a final kiss on your covered clit, standing to his feet and hauling you up in his arms all in one breath. You yelp in surprise, securing your legs around Bucky's waist as he carries you efficiently towards the bed, the delicious friction of his pants compelling your inner walls to tense in ardor, making you crave him even more.

Bucky ensures that your back meets the mattress gently before he withdraws, though your whine of protest stops him before he can go far, your arms reaching for him as he takes your hands with a laugh.

“Eager, are we?” he asks impishly, peppering tiny kisses across your knuckles.

“Only for you, Buck.”

Bucky's smile softens, his lips securing a final kiss on the back of your hand before his deft fingers start undoing the buttons of his shirt. You observe with bated breath as he reveals the muscular panes of his torso, biting your lower lip when his hands begin working on his belt buckle and dress slacks.

Once he is back on you again, this time in nothing but the thin fabric of his boxer, it feels like everything in your life has slid right into place.

“Hi,” Bucky says, breathless, a boyish grin stretching his lips into a charming curve.

“Hi, handsome.”

You wrap your arms around his neck, lugging him down into a heated kiss and relishing in the feeling of metal fingers pinching your hip. Every sensation is amplified as his breath stumbles in your mouth, the softness of his lips contrasting with his metallic touch. Your hand wanders the expanse of skin, exploring the river of veins and the constellation of freckles, drawing random patterns down Bucky's abdomen until you reach the waistband of his drawers.

When your palm slips inside, circling around his hardening length, Bucky stammers into the kiss.

“Angel.” His voice comes out as a guttural moan. “What are you doing?”

“Wanna make you feel good, Buck.” You bury your nose in his temple, kissing the corner of his eye. “Please.”

Bucky barely has time to nod before your fingers scramble to rid him of the last barrier casing his body. His underwear is gone in a swift motion, ditched somewhere in the room through the haze of urgency.

At last, Bucky is there—above you, all around you, entirely overwhelming in his presence—and the sight of him alone steals the breath from your very lungs. The austere glow of the room carves shadows along the solid lines of his body, every muscle and sinew sculpted into something unreal. His skin is littered by old scars and the passage of time, telling a story that you long to trace and memorize with every subtle scrape of your heart.

He is devastating—an Adonis chiseled not by gentle divinity, but by violence and calamity. And yet he is here, flesh and blood, naked and glorious, a whole man despite history and remorse masticating him bit by bit. And right now, Bucky Barnes is looking at you like you are the only thing in this world tethering him to reality.

Your heart constricts, synchronously with your pussy, catching you somewhere between awe and want as you reach for him once more.

At the first grip of your fingers around his shaft, Bucky lets out a hiss.

“Is this okay?” you ask cautiously.

“God, yes,” Bucky respires, forehead creasing when you give an experimental squeeze around his girth. “Yes, sweetheart, it’s more than okay.”

His rough response motivates you to start pumping.

It doesn't take long for you to settle on a rhythm, moving your hand up and down, twisting and clutching until you are requited with his morose sighs and moans. Bucky is utterly beautiful like this—eyes shut, long hair shielding his face as his hips snap up to meet your depraved ministrations. Each moan that escapes him only drives you to move faster, your own pulse quickening as you feel him unraveling beneath your touch.

When your thumb resolutely swipes over his slit, Bucky's entire body staggers, a shuddering gasp tearing through his throat as he jerks in your grasp.

Your chest inflates with titillation. “You like that?”

“Y-Yes. Oh God,” Bucky stammers, burying his face in your neck when you repeat the movement again, collecting his precum. “Shit, Angel. M’ not gonna last if you keep that up.”

His admission only spurs you on, tightening your grip, encouraging your strokes to grow bolder. Bucky is a mess above you—all ragged breaths and sweat-slicked skin, every muscle in his body coiled like a rubber band on the verge of snapping. It is an addictive view, so intoxicating that you could live off it, spending the rest of your days ravaging him like this.

But before your dream can materialize, a calloused hand clamps around your wrist out of the blue, putting an end to your movements and forcing the thrill in your veins to a halt.

Your forehead knits in confusion as you stare into Bucky’s eyes.

“Gotta stop, sweetheart,” he pants, an easy but wrecked smile embellishing his gorgeous face. “Or else I'd blow before we even get to the good part.”

Heaving a deep sigh, you jut out your bottom lip and sulk. “Is that such a bad thing?”

“Christ, no.” Bucky chuckles. “Another time, I might take you up on that. But tonight?” He ducks his head, stealing a quick kiss that has you seeing stars. “I wanna be inside you when I cum.”

The promise catches you off guard, sending a dash of anticipation through your ribs and into every corner of your being. Bucky's fingers gently unwrap yours from his length, his cock still red and leaking from your recent attention. He regains control in no time, his lips descending upon your skin like a voyager mapping out a sacred route, pressing open-mouthed kisses as he charts a path down the curves of your body.

His breath is warm against your stomach, each kiss dragging lower, teasing ruthlessly, until his fingers hook into your underwear and strip it away in one hasty, practiced motion. He groans at the sight of you, his voice thick with admiration and something more primal as his mouth lets out a muttered curse.

“Jesus, sweetheart.” Bucky’s dark lashes flutter, drinking you in. “You’re a damn masterpiece.”

The raw compliment nudges your heart, brewing the fog in your mind until you are nothing but a heap of fire and lust.

Words fly out of your head as Bucky eats you out like a man starved—licking, sucking, and biting with a desperation that borders on worship. His tongue moves in volitional strokes, alternating between featherlight flicks and deep siphoning of your bundle of nerves. Your fingers twist into Bucky's hair, tugging hard enough to earn a growl, the sound vibrating in pleasurable waves all throughout your body.

As if his current ministrations weren't enough, Bucky suddenly brings his metal fingers to your opening, prodding and unfolding gently, pushing two of his digits in until they are sheathed inside the heat of your weeping hole.

“Holy shit, Angel. Look at ya,” Bucky mutters, watching your walls throb around him as he pushes and retracts his vibrainum hand. The sight alone makes his own hardness twitch. “Soakin’ me like a dam, sweetheart. This all for me?”

“Yes, Bucky. No—ah! N-No one else,” you let out between helpless gasps, grinding despairingly onto Bucky's hand.

Bucky's pupils dilate, his eyes scanning you from head to toe as if immortalizing you into memory. The pace of his fingers is increasing by the minute—scissoring, curling, grasping for that one magical spot that never fails to ruin your whole being. Bucky's mouth returns on you in no time, nibbling and tracing with his tongue, humming heartily with every wrecked sound escaping from your chest.

“S-Shit. Bucky, that feels—mpphh. I'm s-so close—ah!”

The climax crashes into you in a matter of minutes, arriving like a tsunami, abrupt and earth-shattering. Bucky is patient as he guides you through it all, continuing the lazy licks on your clit and the slow pumps of his fingers inside you. He only relents when you begin squirming away from him, whining at the over-sensitivity aching through your bones.

“Are you okay?”

You blink through the mist in your vision, your eyes slowly refocusing on Bucky's concerned face.

He is a perfect picture of debauchery—kneeling on the bed in all of his majestic nudity, remnants of your release coating the nether part of his face. His question should be startling—the way it juxtaposes everything he has done to you thus far. However, Bucky Barnes is no man if he is not a decent one, and you let yourself find solace in that little fact as your lips widen into a smile.

“Bucky.” Your voice is sheer, grated away by the daze of satisfaction that still muddles your mind. “I am fantastic.”

A cheeky grin overtakes Bucky's lips as he crawls up your frame.

“Fantastic, huh?”

“Hm.” You nod, cloaking his neck with your arms. “You're fantastic.”

Bucky seizes your lips in a kiss, allowing you to taste your own desire on his tongue. Moans spill out of your mouth at the delectable shove of his shaft on your wetness, cherishing the way Bucky returns each roll of your pelvis with his own, his haze-lidded mind reducing the once mighty soldier into a mess of broken whines and crushing rapture.

With a sudden tide of momentum, you push against the formidable wall of his chest, catching Bucky off guard as you send an abrupt shove that sends his back straight to the mattress.

Bucky blinks up at you, stunned, taking in the sight of your body above his, straddling his hips like they were a throne created specifically for you to sit on. His hands instinctively come up to grasp your thighs, fingers flexing against fiery skin as his gaze darkens with an avid yearning.

“Damn,” he breathes, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Didn’t see that one comin’, sweetheart.”

You brush your mouth against his jaw. “I can’t wait any longer, Bucky. I need you inside me.”

A responding groan rumbles from Bucky's chest the moment you start to sink down, his cock stretching you open, filling you inch by inch until the two of you are joined as one. The world outside ceases to exist as you take him in, your bodies fusing together until there is no distance separating you two, no way of knowing where Bucky ends and you begin.

You take a speculative roll of your hips, testing the waters, finding your footing before descending on a lascivious, steady tempo. Bucky's hands are explorative on your skin, caressing down your thighs and up your hips, all while mumbling breathy curses and gentle encouragement that crackles down to your hankering core.

"That’s it, Angel," Bucky rasps, his hands squeezing the plush flesh of your backside. "So damn beautiful. Feels like you were made for me.”

“Buckyyy,” you wail, your hands bracing on top the sturdy surface of his chest. “You feel—oh! S-So—uhh—so good.”

Euphoria stumbles past your lips in a concoction of jumbled words, babbling against Bucky's chest while occasionally littering his hard panes with kisses. Every nerve ending in your body is alight, every drag of him inside you a luscious reprieve. Your entire senses are heightened with everything Bucky.

The gallant man beneath you sits up slightly, drawing you down by your neck until your foreheads are wedged against one another.

“You tired, sweetheart?” His voice is the epitome of lust, woven discreetly by a tenderness that threatens to liquefy your bones.

A breathless nod is all you can manage. Before you can fully grasp what is happening, Bucky is already taking control, wrapping you in his embrace and thrusting up into you like there is no tomorrow. Each snap of his hips sends you spiraling closer to the edge, his name spilling from your lips over and over again like a prayer to the moon, the stars, and the universe.

“B-Bucky!” Your voice hitches. “P-Please, I want to—ahh.”

“I know, sweetheart. Come on,” he urges, rough and terse, a drastic contrast to the kiss he presses to your forehead. “Give it to me.”

The pinnacle crashes over your whole being in an explosion of colors and light. A sharp cry tears from your throat as your walls tighten around him, your entire body convulsing while Bucky holds you through it, murmuring praises into your cheek and peppering soft kisses all over your face. You lose track of how long the two of you stay in that position—your face nestled safely in the crook of Bucky's neck, his hands skimming abstract patterns on the dimple of your spine.

The room is still buzzing in the aftermath of your orgasm when Bucky gently maneuvers you onto your back, switching places with you so that he is now hovering on top of your spent body. A quiet whimper escapes your throat the moment you feel him nudge against your over-sensitive core, the aftershocks still humming through your nerves like the echo of a symphony’s final crescendo.

Bucky notices immediately, his lips curving into a smirk as he brushes a hand down your cheek. “Too much, sweetheart?”

You swallow an empty air, the heat returning to your belly at the way Bucky is looking at you, like he is not nearly done devouring your body, mind, and soul. Still, he waits, his breath warm against your lips as his vibranium fingers stroke slow circles along your outer thigh.

“I know you’ve got one more in you,” he coaxes, sprinkling teasing kisses to your jaw, your throat, and the curve of your shoulder. “But I need to hear you say it, Angel. You want this?”

Despite the delicious ache between your legs—the overstimulation still singing beneath numerous layers of your skin—you don’t hesitate. You thread your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him grunt.

“Yes,” you whisper, breath staggering when he moves his hips against yours. “Please, Bucky. I need you.”

Your confirmation is all he needs.

With a low, unruly sound, Bucky slams back into you, his restraint disintegrating as he buries himself to the hilt. This time, there is no leisure buildup—just raw, unadulterated need that ignites the blood coursing through your arteries. His rhythm is frantic and desperate, his hands bruising your waist like he needs to hold onto something real before he completely loses himself deeper in the bliss.

“Fuck. You're so tight, sweetheart. So warm and wet,” he groans, his forehead dropping against yours. “You feel perfect around me.”

You gasp at the thickness of him, the drag of each ridge of his length against your tender walls. Bucky is pounding relentlessly into you as he chases after his own release; the air between you thick with heat, with the sound of your bodies moving in an erotic, exquisite harmony.

“Oh, Bucky. Feels s-so good. So big.” You meet each of his thrusts eagerly, your body welcoming him as if the two of you were always meant to be one. “That's it. Ah, ah, t-take what you need, baby.”

A ragged moan rips from his throat, his movements turning erratic as he barrels toward the edge. Your walls shudder around him, making him stutter in his rhythm.

“Grippin’ me like a vice, sweetheart.” Bucky's eyebrows furrow, jaw clenched as his gaze finds yours. “Can't last long. Gonna—fuck. Shit, shit, m’ gonna cum.”

You pull him down into a frenzied kiss, pouring every ounce of your need into him, letting him listen to the way your blood, your organs, and every other thing inside you chant his name like a prayer recited in reckless devotion.

Bucky trembles as he reaches his peak, spilling everything he has to give into the deepest crevice of your heat, his body tensing before melting into a pliable mass above you. A broken moan catches in your throat as the pleasure pummels into you once more, your limbs clinging to him with whatever bit of strength remains in the fragmented pieces of your body.

For a while, there are no words spoken between the two of you. Just the shared intakes of your breaths, the soft press of Bucky’s lips against your temple, and the grounding strokes of his fingers tracing along your skin.

You shift slightly beneath him, tilting your head up to meet his gaze, and what you find there steals what little breath you have left—something reverent, something vulnerable. His thumb brushes over your cheek before he leans in, capturing your lips in a kiss so gentle and profound, a stark polarity to the frantic passion that has consumed you moments prior.

Bucky exhales a quiet chuckle once he withdraws, resting his forehead on top of yours.

"Christ, Angel," he mutters hoarsely, his voice strained with exhaustion and something unguarded. "You're gonna be the death of me.”

You hum, an appeased smile decorating your lips as you thread your fingers through his damp hair.

When Bucky finally pulls out, the absence of him leaves you aching and remarkably empty. Your body, already boneless from exhaustion, instinctively reaches for him, fingers grazing over his flesh hand in an attempt to search more of the warmth he naturally emits. Bucky chuckles, low and affectionate, his lips pressing a lingering kiss to the clammy skin of your forehead.

"Stay put, sweetheart. Gotta take care of you," he says before putting on his boxer and disappearing into the bathroom.

Bucky returns a moment later with a damp towel in hand. He goes to kneel beside you, his touch reposeful as he cleans you up with a forbearing care. The first press of the cloth against your sensitive core has you sucking in a breath, a whimper slipping free before you have the mind to stop it from resonating in the air. Bucky’s gaze flicks up at the sound, concern knitting his eyebrows as his hand stills above your pelvis.

“Easy, Angel,” he soothes, trailing a hand up your thigh in a comforting caress. “I know what you're gonna say. But you took me so damn well. Gotta make sure you don’t wake up hating me in the morning.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes despite the fond smile wresting your lips. “Pretty sure I already hate you a little.”

Bucky's responding beam is radiant, his chest deflating in the assurance that you are okay—or at least, okay enough to still have the fire to put him in place—before tossing the used towel onto the floor where it lands with the other discarded fabrics of your clothes.

“Nah,” Bucky shakes his head, flumping beside you on the bed and gathering you in his arms. “You love me.”

You sigh in contentment the second Bucky's arms surround you, keeping you pressed to his side and pulling the covers over both of your satiated bodies. You fit against him like two conjoined puzzle pieces, like you were always destined to lie in each other's arms and slot perfectly into the apertures of each other's lives. Bucky’s flesh hand finds your right palm on his chest, bringing it to his lips to fleck tiny kisses across each knuckle, the matching golden bands wrapped around your ring fingers glinting against one another.

Something in the cerulean blue of his eyes shifts. By the next time you blink, Bucky is already claiming your lips in a kiss so compassionate you fear your heart might burst from the sheer ferocity of it.

When he pulls back, Bucky is grinning, utterly smitten as he nuzzles his nose to the apple of your cheek.

“Happy anniversary, Angel,” Bucky murmurs, his voice heavy with selfless devotion and helpless exaltation. “I love you.”

A slow smile spreads across your lips, your nose wrinkling in happiness as you return, “Happy anniversary, my love.”

Your wedding bands catch the dim lighting of the bedside table lamp as Bucky laces his fingers through yours—sure and steady, a silent vow renewed without the necessity of spoken words. He exhales deeply, thoroughly at peace, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of his love, knowing with absolute certainty that there is nowhere else in the world you would rather be.

Nowhere but here, in the safety of your husband's arms, where your heart has always meant to stay.

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hybriddhthepoet · 5 months ago

Text

Marionette by HybridDH

Art by ghosty_entity

https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

In the darkened room, a stage unfolds,

where velvet curtains shield tales untold.

There in the dim light’s soft, faint sway,

a marionette waits, bound to obey.

Threads stretch high, veiled and taut,

puppet and shadow caught in thought.

With porcelain skin and painted smile,

she waits, unmoving, docile, beguiled.

An unseen hand pulls; she shudders awake,

a dance begins, each step to partake

in muted hums, a silent sway,

as joints align in ghostly ballet.

Her glassy gaze is fixed and wide,

unblinking, drawn from side to side,

eyes unfeeling, blank, and cold,

secrets too deep, in silence told.

The stage, her world of fabric walls,

a prison fashioned for lifeless dolls;

each step marked by the strings’ command,

a measured move, a forced demand.

She spins, she twirls with delicate grace,

her movements bound to an endless place,

and though she glides with a quiet charm,

her dance is bound, and free of calm.

There’s a murmur low, a command unclear,

whispers cold as winter’s cheer,

echoes scripted in her ear,

words that she feels, yet never hears.

Buttons for eyes, stitched mouth set wide,

she’s hollow within, though painted with pride;

the smile sewn on, the laugh confined,

a mask that cracks yet holds the line.

Around her, dolls on taut-held threads,

pinned to their parts, lifeless and led.

In faded lace, they watch and wait,

bound to their roles, resigned to fate.

One doll stands cracked, with splintered seams,

a rosewood figure, worn of dreams—

she’s cast aside, her purpose done,

no longer danced, no longer spun.

For every twirl and every bow,

she’s merely part of another’s vow;

the stage grows larger, yet so small,

a muted echo, a silent call.

And as she bends in practiced arc,

she wonders if this role left a mark—

a phantom tale, a puppet’s jest,

a marionette swayed at fate’s behest.

The strings grow taut; she cannot stray,

locked in this strange, perpetual play,

her movements guided, whispers hushed,

in satin gloves, her spirit crushed.

But under the mask, beneath the paint,

a flicker stirs, though ever faint—

a silent plea, a wordless cry,

for freedom’s hand, to sever and untie.

At last, the dance draws to a close,

she’s set back down in static repose.

And as the hands drift out of sight,

a tear escapes, frail in the light.

A single drop, a trace of grace,

a glint of life on her painted face.

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prythiansprincess · 10 days ago

Text

CHAPTER SEVEN | TSOFAS.

pairing: azriel x reader.

word count: 3,116.

author’s note: this chapter is a deep dive into the thornes, the vanserras, and the deeply patriarchal society of the autumn court which azriel has very strong opinions on. it's also an excuse to ogle the shadowsinger while he's half-naked. enjoy x

♫ blood // water - grandson. nav. series. moodboard.

Azriel was no stranger to silence.

Usually, he preferred it. But the loaded tension that had followed after the Forest House was almost unbearable to the shadowsinger. Across from him, the assassin gazed out the window with a hard expression. The conversation with Eris had put her in a foul mood and she hadn’t uttered a single word since the carriage departed from her former home.

In an uncharacteristic move, the shadowsinger decided to break the silence. “Does this estate look familiar?”

With her gaze trained on the horizon, she merely nodded. “Quite,” the assassin said absentmindedly. “Welcome to Thorne Manor.”

The shadowsinger startled and glanced out the window just as the carriage snaked through the intricate wrought iron gates. The looming estate cast a shadow upon the perfectly manicured lawn, its pointed arches and parapet walls crawling with neatly trimmed ivy. The harsh contrast of the stained glass windows against the brick exterior gave the gothic structure a haunted atmosphere.

Monstrous gargoyles flanked the spiked turrets of Thorne Manor, but despite the grotesque carvings, there was an eerie sort of charm that surrounded the estate. The rosewood door seemed to beckon its visitor forth, luring Azriel to the secrets contained within its walls. He glanced back towards the assassin, her guarded expression as much of a fortress as the manor that awaited.

Azriel wondered what her childhood had been like. He found himself imagining the assassin running barefoot across the manicured lawn, scarlet hair shimmering like living flames behind her, winding through the gargoyles and marble fountain only to disappear at the mouth of the Godswood beyond.

For whatever reason, the shadowsinger could picture it perfectly.

Before he could ponder that thought, the carriage came to a stop underneath a pair of pale stone pillars. Azriel kept alert as the driver opened the door, revealing a crone with skin as dark as teak and hair as pale as the weirwood trees in the Godswood beyond. The shadowsinger tensed, causing his companion to peek behind his shoulder. All too aware of the watchful eyes trained on them, Azriel assisted his would-be fiance out of the carriage.

To his surprise, the assassin broke out into a grin as she took in the female standing before them. “No need for pretenses, shadowsinger,” she said as they descended. “Alinta would be suspicious if I suddenly started acting like a lady.”

The crone smiled widely and greeted the assassin with a hug. “My rogue charge come to plague me with her presence once again,” Alinta declared fondly, kissing both of her cheeks. “I have missed you, insolent child.”

If the crone considered the assassin a child, Azriel shuddered to know how many centuries the old witch had lived through.

“You are a sight for sore eyes, old friend.”

Alinta grinned, her strange misty eyes landing on Azriel. “Speaking of sights, this must be your infamous betrothed. Cauldron bless your heart.”

The shadowsinger couldn’t help but chuckle as the assassin rolled her eyes. “Alinta, this is Azriel. Azriel, meet Alinta. The keeper of Thorne Manor and my childhood mentor.”

Azriel smiled politely as he took Alinta’s hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alinta. I’m afraid my betrothed’s tales of you fail to capture the essence of your charm.”

A mischievous glint glittered in the old witch’s eyes. “A charmer,” she said with a chuckle. “You’ll do well in the Court of Foxes, boy.”

“The old hags will certainly eat him up,” the assassin remarked with a sly smile.

Alinta’s mouth quirked. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you, dear.” Azriel chuckled as the crone took him by the arm. “Now come, a tour of your bride’s manor awaits.”

The shadowsinger nodded. “Lead the way, my lady.”

The interior of the manor was just as ostentatious as its exterior. The decor was an amalgamation of dark mahogany, rich tapestries, and ornate scarlet and golden fabrics. The high vaulted ceilings housed a crystal chandelier weaved with ruby roses. Tiny garnet spikes jutted out from the emerald vines, protecting the delicate flowers—thorns, like the family’s namesake.

A delicate glass flower with barbs. Strangely, it reminded Azriel of the female beside him.

She’s not as strong as she looks.

The shadowsinger shook Rhysand’s words away, focusing instead on the portraits lining the limestone walls. Each painting depicted generations upon generations of the Thorne family. Various shades of auburn, maroon, and crimson haired males and females stared down at him, but none possessed the vibrant scarlet hair that fell from the assassin’s shoulders like wildfire.

The paintings were enchanted to capture the subject in movement and one of them in particular caught the shadowsinger’s attention. It was a depiction of the assassin, young and wild, scarlet hair blowing in the breeze as she raced alongside two red haired males. Eris and Lucien, Azriel realized with a start. There was a mischievous grin on the younger version of his companion as she inched her mount past the two males, throwing her head back in uproarious laughter as her cousins struggled to keep up with her pace.

The female in the frame seemed like an entirely different person than the one standing next to him now. There was still that wildness within her, but there was no trace of the carefree innocence in the painting.

What happened to this female? The shadowsinger pondered as his gaze flickered between the past and the present versions of the assassin.

“I remember the day this was painted,” Alinta said with a smile. “You always managed to put those boys to shame.” She nudged Azriel with her elbow, “Born on a saddle, this one. She used to give my mistress grief riding through the Godswood at all hours of the night.”

That was a surprise to Azriel. Back in Velaris, he couldn’t recall a single time when he’d seen the assassin on horseback. “Did you enjoy riding?”

She gazed up at the painting as though she didn’t recognize the female in it either. “I used to.”

“She’s being modest,” the old witch announced. “Y/N is an excellent rider and a formidable archer even upon horseback. I taught her myself. Amongst other things,” Alinta said with a wink.

The comment seemed to bring the assassin out of her stupor. “I’m sure you have plenty of embarrassing tales to regale my betrothed with, but we should really start preparing for the grand luncheon.”

The old witch beckoned them upstairs where fully furnished and immaculately designed adjoining bedchambers awaited on the second floor of the manor. A lounge connected the rooms complete with a velvet couch, a liquor cart, and an unlit hearth. As the assassin explained earlier, it was Autumn Court custom for engaged couples to keep separate rooms until the conclusion of the bride rite.

“Your bedchambers are fully stocked with anything you may need. Y/N, I had the seamstress prepare new gowns for your arrival.”

Alinta’s calculated gaze swept over Azriel. “Despite my affinity for those leathers, I’ve stocked your wardrobe with clothing more suited to this court’s traditional dress. Eris gave me a vague idea of your sizing, but feel free to let me know if anything needs adjusting.”

“Thank you, Alinta,” the shadowsinger said with a smile. “I hope we get a chance to discuss those embarrassing stories you mentioned earlier. I’d be delighted to hear them.”

The old witch smirked. “It would be my pleasure to tell them, shadowsinger.”

The assassin rolled her eyes fondly. “If you two are done flirting, I need to prepare my intended for this splendid little family reunion.”

“I’ll leave you lovebirds to it.”

Alinta shot another wink over her shoulder before she disappeared through the double doors. The shadowsinger watched in amusement as the assassin ushered the nosy witch into the hallway before casting a silencing charm around the room.

“I like her,” Azriel stated before casually plopping down on the velveteen couch. He winced as his wings caught on the cushions, forgetting that Autumn Court furniture was not Illyrian warrior friendly.

“Don’t get used to it. The old witch is probably the only pleasant company you’ll find in this cursed court.” Azriel grumbled as she swatted at his legs, gesturing for him to follow her into one of the bedchambers. “Now come. You need to get dressed for this luncheon.”

Azriel watched curiously as she threw open the doors to the oak wardrobe. Freshly pressed silk shirts, crushed velvet doublets, and dark riding pants were amongst the array of clothing hanging within. The customary Autumn Court attire couldn’t be further away from Azriel’s preferred clothing of choice, which usually consisted of steel armor or dark Illyrian leathers.

“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?” the shadowsinger asked.

“You can’t show up to our engagement luncheon in Illyrian leathers. Wearing armor to a celebration sends the wrong message.”

He scoffed, crossing his arms. “I wasn’t aware that clothes could convey messages.”

The assassin rolled her eyes in exaggerated exasperation. “Clearly. Do you even own anything besides battle gear?”

“Fashion isn’t exactly a main component of my duties. The point is to blend in, not stand out.”

“What a typical male thing to say. Just because you’re a spy, doesn’t mean you have to dress like a prison dweller.”

The shadowsinger was stuck somewhere between amusement and offense as the assassin rifled through the current choices. Azriel leaned against the frame of the four poster bed while he watched her assemble his would be armor. His shadows skittered over his shoulders, observing the careful manner in which she examined the various fabrics.

Satisfied with her choices, the assassin laid out the change of clothes upon the four poster bed. Azriel pushed off the frame and assessed the outfit with a slight frown.

Silk pooled between his scarred fingers as he held up the cream shirt she chose. “This is a lot of color, Thorne.”

That made the assassin chuckle in earnest. “Sorry to break it to you, shadowsinger, but dressing like a wraith is only acceptable in the Night Court. Besides, you don’t pull it off nearly as well as Nuala and Cerridwen.” She gathered the trousers and riding boots and handed them off to him with a satisfied smile. “Now hurry up and get changed. I’ll give you the rundown of what to expect.”

Azriel stared blankly as his companion made herself comfortable at the end of the canopy bed. The shadowsinger wasn’t shy by any means, but he wasn’t keen on undressing in front of her either.

“I’d prefer to dress without an audience.”

The assassin released an exasperated sigh. “It’s nothing I haven’t seen before.”

The shadowsinger gave her a pointed look in response.

“Fine, I’ll turn around to preserve your maidenhood but listen carefully. I’m only going to explain the inner workings of the Vanserras once.”

Azriel nodded as she faced the opposite wall. “I thought you weren’t a Vanserra,” he commented as he shed his leathers. “Rhys explained that the Thornes are from your mother’s side. I’ve never heard of Autumn Court children taking on their mother’s surname. I take it your parents never wed?”

The assassin bristled at the question, straightening in her seat. “No, my father left before I was born. My grandparents raised me as a Thorne.” She crossed one leg over the other and picked at her nails. “Our family was once the richest of the noble families, second only to the High Lord’s. Since my exile, all of our possessions, including the wineries that my family is known for, now belong to my uncle. Because the High Lord is my closest male relative, the backwards customs of this court technically make me a Vanserra, which gives him autonomy over my inheritance. I haven’t seen a penny of my family’s money since my exile. Beron made sure of that.”

The shadowsinger noted the bitter edge in her voice. Much like Illyria, the Autumn Court was insistent on upholding the patriarchal system. The customs and traditions of both male dominated cultures always seemed sexist and backwards to him.

“He’s a bastard for that,” Azriel said coolly.

The assassin’s head snapped up at his comment. Azriel met her gaze as she searched his face for something, maybe mockery, maybe pity. The shadowsinger knew she’d find neither. Instead, she was met with nothing but the plain, simple truth.

And his incredibly naked torso.

Azriel had never seen the assassin look embarrassed. He didn’t think it was in her nature, but as her gaze raked over his toned chest and defined abdominal muscles, the shadowsinger was pleased to find that her cheeks now matched the fiery tone of her hair. The assassin quickly peeled her focus away from him, nearly giving herself whiplash while Azriel smirked in amusement.

“Beron may be a bloody bastard, but he’s twice as clever as he is cruel. We’re playing his game now and there’s rules we must adhere to.” She cleared your throat, suddenly finding the limestone walls quite interesting. “Beron values appearances above all else. Reputation is everything to him. It’s important for the nobility to see him as powerful and feared. As with every court event, there will be an order to how we’re presented during this luncheon. My uncle will be announced first, then Eris and his brothers after him. You’ll follow soon after and escort me to the dais. My aunt will formally welcome us.”

There was no mistaking the wince at the mention of the Lady of the Autumn Court, but neither one of them acknowledged it.

“We are to sit with the family at the head table—typically a place of honor, but in our case, it allows my dear uncle to keep an eye on us. It also puts us on display for the whole court to see, so we’ll need to be convincing. There’s seven main courses and the appetizer and desserts are separate and we are both expected to smile, laugh, and engage in pleasantries through every single one. The noble lords will undoubtedly bore you with their talk of hunting and the ladies will try to flirt with you. Do not engage. They’ll eat you alive.”

Azriel snorted at that. “Is that a hint of jealousy I sense, Thorne?”

The assassin snorted. “Please. Even I’m not ruthless enough to feed you to the sharks of this court. You’re fresh meat and these females are hungry for blood. We don’t often welcome strangers within our borders, so a male like you is fair game, shadowsinger.”

“A male like me?” He prompted, an edge of teasing lingering in his voice.

“You know what I mean,” she said, waving her hand in the air. “For reasons beyond my comprehension, females seem to find you pleasing to look at. This is just a fair warning to not let any of them sink their claws into you.”

Azriel knew he shouldn’t push it, but the opportunity was ripe for the taking. “Don’t worry, I only have eyes for my betrothed.”

That earned him another exaggerated eye roll. “Anyways, just follow my lead and we’ll be fine. Do try not to be your usual surly, brooding self. Our facade won’t work if you’re wearing your trademark frown the entire time.” She shot him a pointed look just as his lips curled downwards. “And don’t even get me started on your eyebrows.”

“What’s wrong with my eyebrows?” Azriel asked, sounding quite offended.

“They do this peculiar wriggle like you’re trying to convey your distaste and disgust upon the creases of your forehead. It’s quite annoying, actually.”

“Thank you for giving me a complex about something I wasn’t even aware of.”

The assassin smirked. “Any time, shadowsinger.” He released a huff of annoyance in response, which she wholly ignored. “Now, are you almost done or do I have to strap you in myself?”

“Do I truly have to wear this?” the shadowsinger asked warily.

She slowly turned, seemingly having learned her lesson a few minutes ago, and nearly burst into laughter. Azriel stood uncomfortably, looking down at the silk and velvet covering his body. The ensemble she picked out couldn’t have been farther away from his preferred attire. The shadowsinger hardly recognized himself in the crushed sapphire velvet doublet, dark trousers, and sleek, black riding boots that lace all the way up to the Azriel’s knees.

In this attire, Azriel felt as though he was a character out of the fairytales Rhysand and Feyre read to put Nyx to sleep. More pompous prince than feared spymaster. The shadowsinger felt ridiculous.

“I’ve truly outdone myself,” the assassin announced with a pleased smile. “You look like a proper little lord.”

Azriel frowned slightly, tugging at the collar of his doublet. It flopped against his chest, the button hanging open the more he struggled with it. The assassin rolled her eyes, sidling up to the male in one swift move. His shadows swarmed through his wings, dark whisps hovering behind the red and golden membrane at her approach.

The shadowsinger attempted to readjust his doublet once more, but she swatted his hand away and carefully secured the clasp herself. Azriel watched in silence as she straightened the lapel of his jacket, patting it for good measure before she even realized what she was doing. The intimacy of the gesture hung heavy in the air.

“Thank you,” Azriel rasped, his voice lower than it was a second ago.

The assassin swallowed thickly, putting some much needed distance between them. “Don’t thank me yet. If we manage to survive this luncheon, then you can decide whether or not to be grateful after my wretched little family reunion.”

He sighed. “Don’t worry, I promise to be the epitome of a doting fiance. What else are my spymaster skills good for if I can’t pretend to be a lovestruck fool over a female who has threatened me bodily harm on multiple occasions?”

The shadowsinger watched as the assassin twisted the sapphire ring on her finger absentmindedly. It didn’t take a spymaster to deduce the cloud of anxiety hanging over her, but it still felt strange to see it manifested before him. Especially since the sight of the ring on her hand jarred him every time he laid eyes upon it.

Azriel grasped for words of comfort, but none came. He doubted that she would have appreciated hearing them anyways, so instead he settled for the familiar.

The shadowsinger flicked the sapphire stone, breaking the assassin out of her stupor. He raised a brow, prompting his companion to glance up at him. “Anything else I should know, princess?”

The assassin nodded as her amber eyes bore into him. “Don’t believe anything you hear in the Court of Foxes.”

₊˚⊹♡ thank you for reading. as always, reblogs, replies, and tags are appreciated. feel free to drop an ask too — i’d love to yap & chat with you all.

taglist: @fuckingsimp4azriel@onebadassunicorn-blog@acourtofbatboydreams@marina468@ly–canthrope

#for azriel's outfit think bridgerton vibes #azriel #azriel x you #azriel x reader #azriel acotar #azriel shadowsinger #azriel smut #azriel fanfic #azriel fanfiction #azriel fluff #azriel spymaster #azriel/reader #acotar

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spiritedstars · 2 months ago

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Spirit Meets the Bones XXXVIII

Genre: Angst/Romance/Drama Warnings: physical abuse/triggering language. Author’s Note: In case you missed it, I commissioned an art of Iris here! Thank you for reading, we're gearing up for the end soon!!!

thank you @riorsonxaden for always being my cheerleader <3

tagging: @climb-the-mountian / @vanserrass / @positivewitch / @animezinglife / @zenkindoflove / @rosewood-cafe / @clockwork-ashes / @carnythian / @secret-third-thing / @runningwiththeoceans / @that-golden-lyre / @thedarkinmansfield / @readychilledwine / @goldenmagnolias / @mali22 / @readthelastpaage / @maidr-00 / @electromagnetic-waves / @eastofatlanta / @moobell55 / @bibliophiliaxvignette / @devilsfoodcake22 / @weesablackbeak / @ladywhilemia / @alohaangels / @feysandfeels / @corcracrow / @dawneternal / @gracie-rosee / @mage-neve / @illyrianvalkyrie / @saint-stella / @carolynmezzosoprano / @rainbowsnowflake / @queenoftheworld1998 / @wolvesnravens / @lalaluch / @moonfawnx

Find it all here.

Eris barely had a moment to breathe through the effects of the faebane when his father’s fire slammed into him and propelled him through the glamour hiding them, straight across the room. He landed with a grunt among the startled crowds as they gasped – even screamed at his sudden appearance.

He didn’t give himself a moment to let his father catch him in this vulnerable position and quickly twisted on his knees, slowly standing and trying to get a sense of his magic; the deep well he had been storing for months – all of it in was empty.

Eris had deeply miscalculated.

He should’ve drank his antidote sooner and now he didn’t have time to grab it as the High Lord began his casual stroll down the dais, his eyes never leaving Eris as the crowd slowly parted in shock, backing away from father and son.

“In the last few days something truly harrowing has come to my attention.” the High Lord said, addressing the room as he walked toward Eris. “And it pains me to share this news with you all on what should be a celebratory night.”

The High Lord spoke in an airy tone and Eris bared his teeth as he braced himself against his father. “Why did you bother standing? Traitors kneel.”

And his father had certainly been holding back earlier because when he slammed his magic into Eris, it made him double over in pain that he hadn’t felt in a long time as the High Lord forced him to his knees. “Father.”

Beron stood before his son, grimacing down at him then glanced at the crowd around them. “I can see how confusing this must be, to watch your High Lord bring your crown prince to his knees.” the High Lord continued. “But you see…my sons have betrayed me and the people of this court. There has been a plot for my demise.”

Eris struggled against the force of his father’s magic, his muscles straining as he glared at the High Lord. “Do not twist the situation!” Eris seethed. “You are the only one who betrayed this court.”

Beron scowled, waving his hand as his magic wrapped around Eris’s throat and squeezed. “As your High Lord, it is my duty to protect this court from those who try to undermine its stability. My sons have threatened to do just that,” he said, still in that light tone that made Eris’s blood boil and glanced at the crowd. “They have plotted against me and in doing so, broke my heart and cast light on the unfortunate reality of traitors amongst us. And as you all know, I do not take treason lightly.”

Whispers traveled among the crowd as they watched this unfold in shock and disbelief, unease spreading but Eris paid them no mind. He only gritted his teeth, his mind racing for a way to break free of his father’s hold but didn’t dare glance at the archers or his sentries who should’ve been infiltrating the room.

Beron raised a hand, silencing the hall with a single gesture. "My loyal subjects," he began, his voice carrying across the room. “It grieves me to reveal the betrayal that has festered from within my family but rest assured, no one is above my law, not even my own flesh and blood and I will purge this court of their poison.” His gaze swept the room before landing back on Eris who was panting, fighting to escape the contained bubble his father had him in. “Starting with my eldest son.”

Eris’s gaze was livid as Beron stepped closer to him. “After everything I have given you, you still conspired against me and dragged your mother and brothers into it, breaking this family apart.”

“That is not –”

His father’s magic slammed into him and Eris groaned as the High Lord gripped him by the collar and slammed his fist in Eris’s face. “I hereby strip you of your title as crown prince.” His father’s fist slammed into his throat and Eris wheezed as he felt his airway close. “Your assets.” Another fist slammed into his chest. “Alongside any and all privileges you had as my son.”

Eris knew just how personal this moment was for his father to use his own fists to beat him. To try and break him in front of the court. He knew just how angry the High Lord was as blood clogged his throat from the fist of fire his father landed to his gut and he wheezed a breath as Beron pulled him up by the front of his shirt. “You are no son of mine and will rot as a traitor in our dungeons. Your wife will share your fate and so will whichever of your brothers side with you.”

The High Lord dropped his son and Eris felt himself sag on his knees, breathing heavily as he braced himself on shaky arms. It was fine. He’d taken beatings. He’d bled like this before. He would be fine.

Especially because his father’s magic had released him and Eris spat blood, his ears ringing as the High Lord continued to give his speech. He blinked his watery eyes, every inch of him in pain, wheezing another tight breath through his achy throat and he raised a shaky hand to his jacket, patting for the antidote. If he took it now, he would be fine. He could get back on his feet and launch his attack.

“Ah, my other sons.”

Eris’s head snapped to the side and he watched as Finn and Izak staggered to a halt, both slightly battered as though coming back from a fight themselves; Izak’s sword was coated with blood as were Finn’s twin blades.

“You come with raised weapons and expect me to believe you haven’t betrayed me.” The High Lord mused but there was no light in his eyes as he observed Izak and Finn slowly walking around him to reach Eris; only hatred shown in the High Lord’s dead gaze – only promised violence.

“We were attacked by soldiers that were not our own.” Finn spat. “Who would’ve ordered that hit, Father?”

The High Lord merely lifted a brow. “If you weren’t slinking around like thieves, this wouldn’t have happened to you.”

“Enough is enough.” Izak snarled. “You need to –”

“Ah, I see even my beast has turned on me,” Beron said, chuckling lightly and Eris felt his vision go red as Izak flushed deeply, anger rolling off his brother in waves. “I can’t count on you to gut your brothers for me now, can I?”

Before Eris could force himself to take a breath, the High Lord’s magic lashed out and threw him into his brothers, the three of them staggering back. Izak quickly straightened and shielded them. “The only person I am itching to gut here is you.”

“You threaten your High Lord so easily,” Beron said quietly, yet that promised violence in his tone carried throughout the room. “You are what I made you and yet, you bite the hand that fed you after all these years.”

Eris mustered his rage and again, tapped his jacket quickly. He needed that fucken antidote now and before his father noticed.

Finn carefully stepped in front of him, next to Izak as Eris’s hands shakily closed around the vial. Carefully uncorking the antidote, he swallowed it in one shot and felt his whole body shudder as his magic coursed through him almost explosively, awakening through his veins. Eris panted, gave himself a moment to be overwhelmed then rolled his head back as he slowly rose, turning to face his father, moving in front of his brothers who flanked him.

Eris’s glare was a fiery branding standing before his father, his chest rising and falling as he tried to continue his breathing. “How can you stand there and say everything you’re saying in front of the court and think they won’t see you for who you are?” he snarled.

Beron spared a glance to the crowd that was still watching this all unfold with bated breath. He let a heartbeat pass for a moment before glancing back at Eris. “And who am I, Eris?”

“A plague that’s rotted this land for far too long.” he spat and finally allowed his fists to burst into flame. “Tell me where the fuck my wife is.”

Beron watched his sons stand together and tilted his head, seeming to weigh his next steps – his next words, and Eris’s chest tightened when a dark smile formed on his lips.

“Ah, yes. My surprise.” the High Lord said and Eris’s heart sank. “Take a look. We are about to begin.”

Turning back to the crowd still helplessly watching this unfold, Beron waved a hand, his eyes never leaving his sons. “So that you all know that I am fair in my punishment, I want you to bring your gaze towards the dance floor and see for yourselves what becomes to those who even think to challenge the High Lord.”

Eris whirled and nearly choked as everything in him stilled.

He felt his magic snuff out.

He forgot where he was. He forgot everything that was happening. His wrath. His father. His very breath.

Everything before him slid away and he felt nothing but that thread at his ribcage. It ached. It burned.

His wife.

His mate.

His worst nightmare was unfolding before him and Eris felt his body begin to shake at the sight – his wife and three others had appeared battered and bruised.

He felt Finn’s rage behind him. He heard Izak’s sharp intake of breath.

But Eris felt nothing but sheer agony at the sight of his wife strung up on that fucken flogging pole and her bastard of a father standing beside her, smirking, a bloodied whip in his hand.

“No.”

The word slipped out of his mouth before he could stop it and if Eris had thought he had felt desperate before, it was nothing to the desperation clogging his throat right now.

“No.”

Eris barely had the chance to take a step when his father’s magic slammed into him yet again, forcing him once more to his knees and he roared against it. He knew his brothers were right by him and Eris strained to crack it – to break against it as he desperately tried to get to Iris.

His father came into view, smiling his cruel smile, yanking his head back. “Should you try to fight against me, your wife’s skin will continue to bleed.” he sneered quietly. “Remember how powerless you are against me and how every bit of pain she will receive – and she will receive much more of it – is all your fault.”

Eris snarled as his magic tried to burst out of him but his father only chuckled, grabbing him by the throat and lifting him so he could face his wife.

He felt bile rise in his throat at the sight of her unconscious body, sagging against the flogging pole, his eyes cataloging the skin marred with bruises – the blood was trickling down her temple.

“Iris.”

His call was as frantic as he felt and Eris shuddered as his magic rolled through him but his wife didn’t move. He wasn’t even sure if she was breathing and Eris wanted to die.

But the bond – surely if she had — if something had taken her away —

His gaze snagged on her dress and how it slipped down her shoulders, exposing the skin of her back but the thought left his mind as his father dropped him to the floor and then walked towards his wife. Panic unfurled in his chest as he tried to adjust himself, watching Beron observe Iris with a predatory look and that panic increased tenfold when his father met his gaze across the room.

“She’s so pretty tied up like this, is she not.” he taunted and Eris’s vision went red, steam rising from his hands.

“Don’t fucken touch her.” His demand was guttural, forcing himself not to lash out. His father was too close to his wife – he was too close to touching her –

The High Lord chuckled and Eris let out a wheezing sound as his father’s magic tightened on his windpipes, dread pounding beneath his skin. Because Beron took another step towards Iris then another, and Eris watched furiously as his father, as though he had all the time in the world, slowly ran a finger down Iris’s exposed back.

“How exciting is it to ruin what once was such soft skin.” the High Lord said quietly, glancing at the blood coating his finger and then smiling at Eris. “How lovely she will be with scars.”

“I said don’t fucken touch her.” he snarled wildly then choked as the High Lord squeezed hard enough, black lined his vision. “I will kill you I will —”

Even across the room, the High Lord’s magic tightened his grip on Eris’s throat as they watched each other and the High Lord tsked. “Don’t be selfish, Eris. Your wife isn’t the only one here. Think of how your brothers must be feeling.”

The rage of a thousand suns rushed through him and he knew his glare was spitting fire as his father smirked at him, knowing how badly the bastard had crossed a line.

Because Eris saw how Theo was barely breathing and knew Finn was frozen in place watching in disbelief. He knew the kind of thoughts that had to be crossing Izak’s mind watching his father-in-law lying lifeless. He could only imagine what Emil would do to see Cosette trembling in tears, blood coating her skin.

The urge to kill kill kill kill pounded through him like a symphony.

And Eris’s whole being began to shake again as the High Lord’s fire held him in place, forcing him further to the ground. Eris struggled against it but something was different about his father’s magic this time. It was more vicious – more brutal and it seemed to attack him with every breath he made as the High Lord waved a hand to Aron who stepped back.

“I knew you were a coward,” Eris spat venomously. “I didn’t think you’d need to have us held down to overpower us you filthy piece of shit. I will –”

“Did you know?” Beron said, ignoring Eris’s rant, his eyes darkening as he stared down at his son. “Apparently your wife so graciously volunteered to take all the lashings for the other three,” As his gaze returned to Iris’s bloodied back, the cruelty of his smile boarded on mania. “And just for your lip, I’ll begin the punishment myself.”

Eris lost whatever air he had left. “Don’t you dare –”

“Unless of course, you’d like me to begin with the others? Spare your wife a little longer at the expense of your brothers watching people they care about suffer?” Beron asked mockingly. “We can make you dread the anticipation of what’s to come, hm?”

After all this already, his father had the nerve to toy with them even more. Despite how badly he was shaking, Eris felt just how tense Finn and Izak had gotten next to him. Ash clogged his throat and just as he was about to open his mouth, his father beat him to it.

“But no. I’ve longed to make her bleed. To give her scars twin to yours,” he said and let out a chuckle that made the hair on Eris’s body rise. “I will finish what your father-in-law started and I will enjoy it.”

“You so much as touch that whip –” Eris threatened, panting, sweat pooling as his fire boiled beneath his skin and his father made the mistake of smiling.

Beron made his second mistake by taking another step toward Iris and Eris finally let himself detonate, consequences be damned.

Every bit of self-restraint he’d had, every bit of calm and logic he had held to, came unloose — his roar sounding through the hall as the ground shook.

Beron’s magic tried to latch onto him again and he felt the High Lord’s power slam into him but Eris was too angry, too lost in his own rage – his magic held, shielding him.

He had enough of thinking logically – holding back for the sake of avoiding collateral damage. He would not stand there and let his wife take any more than she had already taken.

Without a second thought, his magic flared and Eris sent a wave of his fiery magic straight for his father’s chest, and in the same breath, his hand lifted to give his archers their signal, sending ashwood arrows tipped in faebane for his father.

Then Eris paid it all no mind. He didn’t hear Finn’s roar or see him finally charging at their Father. He wasn’t truly aware of Izak’s bellow at their sentries to move forward.

Everything around him was hazy. Eris felt detached from himself as he turned back towards his wife. He saw nothing but her – his fucken mate strung up and bleeding and Eris ceased to feel anything at all.

His head had never been quieter even as the world around him was so loud.

People were yelling. There was rushed movement and the clashing of swords. But Eris heard none of it. He couldn’t focus on anything but Iris.

His Iris.

His wife.

The – the love of his wretched life. His light at the end of this very long tunnel.

What was the point of him and all his planning if she still ended up here? Hurt? Strung like a lamb for sacrifice?

What was the point?

He wanted the sound of his dagger to sing with his father’s blood but first –

Eris took a step, then another, trying not to run as flame licked each footstep, tugging on the mating bond. He tugged and begged her to move, to look at him, to even shift her fingers as he moved closer.

His hands began to shake as he kneeled before his wife and as gently as he could ever bring himself to touch her beautiful face, Eris lifted her chin.

The sight nearly broke him.

The bruises on her face...gods they were far worse than he could have imagined up close. They peppered her beautiful face in splatters of dark reds and purples from the corner of her temples to her jawline and what parts of her face weren't covered in bruises, were covered in ruffled tendrils of hair. Gone was the tiara he had given her – Eris had no clue where it was and didn't care as he gingerly brushed her hair to the side, his palm brushing along a swollen cheek and the ugly warmth that accompanied it. Her beautiful dress had tattered edges near where the whip had touched and Eris didn’t want to look too closely at what he’d find on her back. He didn’t know if he could handle it. Even if it was all his fault this had happened.

It was his fault for bringing this kind of pain into her life. He should’ve let her go sooner. He should’ve forced her to leave.

He should’ve done so many things differently and now she was paying the price.

So he forced himself to take a step around her and bile rose in his throat again at her exposed back, his shaking hands fisting at his sides.

His father hadn’t given an empty threat; her bloody scars would certainly match his own.

The silence that had been in his head was now filled with roaring. Anger surged through him, his vision blurred, and the dormant volcano he had kept on his magic was thumping violently in his veins. He was primal fury and if Iris didn’t wake or move or react to him in some way, he was going to kill everyone in this room then himself, starting with his fucken father. He tugged on the bond again and returned to her side, kneeling once more.

“Little gazelle,” he whispered and everything in him ached – everything hurt. She had been going through this while he had been here. He had left her to this fate. “Please tell me you can hear me.” He begged softly. “Please tell me you haven’t left me.”

But Iris didn’t respond and Eris’s hands started shaking again. “Iris, love. Please.” he pleaded. “Anything – give me anything, Iris. I can’t do this without you, please –”

“He – he went hard on her.”

Eris whipped his head to the voice that had spoken and found that it was Theo on his knees, chained a few feet from his wife. “What.”

Theo licked his lips and Eris noted the blood dripping from a cut on his cheek and how roughed up he looked, bruises all over him. “Her father. He wasn’t supposed to touch her until we got here but he – he enjoyed it too much. The fucker wouldn’t stop.” he said hoarsely. “She did it to save us. She took the brunt of it so Cosette and I wouldn’t.”

And Eris could see the shame in Theo’s eyes at the thought that he couldn’t have stopped the pain she was going through. “I’m sorry, Eris.” the blacksmith rasped. “I’m so sorry.”

Eris didn’t have it in him to do more than shake his head, sending a burst of his magic to cut through Theo and Cosette’s chains. “Take Cosette and Marcus and try to get out of here while they’re distracted. For Finn’s sake. Leave now.” he commanded then turned back to Iris and forced himself to swallow, taking in her state.

Gods, he had never hated himself more.

“Wife,” he whispered and desperation clogged his throat, fighting at the anger even as he started to feel his body go aflame. His voice was guttural as he begged again, “I need you to come back to me so I don’t kill everyone in this room. Please answer me.”

Eris tugged on the bond again, trying to send his love – his affection – his adoration for her, anything to get her —

She needed a healer, badly and his gaze filtered around the room. If he could find Nevien. If he could even try to heal her himself – his hands already brushing against her face and sending whatever healing magic he had to lessen the bruises.

But her back – his gaze drifted to the wounds he found there and the urge to vomit returned in full force. This was all his fault. He had done this to her.

He shouldn’t have let her stay. He should’ve shipped her to Lucien weeks ago –

The thought had barely left his mind when he heard a tiny whimper and Eris nearly fell over as his head snapped back on his wife and relief washed over him as she tried to open her eyes.

“Iris.” he breathed, his hands gently touching her face and again, he watched her with bated breath as Iris's eyelids fluttered, her consciousness waning as she struggled to focus on Eris's voice. The pain radiating through her body threatened to pull her back into the depths of unconsciousness, but his voice, the desperation in it reached her through the haze.

He needed her and Iris had to answer him.

“Eris…” Her voice was barely a whisper, raw with agony. Each breath felt like shards of glass against her lungs and everything fucken hurt as the echo of her father’s laugh rang through her ears – the sound and sting of the whip made her involuntary shudder. The movement caused a groan and another whimper slipped from her lips as she felt Eris finally release her from where she’d been strung. His hands warmed her lifeless arms with soft touches and Iris tried not to cry, tried to hold back tears at the sheer amount of relief that washed over her as Eris held her, his nose in her hair.

“I’m here, love," Eris murmured, his voice trembling with contained rage, letting his fire warm her clammy skin. “I’m here now. I’ve got you, little gazelle.”

Iris struggled to swallow – struggled to say more. She had tried not to scream, had tried not to give her father the satisfaction of knowing how much the whip had hurt and her throat felt too raw from holding back. But Eris was here with her. It was his tender touch on her body and Iris wasn’t sure which of them was trembling.

“It’s okay –” she whispered and tried to shift to meet his gaze. “Are you – are you okay? W-what’s happening?”

“Too much is happening. Everything went to shit and I –” he began then growled, every stress weighing on him. But she was awake. She was talking to him. She was alright. “I’m sorry, Iris. I should’ve sent you away sooner – I’m so sorry –”

“Eris, no.” she immediately chided hoarsely and struggled to sit up in his arms. Her back felt on fire, her arms felt useless and she tried to focus on her own healing magic, letting it work but gods, everything ached. “Don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong. Look at me –”

“I should’ve sent you away sooner.” he mumbled again, his gaze finally meeting hers and at her wince, his anger returned in full force. “You’re hurt.”

“I know but it was worth it – it –Theo! A-and Cosette!” ”she rasped and swallowed, hissing slightly as Eris shifted her. “We have to – and Lord Marcus! We can’t let them –”

“I already released them.” he said and cupped her face. “Wife, I need to focus on you. You’re hurt.”

“What about you?” she whispered. “Look at the bruises on you. Let me –”

“Iris.” he begged. “Focus on healing yourself, please. Take whatever of my magic you need –”

“No.” Her tone offered no argument as she forced herself to sit up even though every inch of her was screaming in agony. “You will not use any of it on me. You need it.”

He wanted to argue with her but he took in her disheveled appearance and what Eris really wanted to do was get her out of here. He ran his tongue over his teeth, his hands gently on her body even as they shook. “Fine, but let me help you. Let’s get you out of here.”

“And go where?” she breathed. “You think after all this I’m going to leave you?”

His expression hardened. “You think after what they already did to you I’d let you stay?”

“I have a score to settle,” she said and despite every inch of her skin screaming, she straightened in her husband’s arm. “And you will not deny me of it.”

Eris’s mouth went into a hard line. The sounds of fighting continued around them and yet, he could only focus on her. “You know I wouldn’t deny you anything but you can barely heal yourself, Iris.”

“I’ll manage.”

“Don’t be stubborn about this, wife.”

“I don’t care –”

“You’ve already been hurt enough for me – for others –”

“And I’d do it again.” she seethed. “Do not take this away from me. I couldn’t let them get hurt. I had to protect them.”

“Iris.” he said and couldn’t even chide her when he saw the earnest expression and her lip trembled.

“I never had people to protect or who would fight to protect me.” she whispered. “This is my family too now. I don’t care that I’m hurt.”

“I do.” he snapped then worked his jaw as he softened his tone. “This is my worst nightmare, Iris. I’m watching it play out and my father was about to start doing more.” he licked his lips. “Do not put me in a position to worry about you. I don’t even know what happened to my mother or Emil and –”

“I do. Before my father took me, they had been cornered by him in the guest wing but I healed them.” she said quickly. “They should be fine but I don’t know what else –”

“Eris!”

Izak’s roar had both of them turning and a shield of fire burst out of Eris to stop the attack of arrows that were aimed at his head. His eyes narrowed, assessing the chaos in the room.

He watched as Finn’s twin blades sank into every enemy that passed, trying to make his way to their father, who observed it all unfold in relished amusement. Eris watched as Izak shoved a group of five grunts off him, the swing of his sword sounding across the room. The blur of uniform colors fighting against each other and as more of his father’s bribed soldiers descended into the room, Eris knew the only way he could focus was to get Iris out of there.

“I need you to be safe, Iris. I can’t –”

He had barely turned, his body still facing the chaos and his distraction had cost him. Before Eris could move another muscle, the High Lord’s magic had shot out, hitting him square in the chest.

“Eris!” Iris shrieked, trying to move to get to him, wounds be damned. The High Lord only chuckled and Iris let out a groan as his magic slammed into her, pinning her where she sat.

He staggered back, clutching his chest at the assault but forced himself to stand between Iris and his father, and without waiting for his father to continue, he lashed out with his magic. His father met his flame with his own and Eris fumed at having to be further distracted from getting Iris out.

“Did you think you could sneak away, boy?” Beron snarled quietly as his flames surrounded them, cutting them off from their surroundings. “Slither away without paying the price for your treason?”

Eris’s eyes remained on his father and he allowed himself a breath then another and then, he let his mind go blank. He let his emotions cease. All his emotions except for his rage.

What was the point if he didn’t let go?

People thought him a monster anyway. Perhaps the only way to take out a monster was to become one.

For his mate. For his mother and brothers. For himself.

Eris straightened as he stood before the High Lord. The fire beneath his skin was scalding as it bubbled to the surface and slowly Eris let his wildfire reach his eyes.

“I will give you one chance to release my mate and step out of the way.”

“Or?” the High Lord taunted. “Are you finally working up the courage to kill your dear old father?”

Eris smiled humorlessly. “Killing you has always been the endgame, High Lord.” he said. “It was a childish dream to have hope for you.”

“Ah,” the High Lord mused. “And I suppose now that all of you have suddenly become knights in shining armor, you think to be better than I was?”

“We were always better than you,” Eris said, lifting his chin. “Our mother saw to that.”

“I left your mother for dead so a great deal that will do her.”

Eris forced himself not to flinch. “Or so you say,” he replied curtly. “Then again, it wouldn’t be the first time things have slipped out of your control or right under your nose.”

The High Lord flushed, anger overtaking his expression, as he glared at Iris and then back at his son. “You mock me and yet, you are barely holding it together because of a good-for-nothing female.”

Eris felt his magic thump beneath his veins. “You will not speak of her that way. Release her at once.”

“She will be the reason for your demise if you stay so focused on what happens to her.”

“You will be the reason for yours if you do not stand down.”

They stared at each other in silence for a moment or maybe a lifetime – Eris wasn’t sure. All he knew was that the male who was supposed to be his protector had died years ago and it was about time the walking corpse that had replaced him be gone.

Eris allowed himself a moment to mourn what could’ve been. He allowed himself just one – to feel sorry for himself, for the male that was once someone he admired and loved.

For indeed, Eris would take the bloody crown and put an end to it all.

But Eris had barely moved when the High Lord did a double take, his expression shifting. Eris’s eyes narrowed, refusing to take his eyes off his father, not trusting that it wasn’t a trick even as Iris took a sharp breath behind him.

Instead, his father seemed to be staring at a ghost. In one breath, Eris saw the High Lord standing. In the next, his father was now on his knees, clutching his throat, the air ripped out of his windpipes. A knife was protruding from his right shoulder.

Eris’s shoulders slackened as Lucien appeared out of the flames behind Beron, his hand gripping the handle of said knife with a small smile.

“Quite rude of you to leave me out of yet another family reunion.”

“Lucien.” Eris breathed and spared Iris a glance to see that she’d been released from her hold and shakily trying to stand. “What the hell are you doing here?”

Lucien shot Beron a look full of loathing before turning back to Eris. “No one showed. We knew something was wrong and if I didn’t show up, Helion would’ve come and raised hell.”

Beron finally seemed to snap the leash Lucien had on his throat. “You.” he snarled. “How dare you show your face here.”

“I’m so handsome, it would be a waste if I didn’t,” Lucien said, waving a hand almost mockingly.

“I banned you from –”

Lucien waved his hand again and his magic seemed to be silencing Beron once more. “My father says hello,” he said with a smile that was anything but kind, and Beron’s glare intensified. “And by hello, he means he would love to lodge a spear in your chest.”

“How the fuck are you doing that?” Eris asked, grateful for the momentary pause, rushing over to Iris and slowly helping her stand, trying not to let the paleness of her skin worry him. “How did you even winnow within the walls?”

“I am a Spell-Cleaver, after all. I have a few tricks up my sleeve.” Lucien said and this smile was more genuine if not a little smug. “The binding spell won’t hold him for long but it helps that I had the element of surprise.”

“Will you be able to stay and help?” Iris asked breathlessly. “Your mother –”

“I’ve come to help in any way that I can.” Lucien answered. “Helion is waiting to –”

“Lucien. Take Iris and go.” Eris commanded. “Take her out of here and have her healed then find mother.”

“Eris, no –”

“Non-negotiable.” he snapped and at the furrow in her brow, he cupped her face, meeting her gaze. His touch was gentle, to not aggravate the still-healing wounds and Iris’s grip tightened on his arm as she shuddered.

“Eris.”

“Please.” he only whispered and Iris’s expression tightened despite the tremble in her lip but she knew what that word cost him in front of others. She knew she couldn’t argue with him, not as her shaky legs barely held her up.

Eris glanced at Lucien who was still watching the High Lord with that small smug smile. “Lucien. Take Iris to the healer's wing,” he commanded again and reluctantly eased Iris into his brother’s open arms. “Then find Mother.”

Lucien’s gaze hardened as he nodded at Eris then gave Iris a thin smile as he carefully held her. “Ready?”

“No.” she answered honestly and her eyes stayed on Eris who couldn’t look away from his wife, a muscle flexing in his jaw. It would be better this way. Let her be safe. Let her be away when he finally cracked.

But the sound of the High Lord roaring behind him, had the three of them turning and Eris put up a shield that Lucien reinforced as they watched his father pant, yanking the dagger out of his shoulder and tossing it to the side.

“So fucken weak.” Beron spat. “With your words and your feelings. You embarrass yourself in front of me and then wonder why I always tried to beat the softness out of you.”

Eris only lifted a brow at the High Lord’s fury. “Tell me how you really feel, father.”

“You allowed that bastard to set foot in my court.” Beron snarled and Eris schooled his expression into calm.

“He’s a son of Autumn whether you accept him or not,” he said then tilted his head, his tone taunting, watching as his father’s face nearly turned purple in anger, sparing Lucien a glance. “Isn’t it fascinating that he’s now powerful enough to overpower you with a single spell?”

“And I haven’t even started the real fun.” Lucien added, with that smug smile of his.

“Your little party trick won’t save you when I get my hands on you.” Beron promised and Eris couldn’t help the way his body straightened, taking a step in front of Lucien and Iris.

Enough was enough.

“Your hands will hurt us no more.”

Never taking his eyes off his father, Eris let himself take a breath and then opened his hands, allowing him to finally unleash his own party trick. Slowly, his fire began to leak out of him and his father watched with narrowed eyes as full-fledged fire creatures started to form.

His well of magic was something he’d very carefully cultivated and nurtured over the years. He’d had to keep it well hidden but Eris had never shied away from experimenting and testing out his limitations until he settled on a way to keep himself safe at all times.

Inspired by his smokehounds, Eris had played with his magic until he could shapeshift it the way he wanted and now twelve firehounds stood surrounding him. Judging by the sharp intake of breath from both his wife and brother, his firehounds were just as breathtaking as his smokehounds were.

Beron blinked in the silence as he observed the fire creatures then met his son’s gaze again.

“You seem surprised, father.” he said and Eris couldn’t help but find it poetic that despite the sound of carnage around them and his mate still in harm’s way, he was so very calm.

Beron’s lip curled. “Surprised that you’ve resorted to making up cheap tricks to win a fight?”

Eris shook his head with a chuckle and knew as he took another breath, his whole body was now aflame, a hand petting his fire creature next to him as he watched his father, feeling Iris and Lucien take a step back. “Your imagination has always been limited. Despite being a High Lord, you never took the time to figure out how to push the boundaries of your mind and create with your magic. You let yourself get comfortable, despite knowing I grow in power. You let yourself stay like this. You knew I’d come for your throne one day and yet, you let yourself rest easy thinking my mother was the only person you had to worry about. Thinking that after what you did to her, she wouldn’t have the courage to fight fire with fire.”

“Your mother is –”

The firehound at his side snarled, taking a step towards the High Lord and Eris’s smile turned deadly. “I suggest you watch your mouth. Your breaths are already so numbered.”

Beron watched his son with calculating eyes then straightened and it seemed the High Lord had finally reached his limit. “As you wish, boy. You want to try and kill me? Let’s make sure your demise has witnesses.”

Unsheathing his sword, the High Lord slammed it into the ground and the hall shook with the force of it. A line of fire burst from his hand down the blade and Eris watched as the wall of flames that had been hiding them from the crowd disappeared and fire spread through the fissures of the floor, Lucien moving Iris out of the way.

He watched and waited as the High Lord took deep breaths, rage emitting from every inch of him but Eris only smiled and addressed his firehounds.

“You know who to kill. Leave no survivors.” Eris muttered, eyes ablaze and his firehounds scattered through the screaming crowds.

“Your fire won’t save you, boy.” the High Lord said and though his tone was quiet, Eris heard him loud and clear. “Nothing will after I run my blade through your chest.”

“Your threats no longer mean anything to me, father. And I’m tired of your words.”

Unsheathing his own blade, Eris ran a hand down at the length of it, his fire coating the blade. Without breaking his father’s gaze, Eris sliced his palm, gripping the blade until the scent of fresh blood filled the air. Slowly, he then raised the blade in front of him and slashed the air twice, two lines of fire appearing in the air before him.

The world seemed to still, the room going silent at the signal. A breath, then another as Beron straightened, holding his sword and gazing at Eris with a look filled with raw hatred. Eris was vaguely aware of Iris’s beating heart, of Lucien ready to pounce, of both Finn and Izak close by, blades out and coming to stand behind him.

“You know what that symbol is announcing, don’t you, boy?”

“I do.” Eris answered quietly. “Your reign of terror is coming to an end, High Lord and I’ve been waiting to challenge it for a long, long time.”

He took a step and lowered his blade, scraping the tip across the floor in front of him, a line of fire bursting before him.

“As a Prince of Autumn, a son of this court, and with the fire running through my veins, I challenge you to a blood duel till death,” he announced, his voice ringing across the hall. “You have dishonored the throne you sit on and its people you were meant to protect. You have dishonored the Lady of this court and your family. Most importantly, you have dishonored and brought harm to my wife, my mate and for that alone, I will have your head.”

Beron only tilted his head, watching his sons stand before him with narrowed eyes before pulling his sword from the ground and slicing his own palm then scraping his blade across the floor, mirroring Eris’s movement and a line of fire appeared before him. “I accept your challenge.” the High Lord replied coldly. “You have chosen death, Eris. I hope your false sense of justice will be worth it.”

Eris spared his wife and brothers one last look, jerking his head for Lucien to leave before meeting his father’s gaze once more. “Feeling my blade pierce your flesh and watching you take your last breath?” Eris murmured. “I’ve been dreaming of it.”

And there were no more words as Eris and Beron each took a step towards each other, the frenzied energy in the room increasing tenfolds, like a rope tightening around each of their windpipes.

Lucien’s grip tightened gently on Iris, and she could only watch in horror as Eris roared, launching himself at his father before he finally winnowed them out.

#eris vanserra #eris vanserra x oc #eris vanserra fanfic #eris x oc #smtb chapters #gfics #acotar fanfiction #The end is near y'all lol.#I am going to reach my goal of publishing it all by the end of the month and i am very emotional about it.#Sorry if you no longer want to be tagged. I assume if you haven't said anything I've kept you here.#thanks for reading :)

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oceanjoker · 2 months ago

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ZED STORIES

Chapter 1 "Emergency Broadcast"

Summary: The exact date of the initial outbreak is unknown. The military quickly set up an "exclusion zone" around Louisville before it managed to spread further, the military established a blockade surrounding the infected areas of Muldraugh, Riverside, West Point, and Rosewood, dubbed the Knox Exclusion Zone. 9 days has passed ever since all of this started, these were the end of times, there was no hope for survival...

Featuring: Scotty (Fourzeroseven) , Marcel (BasicallyIdoWrk), Brian (Terroriser), Daithi de Nogla The garage smelled like gasoline and rust, and there was a faint hum from the generator in the corner cutting through the silence. Marcel adjusted the knob on the improvised radio transmitter. It was a mess of wires and duct tape holding it together like everything else in his life over the past days. A flickering lantern on the workbench cast long shadows across the walls, bouncing off stacks of canned food and water jugs. The garage door, reinforced with planks and scraps of metal, creaked softly in the wind, its strength untested but unyielding for now. He took a deep breath and pressed the transmission button.

“Good afternoon survivors! I am your host BasicallyIdoWrk, and it’s been 9 days since whole hell broke loose! crazy how time flies, no matter how shitty they are, and if you’re hearing this. Congrats! you are alive and you made it this far, give yourself a pat on the back”

He stopped for a moment to clap near the microphone, but as soon as he was going to continue, Scotty entered the garage, his lab coat was very dirty and worn out but it still stood out in the dark environment. He didn’t say anything, just crouched near the generator doing his daily check up to make sure it is working properly. Marcel turned back to the microphone:

“Anyways, I’m in one of the five houses from the gated community of Rosewood. It's not perfect but we got some fences to keep us safe, we got food, clean water and even electricity thanks to my lovely friend Scotty”

“You’re welcome!” Scotty called across the garage.

“But that doesn’t change the fact that he is a bad cook, so if you’re nearby, come by for a taste of burned canned soup. Or, you know, just say hi. Zombies not invited tho”

Scotty rolled his eyes but chuckled. "At least I’m cooking, Mr. ‘I’ll just eat chips again.’"

Outside, the streets of Rosewood were quiet, the only sounds being the occasional groans of the undead and the soft rustling of the wind. the two had already gotten used to this sound. But they knew that danger was always there…

"Think anyone’s actually listening to your little comedy show bud?"

Marcel slightly moved the microphone away and placed one of his hands in front of it. "I don’t know. Maybe. But even if nobody hears it, it keeps me sane. It keeps us sane." he whispered.

“Fair enough” Scotty said as he turned back to check on the generator.

Marcel brought the microphone back, but static sounds began to echo through the garage. Scotty looked at the small, rudimentary radio on the table.

The static continued for a few seconds that seemed like hours, but then it stopped, and a voice came through the radio.

"This is addressed to those unaffected by the second wave of the Infection. The disease will not spread to you as it has to others, but through fluid contact, by which I mean bites, It surely will. The time has come to bear arms against this threat. They may be your family, They may be your friends. DO NOT hesitate to pull the trigger. These are dark days, but as a nation we can and will prevail. You have not been forgotten.”

“Oh this again, It’s been a whole week and guess what? we are still in here, trapped in this shithole YOU provoked”

Scotty said, completely frustrated. He was obviously tired of his new routine and soon continued with the generator maintenance procedure. “And guess what? Earlier a helicopter flew by. You flew right past us while we waved like idiots!, So what’s the fucking point of this message?”

“Hey at least the zombies that were following its sound headed to the north with it,I wouldn’t want to deal with that many zombies,” Marcel said as he stretched out in the chair. “And now they are far away”

“We will come for you. General John McGrew, Out."

The static returned, permeating Marcel’s ears. Pushing the radio equipment away, Marcel slowly laid his head on the table and hid his face with his hoodie, soon beginning to think.

He was safe. His shelter was completely barricaded. He was hydrated and fed. But what now? He hadn’t found anyone other than Scotty, who seemed to be slowly losing hope. He had been trying to contact other survivors for a week, and for all he knew, all his friends could be dead. It was only a matter of time before all his resources ran out. There was no sign of help. There was no way the world he once knew would return to what it was before…

These were the end times. There was no hope of survival…

Scotty tried to reach for his shoulder to comfort him but was interrupted by loud grunts from outside. Marcel then grabbed his sword, tightening his grip. He motioned for Scotty to keep quiet.

Then they heard it- A human scream

He stood, his heart pounding. “Someone’s out there.” Marcel said

“Who 's screaming? don’t they know the zombies are heavily attracted by sounds?!” Scotty whispered

“I don’t know but can’t you see? We are NOT THE ONLY ONES!” Marcel said with a bit of hope

“Could be a trap.” Scotty muttered while grabbing a golf club

Marcel stepped to the garage door, carefully peering through a narrow gap in the barricade. What he saw made his stomach twist. Two figures were limping down the street, illuminated by the fading sunlight. One of them, a man, was carrying another man who was missing his right leg below the knee. The stump was wrapped in a bandage soaked with blood, the red staining the asphalt beneath him as they stumbled forward. Behind them, a horde of at least fifteen zombies shambled in pursuit, their guttural moans growing louder.

“We need to help them” Marcel said looking back at Scotty

Scotty hesitated. “If we let them in, the horde will come down on us. The barricade won’t hold against that many.”

“We can’t just leave them. If we don’t help, they’ll die.” Marcel looked at Scotty with a look of determination.

“Fine. But we do this smartly, or we’re all dead.” Scotty sighed

Marcel nodded and they opened the garage door enough to get out. He slipped out into the streets, crouching low as he darted toward the edge of the street. Scotty followed close behind

“Hey!” Marcel hissed as loudly as he dared, waving his arms to get the survivors’ attention. The man’s head snapped toward him and he could finally see his face a metallic texture, a shining red eye and then he realised.

“Brian?!” The word left his mouth before he even realized he had spoken it.

The figure froze. recognition flashed across his worn features. Then, in a voice hoarse from exhaustion but unmistakably his, he responded:

“Marcel?! How the hell are you alive?!”

“Over here! Come on! we can chat about this later” Marcel yelled as he pointed to the garage

Brian adjusted his grip on the injured man, dragging him towards the open garage door. Marcel rushed forward to help them, throwing the man’s arm over his shoulder to help. and as he looked, he recognized that the man was none other than Nogla

Marcel carried Nogla through the house's gate and into the garage. Brian followed, Scotty pushed two zombies away before slamming the garage door shut behind him.

“Help me put some weight here!” he yelled.

Marcel lowered Nogla onto a pile of blankets in the corner and rushed to Scotty’s side. Together, they shoved a heavy shelf against the gate as the first zombies slammed against it from the other side. The metal rattled violently, but the barricade held for now.

Breathing heavily, Marcel turned back to his friends. Brian was kneeling beside the injured Nogla, his hands pressed against his bleeding stump.

“Scotty!” Marcel called, his voice sharp.

“I’m on it!” Scotty grabbed the first-aid kit from the workbench and knelt beside Nogla, his movements swift and precise. He unwrapped the soaked bandage, grimacing at the raw, mangled flesh beneath. he looked away for a few seconds but knew he had to do the job

“This isn’t great,” he muttered. “He’s lost a lot of blood, and we don’t have the supplies for this. I can try to stop the bleeding, but...”

Marcel crouched beside him. “What do you need?”

“Something to cauterize the wound,” Scotty said. “A fire, a hot blade, something. If we don’t stop the bleeding now, he’s not going to make it.”

Marcel stood and scanned the garage, his eyes landing on a propane torch that Scotty had been using to sterilize tools. He grabbed it and handed it to him.

“This will work,” Scotty said, already flicking the igniter. The torch roared to life, the blue flame casting harsh shadows across the garage.

As Scotty prepared to cauterize the wound, the sound of the horde pounding against the barricade grew louder. Marcel glanced toward the door, his grip tightening on the sword.

“I need ten minutes, maybe less if you can keep those biters off us!”

“Is there another exit here? I can hold them down and buy us time” Brian said as he grabbed a metal pipe

“There are way too many zombies you won’t make it ali-” Marcel's protest is soon interrupted as soon as he notices Brian pointing at the robotic part of his face

“Oh…Ooooooooooooh…that makes sense.” Marcel muttered “Well, there’s a door that leads to the backyard but…I’m going with you, there’s no way i’ll leave you alone on this”

both of them made their way to the backyard, there was a brief moment of silent:

“I’ll be honest,” Marcel said, breaking the tense silence. “I thought you were dead.”

Brian’s red eye glowed faintly as he turned to Marcel. “Likewise. But here we are. Fancy reunion, don’t you think?”

As they approached the horde, Marcel yelled getting the zombies attention away from the garage door and he surged forward, his sword slicing clean through the neck of the nearest zombie. “First kill is mine!” he called out, adrenaline pumping.

Brian followed, swinging his pipe. The first hit sent a zombie flying into a concrete wall with a sickening crunch. “Two!” he counted.

“I missed this,” Marcel admitted, kicking a crawler back before driving his sword through its skull.

“Missed what? Killing zombies or me carrying you?” Brian quipped, impaling a rotting torso against a metal pole.

“A bit of both” Marcel laughed, narrowly dodging a grab from behind. “Plus you never carried me”

The horde kept coming, and the two friends didn’t falter. Marcel vaulted over a car hood, decapitating a zombie mid-leap, while Terroriser ripped the jaw clean off another before stomping it into the ground.

“That’s eight!” Marcel yelled, sweat dripping down his face.

“Eleven, twelve” Brian corrected, swinging his pipe like a baseball bat to take out two more.

“I wasn’t counting yours!” Marcel shot back, grinning.

“Oh wow thanks…It's good to know that you consider me so much” Brian responds in a sarcastic tone

meanwhile in the garage, Scotty worked quickly

“This is gonna hurt, but it’ll save your life,” Scotty muttered, turning to Nogla.

Nogla looked at him, his expression stricken. “Just do it man. Do it fast for God’s sake!”

Scotty took the torch and moved to Nogla’s leg, his hands steady as he positioned the flame near the wound. Nogla’s body twitched slightly in response to the heat, his entire body going rigid as the flame touched his flesh. The smell of searing skin filled the air, and the blood flow slowed as the flesh sealed. Nogla screamed through clenched teeth but the sound was drowned out by the chaos of the fight outside.

“We’re almost done!” Scotty shouted, his voice strained. “Just hold them off!”

Marcel and Brian exchanged a glance, a mix of exhaustion and determination in their eyes. They faintly heard Scotty’s words and they turned back to the remaining zombies, their movements growing more savage as the last few zombies staggered toward them.

Marcel’s sword cleaved through three at once, and Terroriser smashed the final two into the pavement. The street fell silent, save for the sound of their heavy breathing.

“That’s fifteen,” Marcel said, leaning on his sword tired. “Wow i’m that good at slaying zombies"

Scotty finished tying off Nogla’s wound and said “Are you guys done playing? I don’t hear anymore zombies”

“For now,” Marcel said, sheathing his sword. He turned to Brian and clapped him on the shoulder. “Good to see you again, man. Really.”

They entered the house again, making sure it was locked as the night falls, they quickly make their way to the garage where they see Scotty and Nogla who was very weak

“He needs to rest, could any of you carefully put him in one of the bedrooms upstairs?”

Marcel raised a hand weakly. “Hard pass. I just killed, like, a hundred zombies.”

“Fifteen” Brian corrected as he leaned against the wall, the metal pipe resting on his shoulder.

“Whatever. Feels like a hundred,” Marcel shot back, waving him off.

Brian sighed, his glowing eye narrowing as he stepped forward. “Fine. I’ve got him. I will take the damsel in distress to her bed”

With almost no effort, Terroriser lifted Nogla like he weighed nothing. Nogla groaned dramatically. “Oi! Go easy on me, ya muppet! I’ve already lost a leg!”

“Quit whining, or I’ll drop you,” Brian replied, his tone deadpan as he went up the creaky stairs. Nogla muttered something unintelligible, but for Nogla that was pretty normal and a good sign that he was ok, but the sound of his voice faded as Brian carried him to the bedroom.

Downstairs, Marcel sat on the ground leaning his back against the wall, staring at the ceiling as Scotty sat at his side, wiping his hands on a rag.

“Man I can’t believe out of all the people we found them” Marcel said, breaking the silence. “We finally found some people of our crew”

Scotty shook his head, chuckling bitterly. “I didn’t even know they were alive. I’m surprised to see them”

Scotty smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “ I mean, Now that makes us four. We’ve got a shot. But…” he looked down “Do you think the others are still out there?”

Marcel kept looking at the ceiling

“I don’t know, It’s hard to say…But this is why I still do the transmissions, If we keep trying to look for them, we can find them, or maybe they can find us”

“Just hope not as zombies” Scotty jokes

Brian’s heavy footsteps then echoed down the stairs, and he appeared in the doorway, his glowing eye scanning the room.

“He finally fell asleep,” he said, leaning against the wall. “After complaining about everything instead of thanking me that he is alive”

“Good.” Scotty said, standing up. “Because tomorrow, we start figuring out what’s next. If there’s even a chance that some of the crew’s alive, we'll find them.”

“So since when are you a doctor Scotty? What did I miss ever since the Knox event started?” Brian asked

“Oh, I’m not a doctor. a real doctor could’ve done better, I just use this for style ya know” Scotty responds while brushing some dust off his lab coat.

"Could’ve fooled me!" Brian gestured at the old bandages and the pile of bloody rags on the ground "You just saved Nogla’s life like it was no big deal. What’s next? Brain surgery?!"

Marcel Chuckled. "He’s just been reading medicine books nonstop since the TV broke."

Brian blinked. "Wait, what?"

Marcel grinned

"Yeah. Back when the power went out and we lost the TV, Scotty needed something to do. So, while I was building this little radio station he started raiding libraries and bookstores for medical books. I’m talking anatomy, first aid, surgery, you name it."

"Figured someone had to know how to handle this stuff. Can’t exactly call 911 anymore." Scotty chuckled

Brian threw his hands up. "Unbelievable. I’ve been out there dodging zombies and scavenging, and you’ve been sitting here reading?"

"But hey, thanks to Scotty and his newfound doctor skills, Nogla’s not a zombie food. I say that’s a win."

"It’s not like I’m good at this. I’m just doing…what I can."

Marcel stood up "Alright, we saved Nogla. He’s not turning into zombie food anytime soon. But now what?"

Brian furrowed his eyebrow. "What do you mean ‘now what’? We bunker down, keep quiet, and let him heal. right?"

Scotty shook his head "We can’t just sit here. We’re low on medical stuff, and Nogla’s gonna need more than just rest. If we leave his leg as it is, he’s screwed. Infection, immobility... he’ll be a sitting duck."

"Great," Brian muttered, rubbing his face. "So what are you suggesting?"

Marcel leaned forward, his tone unusually serious. "We need to hit a clinic. We find antibiotics, painkillers, and something we can use as a prosthetic for Nogla’s leg. Hell, even crutches would be a step up from him crawling around."

Brian blinked at him. "You want to go to a clinic? Every survivor in the area probably hit it already, and if they didn’t, you can bet the dead did! It’s in the center of Rosewood! there’s a lot of zombies out there"

Scotty shrugged. "Got a better idea?"

Brian opened his mouth to retort, then shut it. He sighed, leaning back against the wall. "No, I don’t. Damn it."

Marcel stood, cracking his knuckles. "Alright, then it’s settled. Tomorrow morning, we gear up and head out. Scotty you stay here and keep an eye on Nogla we’ll be back as soon as possible”

Scotty exhaled, shaking his head. “You’ll have to be careful. Too many open streets, too many blind spots. If the horde’s anywhere near that place, we’ll be in trouble.”

"Don’t worry, Scotty. Brian and I have this under control. Quick in, quick out, just like every bad heist movie."

Brian rolled his eyes. "Except instead of security guards, we’re dealing with zombies. Great plan."

"Same principle, fewer rules," Marcel quipped.

“Alright, just... be careful, okay? The Rosewood Medical Isn't far, it's in that strip mall nearby, but it’s still dangerous. If you see a horde, don’t play hero. Get what you need and get out."

Marcel gave him a mock salute. "Yes, sir, Captain Cautious."

Brian pointed a finger at him. "He’s not wrong, Marcel. Don’t do anything stupid."

"Stupid? Me?" Marcel grinned "I’m the king of smart decisions."

Scotty and Brian exchanged a look, neither of them convinced.

The three of them shared a quiet laugh, their tension easing for a moment. Outside, the occasional groan of a wandering zombie reminded them of the world waiting beyond their barricades.

As the others headed upstairs to sleep, Scotty went back to the garage and sat at the workbench, pouring over the military notes by lantern light. He couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something important hidden in the documents and books he’d found while scavenging a nearby military outpost. Inside were fragments of data, mentions of a vaccine, well not a cure, but something that could lead to one if he searches more

"If there’s even a chance this could help," he whispered to himself, "it’s worth the sleepless nights."

The quiet of the night was broken only by the faint rustle of papers and the distant groan of a lone zombie wandering the street and for some snoring upstairs.

#bbs squad #banana bus squad #BasicallyIdoWrk #Scotty #fourzeroseven #Terroriser #Daithi de Nogla #Zomboid!AU #Zed Stories #By the way I won't be doing covers for the other chapter as this one is an exception cuz its being posted on tumblr #also this is my first time writting anything #like ever #I lived for two decades by now and haven't wrote any type of fic

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blankd · 3 months ago

Text

the first NPC from my ~NEW~ DnD campaign, 20-Count(down), Gizmo the First Aid Kit(ten)- he's better than potions AND he scales with the party!

*the text is non-canonical to Gizmo, he does not speak

if you'd like to run Gizmo in your own game, check out the Read More/Keep Reading below to get his stats and features

(this png is included for use as a tabletop icon, etc.)

GIZMO Small Construct, Neutral Good

AC: 13 (10 + DEX MOD + Party's PB) natural armor HP: 9 Speed: 30 ft, climb 30 ft

STR - 8, DEX - 12, CON - 10, INT - 8, WIS - 10*, CHA - 6

Saving Throws: Dex/Wis (+Party's PB) Damage Immunities: Poison Condition Immunities: Exhaustion, Poisoned Senses: Passive Perception 10* Languages: understands Common but cannot speak

Carved Rosewood Serval This rosewood statuette is of a stylized Serval named Gizmo. A command word can be used to change Gizmo from a figurine to a Construct.

While being touched, Gizmo can be turned from a Construct back into a figurine. When it reverts to this form in this way, it cannot assume ts construct form until 24 hours have passed.

If Gizmo is reduced to 0 HP while in construct form, it is forced back into its figurine form and cannot assume its construct form until 7 days have passed.

Adaptable Helper Gizmo is treated as a [party's level]-caster, with Wisdom as its innate spellcasting ability. Gizmo's WIS score increases by 1 for every 2 party levels (rounded up, minimum of 1).

Gizmo can cast spells without material components (unless the spell consumes the materials). Spells which consume materials must have the materials provided respectively.

Medical Meow-gic When first turned into its construct form, or after a Long Rest, roll [party level] x d10s, Gizmo will have that many spell slots until the next Long Rest.

Any 10 that is rolled can be counted as a lvl 9 slot OR can be rerolled as 2 additional d8s.

Cat Nap Restock Once per day, during a Short Rest, Gizmo can roll HALF the party's level (rounded up, minimum of 1) in d10s as detailed in 'Medical Meow-gic'.

Construct Maintenance Gizmo can remain in its construct form until reverted or its HP is reduced to 0.

While in construct form, Gizmo's HP can only be restored through use of a Tinker's Tools, Woodcarver's Tools, or spells like Mending.

(Use of any of these methods restores 2d4 HP)

SPELL LIST: Cantrip: Spare the Dying Spells: Cure Wounds, Healing Word, Lesser Restoration, Prayer of Healing, Mass Healing Word, Revivify, Greater Restoration, Mass Cure Wounds, Heal, Regenerate, Mass Heal, Power Word Heal

ACTION: Scratch. Melee Weapon Attack, +1 to hit, reach 5 ft., one creature. Hit: 1+1 slashing damage

REACTION: Without a Scratch. Gizmo can take this Reaction multiple times. In response to another creature dealing damage to Gizmo, Gizmo reduces the damage to 0.

This feature can reduce damage in this way 3 + [party's PB] times.

Gizmo regains all uses of this feature after a Long Rest.

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NOTE: The theme for Gizmo was for a cute little healer NPC while leaning into all the cat-isms. If you find that Gizmo's 'Medical Meow-gic' to be too random or unfun, simply give him the same spell slots allotted to a full caster- I choose the dice because I personally find it as a suitable tradeoff for being an NPC.

The spells chosen for Gizmo are due to the high-level nature of the campaign I'm running, adjust his list according to the power level of your own.

If you do NOT want to deal with his 'Without a Scratch' reaction, simply add more HP at a rate of [5 x Party Level] HP. 5 is chosen as that is what the non-rolled HP is for a cleric.

Feel free to make any other changes for your table, I only ask that if you find yourself using the art, text, etc., that you credit me appropriately

#artists on tumblr #original art #character design #dnd #dnd 5e #dnd NPC #dnd 5e homebrew #construct #20count #blankd art #art

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jackalopesao3 · 9 months ago

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HCs For What The Obey Me Cast Smell Like 🌹🌼

Characters: everyone that has had a face reveal

This has been in my drafts for over a year. I finally finished it. Enjoy!

Lucifer

A cologne with a signature mix of fresh scents with some notes of leather. When he’s tired, he’ll occasionally switch to a cool cologne with minty notes to perk himself up. There’s also a faint aroma of tea or coffee in him depending on what he’s brewing to stay awake to burn the midnight oil to finish his endless work.

Mammon

Money Hmmm…a luxury cologne for sure! We all know he has a taste for high end items. I think he’d go for an old school fragrance, maybe something citrusy with a hint of tobacco.

Leviathan

Say it with me: Axe Body Spray

When Asmodeus yeets his axe into the void like the good little brother he is, he will gift Leviathan with cologne he thinks he will like. This means anything that comes in an anime-style container. So Leviathan’s scent will vary.

Satan

New book smell, old book smell, catnip - it depends on what he’s up to. I don’t doubt for one second he always has at least one pouch of catnip on him. He probably has some nice cologne too courtesy of Asmo or his various connections in his social circles.

Asmodeus

He likes to burn vanilla, sandalwood, and amber scented candles and incense so he has those scents on him. Asmo also has a variety of colognes and perfumes so his scent changes almost daily.

Beelzebub

Beel could smell like the most heavenly cupcakes ever baked or the greasiest burger ever fried. It all depends on what he just ate. Because of how much the boy eats he tends to smell like the food he ate.

No one is to give him food-scented cologne because he will just eat the bottle. He uses neutralizing scents to bathe so the scents don’t get in the way of him enjoying his food later.

Belphegor

Fabric softener with notes of lavender. He needs the softest of sheets with the most relaxing scent possible. Sometimes he’ll opt to use a lavender and eucalyptus scented pillow mist too so that scent will cling to him.

Diavolo

A woody cologne to go along with his naturally smoky scent from his constant use of fire magic. Sometimes he changes it up with warm scents like cinnamon and ginger or something lively like citrus.

Barbatos

If he were to wear cologne at all it would be something very subtle with notes of bergamot that closely matches earl grey tea. The notes are calming yet revitalizing at the same time. Sometimes it’s whatever pastries he’s just baked. He smells sweet and warm. Barbatos can also smell very clean like tea tree oil with notes of mint. It just depends on what he’s doing at the time.

Simeon

Most mornings he smells like pancakes since he’s constantly making them for Luke. Simeon also likes refreshing scents with minty notes or anything with an “ocean” or “sea” label as it helps him to relax and focus on writing.

Solomon

He is constantly burning sage, patchouli, nag champa, or frankincense to cover up the smell of his various potions and experiments so he smells like an incense hippie shop. (I highly approve btw!)

BUT I could also see this weirdo quickly spritzing Old Spice on himself as well.

Luke

Little angel baby bakes a lot so he smells sweet with notes of whatever it is that he’s baking or like the pancakes he loves to eat!

Thirteen

It depends on her mood! Some days it’s strawberries like her favorite strawberry shampoo and body wash. Other days she goes for something different like amber or a floral scent.

Mephistopheles

On days he pulls all nighters working on the newspaper, coffee: black, medium roast. Besides that he wears a posh cologne brand with notes of rosewood and tobacco.

Raphael

Pine trees and woody notes with a hint of spice. Is it cologne, his body wash, or his natural scent? You’ll have to ask him!

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venomvalley · 2 years ago

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REPENTANCE

ada wong x afab!reader // 2k words

summary: Disillusioned by your crumbling marriage with Leon, you find comfort in an unlikely ally: his ex.

warnings: 18+ (face-sitting), infidelity, there is no Good Guy here

notes: a smut week request that very much got away from me. i wanted to try something different, specifically in regards to leon’s character. i truly think that in the later stages of his canon he would be a neglectful partner for obvious reasons, and i wanted to dissect that while using my personal spin on… everything. not everybody will like this one. be warned.

You aren’t sure how, but she knows to find you. Casts a shadow over the doorway of your bedroom, calls your name in the silence, stashes away her grappling gun.

“Ada,” you say, rising onto your elbows beneath the sheets. “Just the woman I wanted to see.”

“I know. You’ve been asking for me.” From the window, she creeps slowly toward your side of the bed, boots crisp against the wooden floor. “I don’t think I have to tell you how dangerous that is.”

Dressed head-to-toe in midnight black, you can guess well enough that she chose your home as a pit stop after a mission. Whether successful or not remains a mystery.

“Obviously I like danger. I mean, look who I’m married to.”

She takes a seat on the mattress beside you. Crosses her legs at the knee. Exhales a disappointed sigh. “What are you doing?”

“I have questions.”

“I don’t have the answers you’re looking for.” Her response is immediate as she holds your gaze, and the look could pass for a glare if not for the way her fingers find yours.

“I want in with Umbrella.”

Her brows raise and she leans back to shake her head, clicks her tongue like a disappointed mother. “Leon wouldn’t like that very much.”

“I know he’s been seeing you, Ada, so I really don’t give a shit.”

Her lips twitch, threatening a smile. “You’re sharp, but I can’t confirm or deny.”

“So he is.”

“If he was?”

Your relationship is crumbling regardless. If it’s not this, then something else would put the nail in the coffin. The grave’s already been dug. Fuck it.

“I have a few ideas.”

She leans forward, smells of rosewood and big city wind, mint from the gum she chews. “And I suppose I’m one of them.”

“You’re sitting on the bed we sleep in.” You bite back a grimace, lips stretching wide into a pained frown. “Do you know how long it’s been empty?”

“A while, I’m guessing.”

“Two months.”

Her face twists up in mock pity, and manicured nails trail the line of your arm, gooseflesh rising in their wake. “Not what you expected, huh?”

The comment stings as intended. Because it isn’t. She’s known him far longer than you. Knows what kind of man he is—one with demons latched so tight to his roots that any attempt at separation might kill him. She knows him in ways you don’t, can get through to him in ways you can’t, and you hate her for it.

“He wasn’t always like this. At the start, he was kind and loving and thoughtful. But we just… we can’t fucking stand each other anymore.”

You aren’t sure why you relay the difficulties of your relationship to your partner’s ex. Maybe because she might understand, or offer solace, or help you forget. You’re disillusioned at this point, tired of his routine, every day week month year the same detached bullshit, but you’ve grown comfortable in it. Fulfillment feels unrealistic now.

Which is why you must do this. For your own sake.

She exhales another sigh, glances around the far corner of the room before meeting your eye once more. “We’ll make a deal, only because I like you.” Leans in close enough, just another inch or two, that your noses almost touch. “You leave him, I’ll give you my connections to Umbrella.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it.”

You understand it. She still cares for him, wants to minimize blowback—so do you. A large part of you still loves him, however curdled and rotten that part may be. But you don’t wish for him to suffer.

Or she intends to steal him away, but you don’t give a fuck regardless. He hasn’t been yours for a while.

“Then we have a deal.”

Somewhere between packing and finding a hotel, you panic. Why the fuck are you doing this? For revenge? Some sort of extreme mid-life crisis? A mental breakdown?

He kept his work hidden from you for so long, and still, he doesn’t even know that you know. One rogue voicemail to the house phone, an employee breaking rules catalyzed your failing marriage. The weeks-long trips, the lies, the new scars. He stopped fucking you when you started questioning his alibis. He replaced his love for you with a bottle of cheap whiskey.

And you would empathize with him if not for the fallout of his self-destruction. The poison within him that craved to ruin everything it came into contact with. Even you. Especially you.

Now, you just want to watch the world burn.

You're old enough to understand consequences, and you’re old enough to damn them. When have you ever gotten anywhere by doing what’s right?

“I don’t see a ring,” Ada says, perched on the hard bed inside your hotel room—pitiful in size, bought with the emergency money you stashed inside an envelope then taped to the back of your silverware drawer.

“I did what you asked.”

“And I’m impressed.” She watches your approach, motions to the empty space beside her with a tilt of her head. “To be honest, I didn’t think you were that serious.”

“I mean what I say.”

“As I’ve just learned.”

You take a seat next to her, lean in close enough to count each individual eyelash. “So answer my question. Have you been seeing him?”

She thinks for a moment, eyes roaming the features of your face before she settles on your razor-sharp glare. “I did. Once. I wasn’t aware that you even existed at the time.”

“That’s bullshit. You know everything about him.”

“I used to, a long time ago. But we’re older now—too old to play games, don’t you agree?”

“Yet you’re still here, conspiring with his soon-to-be-ex.”

“This isn’t a game to me.”

You scoff. “Don’t tell me you’ve fallen already.”

“You wish, my dear.” She shakes her head, hair swaying about her face. “No. I’m a lot of things, but I keep my promises.”

In that moment, a piece of her shines through. Her, Ada, the woman in red. So much more than that. You see it in her eyes sometimes, when she thinks nobody’s watching. When she forgets that she must pretend, put on a show, craft a standing-ovation performance.

You wonder if she even knows who Ada the woman is anymore. When she begins and the mercenary ends.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she says, shoulders tensing.

“Like what?”

“Like you know me.”

“I know you better than most.”

“That’s not saying much, sweetheart.”

You don’t understand what follows. Maybe it’s the stress, or the budding tension, or whatever impulsive streak you’ve been on lately, but heat curls on your gut.

The first thought that comes to mind is excruciating guilt. The ex-lover of your husband, who aids you in twisting the knife stabbed into his back. You’re fucked, too far gone, long-past heavenly entry.

The second thought is how badly you wish to kiss her. Just once. To see what he sees in her, to understand infatuation at such a loyal-to-death degree. You have to know.

“Go ahead. Do it.” Her head tilts to the side, mirth narrowing her eyes. “I dare you.”

The rest of the night is not intimate or loving. It’s not happy or playful. Both of you seek to destroy, to ruin, to fuck the other into submission. Nothing but a battle of wills wrapped up tight by bitter spite.

You sit on her face and she clutches hard to the tops of your thighs, digs manicured nails into giving flesh. The sting leaves you grinding against her mouth, half need half anger, and she opens her eyes to gaze at you.

Again, you see it. Too focused on your pleasure, the curl of her tongue around your clit, to continue her performance—a spark of light, of hunger and heat and you can lie to yourselves as much as you want but there’s something here.

No. No, god, no, this isn’t about Leon anymore and that terrifies you. When did hatred leave, how did this craving find an empty place to stay?

You’re supposed to hate her. On all accounts, she’s supposed to be enemy number one.

But the real her keeps shining through. Slender hands map out the curves of your waist and hips and chest. Warm lips suckle at your clit. She hums a cooing sound as you clench around her tongue and her eyes close and then you’re gone—she’s catching you at the hips, keeping you upright as you moan and grind and cling tight to the headboard.

Pleasure curls low in your belly, spreads warmth down to your very marrow. When you shut your eyes, try to pretend, all you envision is her: too-small hands, a stubble-less jaw, high-pitched moans.

You have to let him go. He’s not here anymore. He doesn’t love you.

The tide recedes and you roll off of her. Catch your breath a moment before pulling her into a kiss—one she turns away from.

“Get out of that head of yours. Regret serves no purpose.” She cradles your face in her hands, and her lips shine with your slick, and your heart threatens to break your ribs by force.

“How did you—“

“I know that look. All too well.”

There are many ways to describe Ada Wong: aloof, cryptic, dangerous. Sensitive is not one of them.

“I’m surprised you admitted that.” You kiss beneath the curve of her jaw, and she tilts her head back with a sigh. The column of her throat on display, soft and inviting.

“You know nothing about me.”

A trail of kisses down her pulse, fluttering beneath your lips. “And if I wanted to know you?”

She grabs the hand that you ghost down her belly, scoffs and says, “Then you’re an idiot.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Ada does make you stupid. Irrational. Impulsive. Something here, between you, greater than hatred or spite or bitterness.

Greater than your shared history with Leon Kennedy.

“This meant nothing. I hope you’re aware of that.”

And yet, she stays. Cuddles up next to you on the bed, her hair soft against your collarbone. She smells of pretty things. Her skin akins to the silk of rose petals.

But this isn’t Ada, no. Too good to be true. Too perfect. Still, naked as you both are, she rejects the vulnerability. Still plays her part well.

“Do you actually care about anything? Besides my husband?”

“Soon-to-be-ex, you forgot to add.” She brushes a pinky over the hand you spread atop her thigh, falls into silence a long moment. “And of course I do. I’m still human, aren’t I?”

A water stain buckles the ceiling above your head, and you trace the jagged edges with low-lidded eyes. “Sometimes I question if I still do. Care about anything, I mean.”

The pinky becomes a set of fingers, circling slow over the back of your hand. “If you have to question it, then there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Do you ever question things?”

She stays silent a long while. Keeps touching you all tender and soft.

She never answers. She doesn’t have to.

#ada wong x reader #ada wong fanfic #my fics #ns/ft #ro’s smut week #fic: repentance #i am so nervous about this one #(in terms of reception)#but it was so refreshing to write #i want to explore adult complex nuanced themes!!!!!

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ur-mag · 1 year ago

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So Long Rosewood! See What the 'Pretty Little Liars' Cast Is Up to Now | In Trend Today

So Long Rosewood! See What the ‘Pretty Little Liars’ Cast Is Up to Now Read Full Text or Full Article on MAG NEWS

View On WordPress

#Celebrities #Money #Motors #Politics #ShowBiz #So Long Rosewood! See What the &039;Pretty Little Liars&039; Cast Is Up to Now #Sport #Tech #UK #US #World

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zeehasablog · 24 days ago

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Victoria Living room Fireplace - recolour +

I call it a recolour - it is, but it's also a RECREATION (almost? edit maybe?).

A regency-era fireplace with mantle and grate, [another] one I'd love to have in my own home!

The mantle is a recolour of BuffSumm's Victoria Livingroom Fireplace, and the grate is AnniQ's "Cast Iron Regency Half Hob Grate circa 1800". I love this grate so much - it goes perfectly with AnniQ's "Rosewood Ebony Antique Fireplace Mantel".

My recolour thing has 16 swatches: four different mantles - two wood, two marble; and, four different decoration options, each:

I also added HEAAAAAPS of slots, because.... why not? I dunno

This is Perfect for any home in the 19th century!!!!!! (and let's be honest, right up until today 😋)

Download for free, noww, via my Patreon. Yuss that's happening!

Happy Simming!

~~ Terms Of Use ~~

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actualdiscord · 7 months ago

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Introducing the new contestant - Hairdresser Octopus! She's bringing a whole new flavor to the cast, sure to chop down the other girls on her path to the crown!

Cartoon drag race founder is my bestie @golden-heart-beats. Blog to document our progress on this over @cartoondragrace!

(Previous contestant/host promo looks - Bugs, Coilette, Phaggie Pattie, Violet, Katanya, Morning Rosewood)

#drag race #cartoon drag race #parappa the rapper #parappa #hairdresser octopus #takoyama #decided to make her the puerto rican queen cause every good rpdr cast has one and its only fitting #pls zoom onto the nails im so actually specifically proud of the nails

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inkykeiji · 2 years ago

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character: fyodor x fem!reader

warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, daddy kink, bratty reader, toxic relationship, impact play: caning, blood, physical abuse (fyodor breaks one of reader’s bones), jealousy (feat. nikolai), princess used as a pet name, reader does not know russian or ukrainian, size difference (fyodor is bigger than reader), one instance of Sir

words: 2.7k

You’re getting restless, he can tell; can see it in the way you’re running your index finger along the spines of the old, crumbling books as you listlessly pace around the library, collecting dust on your fingertip; can hear it in the way you sigh, soft and delicate, wistful and weary, shoulders deflating a little with the exhale.

Bratty and bored, that’s what you are, casting longing side glances at your Daddy from the corners of your eyes, desperate and hopeful for him to take notice of you, of your current state, and relieve you of it. Bratty and bored, but brats don’t get Daddy’s attention, especially not when they know he’s busy.

He wonders how long you’ll hold out before you succumb, how long you can reign in your inherent selfish and spoiled nature before the restraints finally snap beneath your yearning for attention.

Not very long, he wagers.

“Nikki,” you whine a mere moment after the thought passes through Fyodor’s mind, the nickname stringy and drawn out.

“Yes, princess?” Nikolai responds without tearing his gaze from the pages of his book.

“I’m bored,” you grumble with a pout, sauntering over to the plush armchair Nikolai is snuggled in and perching on the edge, ass and thigh pressed up against his resting forearm.

The action surprises him slightly and he looks up at you, a question lingering in his mismatched eyes.

“Is that so?”

“Uh-huh,” you nod. “So I came to see what you were reading,” you continue as a way of explanation, leaning forward under the guise of getting a better view of the book between his palms, swelling breasts—perky and practically spilling out from that slutty milkmaid dress Fyodor loves so much—pressing into Nikolai’s cheek as you do so.

The curiosity on his face develops into something wicked, eyes darkening and smile furling in on itself as he casts you another glance.

Oh, he knows exactly what you’re doing.

Holding out the book further, he leans into your chest, nuzzling your bosom ever-so-slightly.

“It’s called Evenings on a Farm near Dikanka,” he says. “You can read it with me, if you’d like.”

“I can’t read Russian, though,” you frown, sounding as if you’re genuinely disappointed.

With a shake of his head, Nikolai laughs gently, the melody both fond and condescending.

“It’s not Russian,” he says. “It’s Ukrainian.”

At your lost look—eyes widened, brows wrinkled, head tilted, so precious, so pathetic, like a stupid little puppy—he laughs again, releasing a corner of the book and holding his arm out, welcoming you into his lap. “Here,” he beckons, nodding his head a little in indication. “I’ll read it to you, then.”

Holding his stare, you hesitate for a moment, as if you’re weighing your options, carefully considering your choices and determining which packs the most heft, the most hurt.

Then you’re settling onto his lap a moment later, a little palm planted high on his thigh as you lean forward, scanning the page. He hooks his chin over your shoulder, resting the hinges of his jaw on your body, his back pressed flush to yours. When he speaks again, you can feel his voice vibrate against his ribs.

At the commotion, Fyodor looks up from his rosewood desk across the room, pen hovering above his papers as he observes, dripping splotches of ink across the page.

Nikolai’s murmuring to you, slowly, softly, lips grazing the cartilage of your ear as he reads, too low for Fyodor to make out the words flowing from his mouth.

But he doubts Nikolai is actually reading to you, your sweet little giggles and bashful fluttering lashes telling him as much, Nikolai nosing along your jaw as his lips continue to move, the ghost of a smirk playing with the corners of his mouth.

And, for a little while, Fyodor allows it to continue, jaw flexing infinitesimally with every hushed sound you emit, nostrils twitching, on the verge of flaring with each calculated exhale.

For a little while, he’s alright; for a while, he can handle it.

But you all knew it wouldn’t last long.

A little squeal breaks in your throat in response to something Nikolai’s done or said, chest hunching in on itself only stopped by Nikolai’s large hands on your waist, fingers splayed wide and keeping you upright, so long they’re overlaying your ribs, thumbs just beneath your breasts.

And that’s all it takes, really.

The sound of wood scraping wood has your body snapping into action, a switch flipped—automatic, inherent—and you slip from Nikolai’s grasp easily, flitting out the door with the grace of a single dove feather.

Echos of your bare feet slapping against marble fill the wide hallways, tangled with breathless bubbles of laughter and the muted stomp of his rubber soles against the pristine floor. He’s panting behind you, pushing his body to the limit as he shoves himself forward, lungs aching, outstretched hand missing the hem of your dress by the width of a hair, again, fingers curling into a fist of nothing.

The muscles in your legs are burning—his own legs are longer than yours, his strides more adept as they cover a larger area of ground, but you won’t give in; not until he catches you.

And he’s close.

Giggles are barreling up your throat and past your lips, an endless stream of amusement only slightly stuttered by your gentle, uneven huffs of exertion. The soles of your feet skid audibly on the marble as you sharply round a corner, skin squealing, but you don’t stop, not until you round the next curve in the knotted hallways, not until you realize that he’s no longer following you; that you are, suddenly and abruptly, all alone.

Your feet scuttle to a stop, heaving chest adorned with dewdrops of sweat, glistening prettily in the warm lamplight of the manor. The silence is dense, ears ringing with the pressure, your own breathing muffled by it. The silence is heavy, crushing, almost, burdened by the immense scale and size of the manor, the whole structure so monstrous, so massive it feels nearly suffocating, like it could swallow you whole in a single gulp.

“Daddy?” you call out, voice small and hesitant, eyes darting around the empty space. The lamps on the walls waver for a moment, as if a breeze had somehow passed through the bulbs, but the air is stagnant and still.

You turn slowly, balls of your feet sticking to the polished floor, gaze careful and cautious as it searches for any signs of life.

“Daddy, where’d you—”

A large hand claps over your mouth and smothers your words, long fingers wreathing around your jaw, jagged nails digging into your cheek, and yanks you back against thin muscle and hard bone, engulfing you in darkness a second later.

It all happens so quickly, so unexpectedly that you hardly have any time to meditate on the instance before you’re being whirled around, spine slamming against drywall, your body caged between the surface and the steady rise and fall of your Daddy’s chest.

You had forgotten that this place contains many secret passageways and hidden rooms.

You had also forgotten that Daddy knows all of them, and you know none.

He’s got a large hand cuffed around either of your wrists, pinning them to the weathered wallpaper, warped and peeling, just above your head.

You struggle a little, wriggling in his grip, and his fingers tighten in warning, palms pressing your limbs further against the wall, the bones of your wrist ground together in each of his hands, your features tweaking in a suppressed wince.

“Why are you on such bad behaviour today?”

“I’m not.”

An eyebrow raises. “You’re not?”

“No. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

He laughs, nothing more than a gentle huff, and it sends chills skittering up your spine.

“You know how many lashes lying to Daddy gets you, don’t you?”

“Fifteen,” you answer dutifully.

“Yes. And how many lashes does flirting with someone else get you?”

“Twenty five.”

“Exactly. And how many lashes is that total?”

“Forty.”

“Forty,” he repeats slowly, as if he’s tasting each letter, molding it with his tongue. “Can you handle that? Do you think it was wise to act out in such a manner while Daddy was working?”

“You weren’t paying attention to me,” you say in simple explanation, though your voice is solemn, words filtered through a petulant pout.

“You have my full attention now.”

“Good.”

Blinking twice, both eyebrows quirk. “Would you like to add to your current sentence of forty lashes?”

“Depends. What else do you got?”

His tongue runs along the front of his teeth, curling over the edges, bulging beneath his top lip as he considers. “How about an extra ten for generally pissing me off?”

“Fifty.” you say plainly. “I’ll take them.”

“Yeah? You won’t be able to sit properly for about a month or so.”

“I don’t care. Give them to me, I want them.”

Fifty it is.

He smiles at you then, and it’s sharp, it’s sinister, curling up at the corners and nearly furling in on itself, his eyes glowing.

He says nothing as he latches a large hand around your bicep, grip just hard enough to be uncomfortable, just hard enough that you’re sure you’ll have a pretty cuff of all four fingers and his thumb, seared into your skin in brilliant blues, by the following morning.

But then he tugs, and a yelp cracks in your throat despite your best efforts to keep it from happening. His fingers twitch, tighten, and you grind your teeth together, an attempt to keep from making another sound.

Because you didn’t miss the telltale flutter of the edges of his mouth when you cried out, the way his chest puffed out just a little further, raising him to his full height.

Because as well as he knows you, you know him, too, and the last thing you want to do is give him any further satisfaction; not after he ignored you all day, acted as if you didn’t exist, nothing more than a slightly irksome ghost lingering around the edges of his consciousness, gaze only occasionally flicking up from his thick books and crumpled papers and ink-stained fingers to trail you for a moment—to make sure you were still there—before returning to his work.

“I will not be restraining you,” he tells you, as nonchalantly as if discussing the snow outside, soles of his boots echoing against the marble as he stalks towards the wardrobe. “You move so much as an inch and I will add an additional five lashes. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, Sir.”

And you can’t suppress the smug little grin that slithers across your face as you assume the position—hips bent at a ninety-degree angle, chest pressed into the mattress, cheek nuzzled against the silk comforter—feeling exceptionally proud of yourself for remembering the Sir, for not giving him another reason to lengthen your punishment.

“Good,” he says, and oh, you can hear it, that minuscule barely there tremor of fury, wavering in the word like a maggot under his skin.

He decides on his favourite cane, black ebony wood with the silver handle, made of pure platinum and topped with a sphere. This is a uncommon occurrence; he rarely uses this cane, for fear of breaking it on you, as he’s done to so many other so many times before.

He’s unrestrained today: which is to say, he has decided to be unrestrained today, a conscious choice to be harsh, cruel, messy with it all.

You know not to mistake this with true lack of control; he could be constrained and neat with all of his lines if he wanted to be, but he doesn’t want to be.

Not today.

You don’t deserve it.

Every smack of the cane against your ass leaves raised, swiftly swelling welts in its wake, first materializing in thin lines, then in thick, before the skin finally begins to tear, spanked raw and rubbed down from the constant friction.

They crisscross over your backside, crooked slashes and streaks embellishing your bum and the very tops of your thighs. Each stroke of the wood leaves a sharp sting searing across your flesh, followed by a dull, deep ache, the pain so dense you fear it may never fully leave you, throbbing as it burrows into your skin.

He doesn’t demand you count aloud, nor does he order you to keep quiet, and for this you are thankful, little whimpers and soft cries building as the punishment proceeds, evolving into full on shouts and sobs, fingers sore and stiff from clenching the edges of the mattress, desperate not to move.

Only five left, you’re thinking to yourself in an effort to self-soothe, when the end is finally in sight. Only five more, and then it’s over; and then I’ve taken it all.

The next hit comes not with the heel but with the handle of the cane; a sphere of dense platinum, heavy and hard as it thwacks your tailbone, higher than any of the other strikes have been thus far.

A scream splinters in your throat, and you shove your face in the mattress, a feeble attempt to smother it, whole body recoiling from the impact.

You can feel the bone fissure, sending bolts of jagged pain shooting through your backside, sharper than the blunt ache the wood commands. Your fingers curl in the sheets, teeth sinking into the plush flesh of the bed, quivering muscles gone rigid as you try not to move around too much, lest Fyodor add another five lashes to your nearly completed punishment.

He makes a masterpiece of your backside, a landscape of dark violet and navy blue, glittering scarlet pooling in the grooves of fields, fragile skin split from the constant whack of the cane.

“Beautiful,” he breathes, fingertips skimming over his work, catching on the rapidly expanding bumps and ridges, bulging and thickening as blood rushes to cushion the injuries.

He digs a jagged nail into the wound, drags it through the hollowed gouges and collects blood beneath the sawtoothed edge.

In a week or so, after the final bruise has fully developed and the blood has seeped through several layers of tissue to the surface, your shattered tailbone will serve as a massive moon, hanging low and heavy over the landscape.

It will be one of the most stunning pieces of art he’s ever created, he’s sure of it.

It will be one of the most painful, extensive punishments you’ve ever endured; he’s sure of that, too.

It was fucking foolish to have challenged him, you knew it was right from the start, but—as expected—you just couldn’t help yourself. The whorish need for attention was too potent, too strong to resist, to ignore, to shove away into a corner of your mind and let it fester.

But technically, ultimately, you got exactly what you wanted.

Because when it’s all over, when you’ve taken your fifty lashes like the good little girl you are and you’re sobbing into the mattress, smearing spit and salt across the silk sheets, he collects you in his arms easily, scoops you up against his chest with a bicep cradling your neck and an elbow hooked beneath your knees and begins carrying you towards the small in-house infirmary.

You wail into his neck, little fingers curling in the collar of his sweater and yanking, desperate to pull yourself close, closer, as close as possible, finding comfort in your very own monster, your personal hell; delicious, decadent, devious.

“Daddy, Daddy, Da-Daddy!”

Tender hushes fall from his lips, soaking into the crown of your head as he scatters placating kisses across your hair. And he’s so gentle, he’s so careful, minding your fractured bone as he hugs you to his ribs, rocking your shuddering body in his embrace ever-so-slightly, grip tightening as another one of those rough sobs rips through your chest.

Most of his anger has calmed now, beaten from his chest with the whip of the cane against your supple skin, but a few cinders of fury remain, simmering low and hot and quiet in his words.

“Maybe next time,” he begins, softly seething, accent thicker than normal, “you’ll think twice before pressing your tits into Nikolai’s cheek, yes?”

#fyodor x reader #fyodor smut #fyodor dostoyevsky x reader #fyodor dostoevsky x reader #inky.fyodor #inky.bsd

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