#then remembering the kind of men he is...

[comatosebunny09]

carpe noctem [ climax ] | sylus

— summary: sylus drags you onto a mission with him for old time’s sake. and you slide into familiarity, almost like there isn’t a wedge in the form of a beautiful young hunter driving you apart. — cw: explicit sexual content, reader is not mc, reader implied to be femme, assassin!reader, mentions of blood, profanity, mentions of pedophilia, mentions of human trafficking, minor character death, men with guns, reader has a shitty past, self-destructive behavior, reader doing her assassin duties, a little romance sprinkled in between, mdni — notes: inspired by mr. & mrs. smith. thank you so much for reading, lovely! [ part 1 | part 2 | part 3 ] — now playing: cariño - the marías — obligatory tags: @withering-dream @an-ever-angry-bi @midiplier @abbylee0710 @picnicthegarden @karespocketboyfriends @chrissy26 @delulusimps @glamouroki @midiplier @celestemcbrim @everywherenothere @ari-shipping-stuff @beewilko @alexhenituse @nim-rose @moonlight-inthe-sea @sunnyf4lls @himiko-omikami @inkonparchment @sillyfreakfanparty @regandoesthings @im-in-different-universe @ravensheart18 @alyyylog @corvid007 (sorry if i missed anyone.)

He wanted to make love. You wanted to fuck.

He wanted you, all tender and pliant beneath him, his name hinged in your throat. He wanted to worship you, to uncover the erogenous zones of your body piece by piece, and to expose you like forgotten treasure buried deep beneath rotting ruins. 

But you reasoned you didn’t have time. You were in a hurry—a hurry for what, exactly, you couldn’t pinpoint. 

Perhaps you were rushing to feel something, in a hurry to please and to feel useful as you tore his shirt from his shoulders, his body rigid and searing between the thick of your thighs. Pleasing is all you know, serving embedded in your chemical makeup, no room to pursue your own desires. 

Your mouths came together so abruptly that your teeth clashed. The counter of his kitchen island was glacial and tacky beneath your thighs. You’d barely divested yourself of your coat before you drew him into an ardent dance of tongues, his abs twitching beneath the artful crawl of your fingers. You tugged at the give of his pants, quietly yet vehemently demanding he take them off. He drew back, wild-eyed and hair mussed, eyes drowsy with want.

“We should slow down,” he sighed, hot and open-mouthed where your shoulder met neck. Blistered down to your collarbone where he nipped, hands roosted on your hips, thumbs soothingly cruising over juts of bone. 

It made you sick, his tenderness. You weren’t glass and didn’t deserve to be handled like it. 

You chuckled something husky and bitter, tossing your thoughts to the wolves. Your fingers raked through his hair. Grabbing the scruff of his neck, you brought his mouth back to yours, trapping any further words of protest in his throat. 

You didn’t want to think. Didn’t want complications. Just wanted to be driven by sensation, tucking your inhibitions into the darkest hulls of your mind. 

You’re a bit of a masochist. You enjoy punishing yourself for misdeeds you’ve constructed in your mind—having feelings for your boss, secretly envying your friend. Your use is slowly running its course, and you’ll one day be thrown to the wayside. 

You figure you don’t deserve kindness. Sensitivity. You don’t deserve a slow love, the steady creep of an orgasm bubbling in your stomach, invoked by the sluggish grind of hips, words of affirmation whispered like the sweetest supplication into your ear.

No.

You deserve to be used, lusted after. You’ve spent most of your adult life with that mentality, your past having engraved that under your skin. You’ve been a weapon for as long as you can remember. A tool. Loveless. Which is why, when the gentleman who’d frequented Lux wanted to take his time with you, you declined, opting for something more ragged and intense. 

He took you hard and rough on his counter at your behest. Left you open, bare, laughing, battling to get your breath under control. You stayed the night to humor him. Let him hold you as he stroked the sweetest compliments of all with ghostly fingers into your skin as the stars in the sky gave way to the gentle spill of sun rays. 

You crept out of his arms and apartment once he sank below the misty shawl of sleep. He’d inquire about your whereabouts later—ask why you didn’t stay. You rarely did. Tonight, you felt weak. 

You’d ignore him until you next needed him. When the urge to forget sunk its talons into your chest, curling around your heart and squeezing. 

You had a mission to prepare for. Sylus’ name lit up your notifications, cryptic as ever with minimal words. You’d deal with your feelings later. 

There was work to be done.

Besides, you didn’t even remember his name. 

How could you face him when you’d uttered someone else’s name while he was deep inside you?

—

You pay for your escapades in the form of pretty petals of blue and green blooming on your neck the following night. Bite marks. 

You rub at the raw skin for the nth time, a hiss forced through grit teeth. Maybe he was a little too rough. Concealer works wonders, coupled with your glamor. Still doesn’t take away the sting, but you suppose the pain is your punishment for being weak.

You stretch, yawning. Shift until the leather of the car’s backseat squeaks. You sense his eyes on you in your periphery, boring down to the marrow. The fine hairs littering your body stand on end. You maneuver again, leant against the door, cheek propped on your knuckles. 

You try to focus on the scenery unfolding beyond the car’s windshield. Powdery stars spilled over a deep violet canvas. The red glare of brake lights every so often as you approach another vehicle. Try to focus on the driver’s fingers readjusting on the steering wheel, on the fixed hum of the engine, and how it intermingles with the gentle bumps on the road. Home in on your breathing and the thunderous drum of your heart. He’s been watching you like this since you eased into the car—Sylus. 

You get this creeping suspicion he wants to say something. Like he knows all your secrets, having perused through them like they’re the yellowed pages of a book. Nah. He wouldn’t know what kind of night you had. He wouldn’t care. You’re a grown woman, capable of making your own mistakes and reaping the repercussions of them. He has other things on his mind—other people. 

Another yawn escapes you. You curse yourself for not grabbing coffee on your way out. Too busy pouring yourself into your dress, painting your face with makeup, and meticulously tucking your weapons away. 

“Long day?” says Sylus. You jolt the slightest bit at the grit of his voice. How it breaks up the silence and sets your stomach alight with dragonflies. Fabric shifts. His exhale is weighted beside you, thigh brushing yours as he spreads his legs, so very big in comparison to the backseat. 

You force a smile, smoothing out the wrinkles of your dress. “You could say that.”

You feel the shift in his gaze. There’s a whisper of bitterness in his tone when he next speaks. “Maybe you should spend less time pursuing your hobbies at night and more time sleeping.”

This time, you do turn. Cut your eyes to him, mouth tugged up with confusion. His expression reads passivity. Mouth scrawled into a rigid line, scarlet eyes fixed to yours, unrelenting. Something’s off about him tonight. You sensed it in the brevity of his call when he phoned you to outline your mission—you’d be accompanying him tonight to a banquet. A glittering, amenable doll on his arm, smiling pretty like murder wasn’t rotting your mind. You’d lure your target away to be snuffed out like a candle’s flame. Slip out without drawing suspicion, and the world would be rid of another shit stain. 

He quirks a brow, wordlessly challenging you. No customary smirk comes this time. Just the air weighted with something tense. Your throat clicks when you swallow. You opt for obliviousness, laughing it off despite the gnarling feeling in your gut worming its way up your throat. Despite every synapse in your brain screaming for you to fire back. You’re reading too much into things. He’s being his usual, detached self, and not because he knows you were up to no good last night.

Right?

“Maybe I should.” 

The tendons in Sylus’ neck pull, jaw tensing. For a moment, he looks like he wants to keep prodding. But he instead averts his gaze when the driver chimes in, announcing you’ve arrived at your destination. 

The venue’s tawny spotlights dance over the windshield as the car crawls to a stop. People donned in expensive formalwear line the sidewalk, animatedly chatting as they await entry. You take some time to admire the historic, art deco architecture before your door opens, the crisp evening air spilling in and fanning over your skin. 

You look up when Sylus offers you his arm. His expression softens considerably, contrasting the wet cat he was moments ago. There’s a hint of a smile twitching his lips. He almost looks boyish, and you can’t help taking him in. He’s dressed to the nines, tucked in a three-piece tux, bow tie meticulously tied, hair swept up into a pretty, alabaster coif.

Your lips spasm. You peel yourself from the seat, gathering up the trail of your dress. Twine your arm with his, allowing him to shepherd you through the throng of people. It almost feels like old times, their voices petering to a hush when they catch sight of you. They part like a school of fish as the pair of you make your way up the steps leading to the venue’s doors.

“Stay frosty,” you joke to dispel your nerves, standing before the heavy, double doors, waiting for the attendees to open them. 

Sylus snorts, his arm flexing beneath the possessive clutch of your fingers. He pinches the bridge of his nose. And the exasperation in his voice makes your eyes crinkle with mirth. “Please, never say that again.”

You slide into familiarity thereafter, almost like there wasn’t a wedge in the form of a beautiful young hunter driven between you.

—

She said something curious to you when you arrived at the airport earlier—Ms. Hunter. You had the time to spare. You wanted to ask why she requested you drive her instead of Sylus. But you didn’t push it, figuring she had her reasons. Maybe she didn’t have the energy for his nagging, his fretting. She should be so lucky. 

She’d be gone for a couple of weeks, swept up in the grueling task of protecting researchers in the mountains from Wanderers. A part of you felt sorry for her. Worried. But she was a big girl. If she could smack Sylus around in Kitty Cards, she could dodge a few teeth and claws, no problem. 

“Need help?” you asked over your shoulder, the SUV’s engine humming idly at the airport’s drop-off point. 

She smiled at you from the backseat. “I got it!” She chirped as she fetched her oversized suitcase from the floor. 

She rounded the vehicle, bowing to your level at the window. Up close, her smile looked more mischievous than usual. Smile lines bracketed her honey-dipped eyes as she murmured, “Be nice to Sylus. He’s trying, ya know?” 

You pinned her with a quizzical look, your mouth working around a retort. She left before you could get a word out. You watched her slip through the crowd of travelers milling about before she was out of sight, leaving you to mull over what the hell that meant.

—

It starts to make sense as time passes what she meant. 

When you’ve gorged yourself on conversation and champagne, nestled between politicians, CEOs, socialites, and people of the like. Fickle, spewing gossip you can’t be bothered to keep up with. 

Sylus rarely leaves your side, only slipping away to chat up old colleagues or to procure you more bubbly. Always has a hand, scorching and possessive, at the small of your back, or an arm slung about your waist, drawing you into the safety his body exudes. He doesn’t correct anyone when they address you as his, giving you a subdued, amused look when you work your mouth into amending them.

You titter shyly, toying with your necklace. Maybe this is a part of your cover—pretending to be his significant other, all pretty and docile at his side. You won’t complain. It’s nice being this close, feeling wanted, and being envied in a different way. Not for your body, but for the man wrapped so willingly around your finger. 

It’s felt like ages since you’ve last done a gig together, so you’ll enjoy his attention, even if it’s all a ploy, while you can.

The evening slides by in a blur of twinkling chandeliers and laughter. 

Sylus draws you into a dance, and the pair of you are swallowed up by the mass of swaying couples and the string orchestra. Your cheeks ache with a smile, your limbs and inhibitions loosened by the champagne. He holds you to him as you waltz, his body rigid and devastating against yours, languorous fingers curled around your nape. He hasn’t stopped smiling, a boyish dimple cratering his cheek. Hasn’t released you from the scarlet stir of his eyes since, and you smoosh your face against pectoral muscle, hiding the warmth splotching your cheeks.  

His heart thrums something steady beneath your ear. Beneath the expensive pleat of his tux. Breaths even, his bewitching scent furling in your chest like smoke. You let him lead you about the glittering marble tiles of the dance floor, feeling like you’re in a dream. Perhaps it’s the bubbly that’s got you toddling through a dreamlike fog, but a fraction of you starts to think, just for a second, you’re more than a cover, and your boss isn’t so detached, shoving you to the back burner in favor of someone else. 

Your breath is sharp when he suddenly peels away, expertly twirling you. You laugh as your dress flutters around your ankles, nearly tripping you up. He dips you as the music dampens, the beautiful scenery tilting and blurring. Swathed in the tawny, dim lighting of the banquet hall, you make out his features, something akin to affection loosening his expression, and the smile slips from your face. 

The world fades away, and only the pair of you seem to exist in this moment. He pulls you closer until your vision fills with red, fringed by dark, wispy lashes sweeping over cheeks mottled pink. His lips purse as his gaze slides to your mouth, breath stirring your baby hairs. You hold your breath as he eases in, appearing like he’ll kiss you, and you’re stricken by something hot. Your mouths but a hairsbreadth apart, he whispers something that makes your heart sink to your feet.

“It’s showtime.”

The magic of the moment falls away as he steadies you. A pout worms its way onto your face as Sylus tangles your fingers together, a chuckle swelling in his chest. He leads you back to your table, still holding your hand, even long after you’ve returned to your seats.

—

Nikolai is easy to manipulate. To bend to your will. Of course, he is. All men are if you know how to approach them. 

It helps that your glamor erases a few years off your face, giving you the appearance of a young woman barely experiencing the world. His favorite. It only takes you fluttering your lashes, laughing pretty, and flattering him to get him to take you back to his hotel room.

On the surface, he’s a passive, middle-aged man who looks like he wouldn’t harm a fly. But beneath that facade, he’s a scourge waiting to be wiped out. He’s as despicable as everyone else you’ve bumped off, auctioning off girls to nefarious men under the guise of selling “harmless little dolls.” Moonlighting as a franchise owner, using his stores as a ruse to smuggle young girls through the channels of the underworld. 

You take that personally, having once been on the auctioning floor yourself. Memories of a past painted red flood your mind, and it makes your stomach churn with disgust. You were lucky then, having been turned into a murderous tool rather than a fucktoy. So, it makes sense why Sylus was so eager to get you on this mission. Like he knew you’d take pleasure in watching Nikolai’s life drain from his eyes, his blood caked up under your nails. 

Your smile twitches, threatening to screw up into a grimace as you walk at Nikolai’s side, arm in arm. He’s red-faced and cheery, having gorged himself on champagne and merriment at the banquet. You would’ve snuffed him out if four bodyguards didn’t flank you. Not like you can’t take them, but you’d rather complete your mission as quietly as possible without rousing suspicion.

You just have to keep up the act long enough to isolate him so you can make your move. He’s been ruffling Onychinus’ feathers, claiming to be in cahoots with its notorious leader. Sylus, of course, doesn’t like that, not wanting to be associated with the likes of him. This is where you come into play, his ever-faithful watchdog, ready to kill at the drop of a hat.

Nikolai ushers you into his hotel room, where three more guards stand in good form in the living area. You acknowledge them with a seductive smile, allowing one to frisk you. Your smile grows tenfold when he finds nothing, clearing his throat and straightening his tie as if he’s fallen prey to your charm. Someone should be fired.

Nikolai leads you into his room thereafter, the double doors shutting and locking with finality. You offer him a massage, to which the portly man happily accepts, stripping down to his boxers and plopping onto the king-sized bed. He has a thing for pretty, young girls barely scraping the surface of legality. You’ll see to it he’s ushered into the afterlife by one.

Your hair waterfalls from its updo, warm as it spills onto your shoulders when you pull your hairpin free. You ruck up your gown, climbing over his body to roost yourself on his backside, legs bracketing either side of his waist, heels digging waning moons into your thighs. You’re sultry as you ensnare him in small talk, fingers kneading over layers of fat and muscle. Nikolai hums appreciatively, seemingly thrilled to have your company. Just the way you want him.

Your fingers tip-toe up his spine, thumbs smoothing over the notches of bone there. He exhales beneath your ministrations, remarking how magical your hands are. You huff a laugh as your fingers curl around his jaw, the opposing set burying themselves in his hair. 

“Massaging isn’t the only thing my hands are good at.”

With a fluent twitch of your wrists, his neck snaps, the sound barely heard above the gentle croon of the jazz music he queued up beforehand, accompanied by the exhale of a life dying out like a flame. 

You pull his eyelids down, easing off his lifeless body. Stare at his corpse with a faraway look in your eyes, smoothing some hair away from his face. Like he’s a sacrifice to the little girl inside, screaming for revenge. You straighten your dress when the bedroom doors rattle, Nikolai’s men frantically calling his name. Shit. Maybe you weren’t as meticulous as you thought. 

Quickly, you survey your surroundings for a way out. Spot the sliding doors leading to the balcony, and you dart between them, the wispy curtains grazing over your fevered skin. A wintry kiss of wind greets you as you lean over the rail, hair ruffling, and you take in the bokeh of lights glittering on the street below. 

You’re at least eight stories from the ground, so jumping is out of the question. You could very well fight your way out, but Nikolai’s guards are heavily armed. There’s no guarantee you’ll make it out of the fray unscathed. 

You lean back against the rail, adrenaline spuming through you, watching the bedroom doors pulse as his guards kick and shove against them. Fuck! Tugging a knife from the garter belt tucked beneath the slit of your dress, you prepare for a fight, body taut, nerves flaring. 

Just when you’ve resolved to get your hands dirty, something feathery touches your bare shoulder. Gentle and curious in its embrace, and you whip your head around to its source. You’re met with a smoky tendril, speckled with claret orbs of energy, swirling ominously before you. You peer over the railing, a familiar shock of white blurring into frame. There’s no mistaking the upward cant of his lips, and the crinkle of scarlet-spun eyes from this height. He motions to you with two fingers from the sidewalk, wordlessly beseeching you to come down.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you mutter, a nervous expression stretching your features. Heights have never been your forte, but you suppose beggars can’t be choosers. “Fuck it,” you relent, gathering some courage and climbing onto the rail. 

Nikolai’s men finally break through, and as they dart in, spraying the room in a hail of bullets upon seeing Nikolai’s corpse, you fall into the feathery cradle of Sylus’ Evol, a yip ripped from your throat. 

You float to the ground like a feather, falling into Sylus’ arms. He looks down at you with something unguarded shining in his eyes, using his Evol as a shield when Nikolai’s men pelt the pair of you with a barrage of bullets.

You lose yourself in the moment. Your lips part, lids heavy with something you can’t quite place. 

“Took you long enough,” you chide to dispel the tension brewing between you, trying to catch your breath.

“I’ll be more punctual next time,” Sylus answers with a chuckle, voice rumbling against your body as he casually walks away from the scene, refusing to put you down, even long after he’s warped you to safety. 

rising action | masterlist

[writella]

Daryl Dixon Kissing Daydreams— A little look inside Daryl’s memories of kissing his favorite person in the world.

Details: Daryl Dixon x reader (no pronouns are used but there is one instance that I use the word princess), suggestive but overall, just some lovely sweetness! wc: 2k, slightly proofread— my apologies about any misspells, I just really want to get this out and get back to writing!!!

A/N: Let’s get back into things. ♡ I hope you’re all doing well. With love from writella. ♡

Daryl Dixon loves kissing.

He’d never admit it though— albeit that is a weird thing to admit out of nowhere— and he’s never said it out loud— albeit that is a weird thing to say out loud in most normal instances as well— but either way, he does. He really, really does.

Ironically, it’s his fifth favorite form of affection.

The first is acts of service. He doesn’t call it that though. He probably doesn’t even know the phrase. To him, it’s just being useful. Helping, or as he’d pronounce it, helpin’, or jus helpin’ awut.

This includes hunting to feed others, preparing food (even though he’s awful at it other than roasting things on a fire, so everyone agrees, just hunting), remembering things you like and getting them when and if he can find them, thoughtful gifts that remind him of you— basically any stones or trinkets he finds on his journeys, finding shelter if need be, keeping you safe and warm— even at the expense of himself, fixing things, taking the time to teaching you survival skills you want to learn, the sort.

The second is beating the shit out of people in his loved ones honor. Walkers, “Saviors,” men named Negan, basically, anyone out to kill you. He didn’t like seeing people hurt his friends, but he does enjoy when he gets to fuck people up in case it happens. To that, a subconscious part of Daryl’s brain says thank god there are no therapists in town; or, that they are either too scared to speak to him or have not gotten the chance to speak to him so he doesn’t have to reckon with the fact that his not-so-secret thirst for punching and shooting arrows at people might be just a little too high.

The third is listening. He didn’t know he was good at this until you told him. He doesn’t interrupt and he is not quick to judge, you had said, “or really you just know how to keep the mean things to yourself.” He smiled at that. He realized that yes, he is a silent judger, but he’s also pretty open-minded. He liked that about himself, and he found out because of you. It made him feel nice.

Also, if you were wondering, yes, you may have noticed that these three forms of affection can all be argued as kinds of acts of service, but again, Daryl doesn’t know phrases like that, and even if he did or if he was classifying any of his interests or skills, beating people up and shooting things with arrows would always be in its category.

The fourth is hugging– another one he wouldn’t admit out loud. He’d never say he needed a hug, but wouldn’t deny a friend one, and they became more meaningful to him after moments he’d thought he’d never see them again, or see you again. Hugs became incredibly important then. It made him realize that hugging was also the first form of intimate, physical touch that he ever felt comfortable with. He obviously didn’t grow up in an affectionate home, but he was at least used to getting a pat on the back from Meryl when he caught something good to eat, said something Meryl thought was funny, or did whatever Meryl told him to do “right the first time.” Seldomly though, if Meryl was in one of his good moods, he’d give Daryl an actual hug, one of those nice, brotherly ones. Maybe Meryl was laughing with his friends when saw Daryl, beckoning him over, hugging him by the side saying, “Hey little brother,” as he tussles Daryl’s hair; or at night, when Meryl stumbles in as a sleepy-go-lucky-drunk, lazily throwing his chest and arms around Daryl, telling him, “I love you.” He knew never to take it that seriously in those moments, but he did, he couldn’t help it even if he was good at making it look like he didn’t from the outside. The only other time Meryl would do or say that is when one or both of them got it from their dad. Nevermore did they feel closer, as if they were one half of the other, than in moments like those. Daryl felt almost bad for liking it. He used to have to earn affection, he realized. He’s almost ready to talk about it. With you. You give him so much so freely. He’s shocked and sometimes terrified by it. But your helping, your saving, your listening, your hugging– it made him feel ready to speak. It is what also helped him learn his last favorite form of affection, the one mentioned above and only saved for you, the fifth–

–kissing.

One of his favorite places to kiss you is by your fireplace. You two would sit on the rug and you’d ask him to drag the coffee table to where you sat. The two of you ate dinner there sometimes, near the fire on a cold winter evening, or you used it as a place to set down your drinks and whatever game you two were playing, or to use as a resting spot for your elbows as he listened to you talk for what felt like an enchanting forever.

He never tired of your voice as you spoke about your old favorite tv shows and movies and books that he had never watched or read, listening with no interruption– as he always does– or waiting for moments to ask you questions or follow-up questions about this character or that and you’d answer with as much as your memory recalled. You’d make yourself laugh with how silly and passionate you got over these things and he would smile softly, blue eyes glowing in the firelight because he liked hearing you speak, he liked everything you had to say.

It’s moments like this when your smiles catch one another’s and your eyes lock a few seconds longer than before because there is nothing else left to place your gaze on that Daryl places his hand on yours or on your leg and you know that means he wants you closer. His hand moves to your face and his thumb gently swipes and caresses your jaw and you both stay there for a moment, looking at each other. You move in slowly and you kiss him so soft and and tender and tentatively like a princess. His princess. The one who made everything so lovely and magical to what he thought of as his weird and jagged gremlin self.

Daryl gets excited during the times you decide to initiate. It makes him feel courageous when you’re courageous. He grabs you by the waist, pulling you closer, taking control as he slips his tongue in your mouth.

You sigh, warmth and happiness surrounding you as you allow him to take control. Grabbing your head as gently as his rough hands would allow, he sets you on the rug, giving you pecks before looking down at you one last time, seeing the fire illuminate your face with red and orange— the colors of his heart and mind when he’s around you— and then, finally, places himself atop of you and goes back to kissing you. Once again, he slides his tongue in your mouth, wordlessly telling you how much he loves you and how much he loves this. His hands trail down from your waist to your neck as you grab his and play with his hair as you kiss into the night until your mouths are sore.

Daryl also remembers your first kiss. You were angry with him, or at least that’s what he thought. But it was more so frustration, a tinge of disappointment. You were falling for him, desperately so whether you wanted to admit it or not, but it’s so hard to fall for someone not willing to open their heart— you can only be so patient. So, uncharacteristically, at least when it came to him, you got in his face, you got loud, you told him how you felt. Not that you loved him, no, not yet. You told him he’s closed off, that you couldn’t take it anymore, that you wanted him to be honest, to be real, to just say how he felt anytime, all the time, whenever he wanted. You never took him as fearful, but still, thoughtlessly, as your faces almost touched, you asked, “What are you so afraid of, Daryl? It’s only me.”

And then, he kissed you. Because it’s not “only” you, it’s because of you. You were everything. So despite bubbling anxiety that rises in his throat, he did it, he put his lips to yours and did it accidently so much more harshly than he should have, but he did it. He was honest. He was real. Because even if he didn’t say it yet, he loved you too. You almost cried when it happened. Nothing ever felt that right. As he lets go, you have so much to say but you’re speechless. All you could do is take the chance he gave you— you kissed him back, again and again.

Another one of his favorite places to kiss is behind houses Kisses behind houses were for a quick session or during the moments he’d be leaving for a trip. Sometimes the things he had to do meant there was a possibility of him dying, and while there were times that you’d journey with him, there were other times when you were needed elsewhere whether at home or on a journey of your own. This meant goodbye kisses. Passionate but bittersweet.

These are the moments he wishes more than ever that fucked you— he means had sex with you– he’s a gentleman— the night before, just in case he didn’t come back. Most of the time he cannot even think about kids. This world is crazy, and he enjoyed his freedom far too much, but there were moments, like when he thought about how he couldn’t see life without you that he did wonder about legacy, about a domestic life with you, or, if he did die, to at least leave you with a piece of him and the love you build together. But then other times he thinks, fuck, no; he always comes back and he’d never want to leave you to do something as big as raise a child on your own– you liked your freedom too, and he liked being an uncle. Either way, it was a fleeting feeling anyhow, but it did make him feel like a gross guy sometimes. Not only because he had never spoken to you about the future yet and didn’t know what you want, but especially during the times where he thinks, damn, he should have turned you over onto your stomach last night, give you something you’d really remember him by, but truly, if one likes sex, these thoughts are that one has sometimes… no one can blame him, he’s just a 40-something-year old girl, after all.

Daryl also likes taking you into the woods for a hunt or taking you on his motorcycle to find a good place to kiss. He is obsessed with privacy. He wants to feel free to be himself. And even though he does feel like he can with the core group, the real him around them is not the same as when he is the real him around you– the one who is your boyfriend and partner, the him who can also be a romantic and sexual being when you two are alone. Almost no one knows him like that and he’s never been in a rush to share or talk about his experiences. He’s not like Rick, he feels, that kind of effortless shifting between roles Rick has about him, not afraid to be open, communicative, affectionate about different areas of his life with friends. In some ways he will always still feel new to all this romance stuff, therefore, he likes to keep it to himself. So yes, sometimes since the group thinks they all have the right to walk into each other’s houses whenever they feel like it— (Daryl is actually the main culprit of this since he has had free dinners and slept in most of their couches and basements than anyone else, but we wont talk about that now)—you have made out or had sex in quite a few different places.

Moving back to the sweeter stuff, Daryl also loves forehead kisses. Giving them and reviving them. But if he was receiving he only liked it when you two were alone. In fact, he likes any kissing only when you’re alone anyway, but especially so to any kissing or affection that look super domestic. Daryl doesn’t try to look cool, but he also doesn’t need the public to know he has more emotions and ways of nurturing that people in town don’t need to know of. He doesn’t consciously consider himself a mysterious person but, ever since most people started generally liking him and talking to him– which he equally found as both pretty nice and weird– he realized he covets the fact that there are still some people who were shy, confused, or on edge by his presence. He doesn’t totally get it and sometimes he’s confused by other people’s confusion but he likes that it means he has some sort of control. You think about how people treat him versus how he is with Rick or the kids in town, or you are hilarious. People think he’s the guy who gets it done or that he’s domineering or both, and he is those things, but he’s also just a massive teddy bear that likes caring for people while also not liking people. It's the most interesting paradox.

Lastly, here is Daryl’s favorite kiss. It was one you had given him. He said it. He finally told you. You had told him a story of how someone left you, how much it hurt, how hard it is to know you’ll never get to talk to them again, to settle things, to let go the proper way now that you’re in this new world. So, in return, to make you feel less alone and to finally get it out, he told you that sometimes Meryl only ever told him he loved him when he got hurt. He told you that it felt like Meryl picked the times that cared for him, cared for him like brother should and not just sidekick or accomplice, that it was those instances and others things that had happened to him in his past with his dad or with the group in the beginning of all of this, is what made him feel he was unlovable. So many other things came out after that and even through the shock, you could see everything he said happening to him, it made sense, and your heart broke for him.

This time, you move your hand to his, you beckon him closer. Your fingers trail down his face after placing a piece of his hair to the side, caressing his. You tell him, “I’ve never had a friend like you. I’ve never had a love like you. I love you all the time. You’re always worthy.” And with that, you seal your words with a kiss.

That was when he truly knew he liked kissing. He learned what it could actually mean and feel like when it happens with someone so perfect for you— the true peace and romance of it all. He had never experienced something more beautiful.

[lostinlovingrevery]

Just a thought and no offense but I think Logan just wants to be in love and feel loved in return.

(This isnt proofread and came out as rambling so have fun trying to read it and decipher it! 😅)

So WE ALL know that Logan can be flirty, and that he may have had a period where he was a bit of a manwhore (*cough* 70s Logan *cough*)

I feel like that period though, and any other flings, one night stands, etc whatever was less out of lust and more of a desperation to feel SOME kind of human connection bc the mans so lonely and has been treated like a soldier, a weapon for so long that hes desperate for human connection, even if it makes him end up feeling depraved afterwards. Post-nut clarity wakes him up next to some girl he met at a bar, and guilt sinks its teeth into him because he doesnt even know her name, much less actually LIKE her. The man was born in the 1800s, he may have grown with time but you cannot tell me theres not some inkling of being a gentleman- and wanting to find someone you truly love, hidden in there somewhere. I think overtime he may fall into this routine, believing he needed to be a walking sex magnet, gruff, cocky, whatever have you because hes convinced its the only way he can have a connection with someone, even if its for a few passionate moments under bedsheets, and an awkward "that was nice. Bye"

It only fuels his self hatred, convincing him that he really his just an animal, looking to get his sick desires out, eat, fuck, sleep, survive.

When we see him in the X movies, as a cage fighter he is brutal and rough and he doesnt seem to have a caring bone in his body yet he still manages to find himself caring about this young girl who stowawayed in his trailer, and does help her, even if he acts like this version of logan he created. Someone who doesnt care. But he cares. A lot.

Its not until he meets YOU, that he starts to wonder if he got it all wrong. Kind, beautiful, smart YOU.

I fully believe that logan just wants a partner. One night stands, flings, what have you, were just him lying to himself, desperate to feel something other than hate. After he lost his memories, and he began just wandering, the concept of love was lost on him. And lust wasnt there anymore either. He was approached by women, perfectly fine, pretty women, all the time during his time cage fighting, bars, etc. He turned them all away- completely opposite of logan 30-40 years ago (my timing probs not right on xmen lol) who was convinced the only way he was living was if he had ass next to him every night he went to sleep because he was lonely. This version of logan, lost, angry, wanted nothing to do with people. Some of it the repressed feelings coming out from his past that he doesnt even remember. He was convinced then that he had to be alone. Becoming a lone wolf that bared his teeth at anyone who tried to pet it. Secretly though, deep down although he wouldnt admit it, there was that deep desire, that he always felt in his 200 years, that he just wanted to find his mate. He'd call soulmates bullshit if you asked him, but the moment he meets you, hed know that it was real, and that maybe god cursed (gifted) him the ability of healing and practical immortality just so he could find you. And hed do it over and over again, the pain and suffering and loneliness, if it meant you would be the endgoal.

Logan is a pack animal. He needed a family, to protect, and cherish. When he meets and ends up at the x-men, his demeanor and attitude changes quickly to something similar to a dog that snaps at you when you pet it only for it to whine and whimper "im sorry, please dont hate me, i just dont know how to accept love.". Hes still wary, because hed never KNOWN a family before. Put aside his memory loss, the closest things he had to a family was a creep of a brother, and a woman who said she loved him under false pretenses (i still dont like you kayla even if you say it was real). He barely knew his parents, and even then that was a lie because his father wasnt even his biological father. Yeah, Logans life was pretty damn lonely, so its no wonder the man is cautious of anybody and anything.

The moment you come into his life though, that bitterness, anger, and meaningless flirting goes right out the window. Hes serious about you. Hes usually cautious, nervous around people but he meets you and its almost like he threw all those imaginary rules he has for himself out of the window.

Look at how he was with Jean in the movies. He barely knew the woman, they barely shared ANY lines in the movie yet he was almost completely devoted (dont get me started on that storyline). Trust didnt come easy to the wolverine. And Kayla- their relationship just shows how much he wants love and to be loved. I never seen origins but a lot of gifsets and read the synopsis of the plot, but i think he had a feeling with Kayla he couldnt trust (remember how he says hell never go against his gut again?) But he so badly just wanted that connection he ignored all the warning signs and did everything to build a life with this woman who not only tricked him, but put him through unimaginable pain both physically and mentally. (Look I REALLY dont like kayla but i do feel bad for her because stryker did have her sister captive). I know stryker is the evil mastermind here, but god imagine trying to find love with someone, only for it all to be a farce, even if they claimed they did love you the entire time- the intentions from the very beginning was far from love.

Oh but when he is in love with you. From the moment he met you, it wasnt love at first sight exactly, more like a feeling that you were it. Hes all about you. He sticks around, under the pretense that he just needed to make some money first, doing some missions for charles, keep an eye on rogue. He cant admit its because he wants to stay close to you. Hes like a feral cat taking shelter in your shed. Stays away at first, cautious of your spspspsp, but curious nonetheless. Completely ignores the first bowl of food you put down for it- or so you thought because when you came back it was completely devoured. It takes weeks of food and spspsps before it finally warms up to you, but after that first contact with your hand and its head- good luck ever getting rid of it. Not that youd want to 😊

Logan becomes a shadow to you, once you become something akin to friends. (Its really more than that but no ones addressed it). He teases you and flirts with you, and its something you think he does with everyone, until Ororo tells you that he only does it to you. Sometimes he just sits in your company, other times hes curious about what youre working on, not wanting to start the convo, but does things like leering over your shoulder (which he may or may not be doing just to he close to you and get a good whiff of the smell of your hair). He stresses when you go on missions without him. He slowly opens up about his past to you when he begins to get his memories back. Trusting only you (and maybe charles) with the truth ablut the man he used to be, and still is.

When your feelings finally do come out in the open though, however it happens, that first kiss, the first time you make love, etc etc. Logans a different man. I mean, hes still that cocky, grumpy person we all know and love. But he carried himself differently. Hes confident and wiser, hes comfortable, and hes happy. He found a home, his pack. And maybe after countless conversations about his past, the things hes done, and the comforting words and understandings you give him, he starts to learn that he isnt so bad, because if you love him, YOU, the most wonderful person hes ever known in 200 years, love him despite all of his violence and hatred and slight whoreish tendecies back in the 70s...then he must be alright.

He doesnt need to worry about his past anymore, when hes got you, right there with him, promising a loving future together.

[marvelstoriesepic]

Like a Phoenix (1)

Pairing: Mercenary!Bucky x Princess!Reader

Series Summary: An attack on your palace thrusts your only hope for survival into the hands of a mercenary who is forced to protect you, all due to a vow he made many years before. Though, those are circumstances neither of you have chosen.

Word Count: 7.9k

Warnings: Bucky is a dick; mentions of murder, fire, death, knives; loss of parents; sexism; violence; prejudices

Author’s note: First part. Hope you enjoy! I'd be happy if you let me know what you think ♡

Series Masterlist | Masterlist

The evening went well. Or that’s what you tell yourself every single time.

You played your part impeccably - every nod, every word, every glance, and every smile was measured and graceful.

Even the rivals among the lords seemed charmed tonight.

You didn’t really catch a glimpse of your father, but that is nothing new to you.

Thankfully, you could spend a little time with your mother before the banquet began. She always insists on braiding your hair for formal events. Usually, that was meant to calm you down when you were little but she still insists on doing it, despite the fact that those formalities don’t matter to you anymore.

They always leave you feeling uncomfortable, like you are merely a sculpture to be appraised.

Tonight’s garment had been chosen with precision. Of course not from you. You don’t get to choose your own clothes. They are softly lilac colored silken folds, embroidered with delicate threads of gold to catch the light. It hugs your frame in a way meant to flatter but left you feeling exposed the whole evening.

You play your part, but you hate it.

The music, the scent of roasted meats, the spiced wine, the laughter of guests - it’s always the same. You scarcely even remember what kind of occasion today’s banquet even marked.

All you remember are the gazes lingering on your body.

Men who have long since passed their prime looked upon you with the hungry eyes of wolves, their smiles a thin veneer of civility. Their eyes did not see a girl barely stepping into adulthood, they saw a prize. A princess. A pawn in the great game of power.

Gazes can move away but the heat of every single one lingers. You still feel it on your collarbones, the curve of your neck, the way the gown cinches at your waist.

Your worth is measured not by your thoughts or your dreams, but by the alliances your hand could forge.

You despise it.

But your father doesn’t care. He doesn’t look out for you in situations like that. He just expects you to play the part you are meant to. And sadly, you do. Because you don’t have a choice. This is what your life was meant to be.

Only your mother would notice the way your shoulders always stiffen when a lord leans too close or the way you avoid the wine, lest you dull your senses in a room full of predators.

She would smile at you kindly, reassuringly, probably trying to give you some strength in knowing that she understands what it feels like. And you do appreciate her gesture.

But even her love and her sympathy can not unbind you from the duties imposed by your birth.

You wanted to scream the second you stepped into the great hall. You wanted to tear the silken gown from your body, strip away the gold and jewels, and stuff them into the faces of the many greedy men. You wanted to shout until your voice grew hoarse.

But you can not.

You are a princess.

A princess does not scream. She does not cry. She does not falter.

Your life is not your own. Your voice is not your own. Even your smile belongs to the court, to the crown, to the men who watch you with eyes that devour.

Sometimes, you long for freedom. But what does freedom even mean?

You have no frame of reference for a life beyond these walls, these duties, these suffocating expectations.

The world outside the palace is unknown to you - a mystery, a threat, a promise so far out of reach.

And yet, as you sat at the banquet table just hours before, smiling politely at a lord who complimented your gown while his eyes lingered far too long, you thought even the unknown would be better than this.

So now, back from hell, you are so ready to get into bed and sleep your misery away as you try every day. It hasn’t entirely worked out yet, but a princess can hope.

The tight corset, the layers of silken skirts, the necklace that hangs heavy - all symbols of your station, all unbearable tonight. Every night.

A maid is at your side, about to loosen the clasps at your wrists and shoulders to let the gown slip away.

You’re ready to let it pool around your feet and step into your robe, letting the candlelight brush and warm your collarbone and bask in the silence of the faded music from the hall below.

But before anything of that can happen, there is no silence anymore.

It’s distant at first, muffled. Unrecognizable.

But the sounds grow louder, sharper, and the hands of the maid freeze. You do too.

A roar pierces the stone walls, then another, and another. Steel clashes.

A scream, then another, and another.

Those aren’t screams of surprise, or anger, or perhaps the aftermath of too much alcohol. No, those are long, guttural wails that make your blood run dry.

Death spills over into sounds just outside your doors.

Your candle wavers as the ground beneath your feet seems to tremble. You clutch the edge of the dressing table to steady yourself.

It is as though the palace itself is exhaling its last breath.

The doors to your chambers burst open with a force that sends the wooden panels crashing against the walls.

Your lady screams at the sound.

You spin around, equally in fear, heart leaping to your throat and almost spilling over into a sound as well.

A relieved exhale flutters out of your body at the face you see.

It is Sir Barton.

He has always been there, from your earliest memories. You see him more often than your own father, though his face now is drawn, pale, and streaked with soot. His blond hair is usually meticulously combed, but now it’s disheveled, and his armor bears fresh scratches and bloodstains.

His chest rises and falls with ragged breaths and his eyes - fierce and determined, but aching with something more - lock onto yours.

“Your Highness,” he says, his voice breaking through the panic. “You must come. Now!”

He doesn’t spare a glance at the hyperventilating lady hiding behind your dresser. And after you take a second too long to follow him, he steps forward and grabs your arm - not with the gentleness of a knight guiding royalty but with the desperation of a man trying to save a life.

He leads you out.

“What is happening?” you whisper, a shudder raking down your spine at the way the sounds are getting so much more real with each step you take.

“The palace is under attack,” Sir Barton says, eyes still focused forward. “They’ve breached the outer gates. We don’t have much time.”

He seems to feel you hesitate because his grip tightens on you. His steps don’t falter.

The hallways are dark and thick with the acrid stench of smoke. Shouts echo from all sides, some distant, some too close.

Barton shields you with his body as a deafening crash shakes the walls, sending dust raining from the ceiling.

“This way,” he commands and you have no choice but to follow him blindly, clutching at his cloak.

At one point, he stops abruptly, pressing you into the shadow of an archway, shielding you again and only turning to you after the commotion turned far away. His face is grim, his voice a whisper.

“Stay close to me, no matter what happens. Do you understand?”

You nod, though your throat is too tight to form words.

The air in the tunnels he leads you through is cold and damp, pressing in from every side. But you can barely feel it. Your legs burn from the fast pace Sir Barton holds, your lungs clawing for breath.

Sir Barton's tight grip on your wrist is the only thing you can latch on in this darkness. His armor clinks with every step.

You don’t ask him where you are going. But there is a question you need to ask.

“Where are my parents? Where is Mother? Are they both led here as well? Will they follow us?”

Alright, perhaps more than one question.

Seconds stretch without an answer. His armor still clinks. He squeezes your wrists - a warning not to ask further. A warning not to expect an answer.

Something creeps into your mind, something insidious and cold.

Sir Barton guides you into a small alcove carved into the rock, barely wide enough for the two of you. His shoulders heave heavily and you make out the glistening of sweat on his face even in the darkness.

You open your mouth again, taking a breath, but his expression stops you.

Sir Barton, the unshakable knight, the man who stood at your father’s side for decades, looks broken. His usually grey eyes are shadowed. His lips are parted, but no sound comes out, the weight of what he has to say even too much for him.

His jaw is tight. There is a tiny shake of his head as he releases a breath that cracks you open right in the middle, leaving a gaping hole where your heart once was.

And in that shatter, you linger. You don’t know if you’ll ever get out.

Because you know what his silence means.

“No.” the word is barely audible. You stumble in your steps. “No. They can’t be. Don’t tell me they’re gone. They… They’re not!”

More silence. More tension.

“No!” You shake your head, stepping back until your shoulders hit the cold, rough stone. Your legs feel as though they might give way beneath you.

“Your Highness.”

Sir Barton takes hold of your arm again. Almost roughly. His voice is clipped, his breath is broken. But there is vehemence in his words. Something deep weighed, but strong and determined as he meets your eye intensely, gripping you hard.

“I feel deep regret for their loss. But I swore an oath to protect you. And I will keep it.”

With that, he hauls you forward again, falling into his fast pace.

You can’t help but follow. You let yourself get dragged.

The tunnels seem unending. And although the screams and the tumult are no longer in earshot, every sound you hear feels like a betrayal. Every footstep, every breath a reminder that your parents would breathe no more.

Your thoughts are wild things, crashing against the confines of your skull - flashes of your mother's sweet smile, your father's stern but still warm eyes, the sudden attack with the screams, and the clashes, and the steel.

Grief is an excruciating pain. Your breaths are trapped, pounding on the walls of the cage that is your chest. Begging for release. Your heart still seems to be missing. Or it simply is divided into so tiny pieces it feels like it vanished entirely. It disappeared into the crack of the earth, giving way to roots, the tremor of something breaking open to grow.

Grief is the fullness of too much.

Too much feeling, too much meaning, too much of the world compressing itself into a single-held breath.

And that breath lingers.

Not because it cannot rise, but because rising would undo you.

The tunnels end.

You don’t even know how long you’ve been walking them, but you emerge into a hollow chamber, dimly lit by flickering torchlight. The air is colder here, less stagnant. It smells faintly of earth and steel. Your pulse quickens.

There is a man.

He stands there, leaning against the far wall, the flicker of firelight wildly illuminating the sharp planes of his face.

He didn’t move when you entered, not even a shift of his shoulders. He remains standing there, utterly unbothered, casually sharpening his blade against the whetstone in his hand, as though your arrival is an inconvenience rather than an event of consequence.

His leather armor looks worn, clinging to his tall frame as if he’s been wearing it for years.

His hair is dark, a smooth chestnut brown, and it is unruly, curling slightly at his temples as though it had been left to grow wild for too long.

He looks like a mercenary. He probably is one.

You try to find strength in Sir Barton's solid presence beside you. He doesn’t seem surprised at this man being here. More like, he is relieved.

The mercenary sighs, long and exaggerated, as if this entire meeting is a chore he’s been dragged into against his will.

He tugs the blade back into its holster at his side, throwing the stone casually aside and the clank of it against the ground sounds out loud enough for you to shrink into yourself ever so slightly.

Slowly, the man pushes himself off the wall with the effortless poise of a predator, standing to his full, imposing height.

He is still a little distance away from you, but you find your skin prickle when his gaze falls over you. He seems utterly unimpressed.

His eyes struck you. They are icy, strategic. It’s not the first thing that comes to mind when you think of the color blue. However, that’s the essence of the blue in his eyes.

He doesn’t regard you as a princess. He regards you as a problem.

“Your Highness,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that makes the title sound more like an insult than an honor.

He gives the faintest bow, a mockery of decorum, the corner of his mouth curling into a smirk that barely hides his amusement.

This man regards you with the same detached air he might afford a stranger begging for coin.

His posture remains loose, almost insolent, and yet there is something in the way he carries himself that warns you not to mistake his casual attitude for weakness.

“Is this it, Barton?” he asks, turning his sharp gaze to the knight, who stands protectively at your side. “This is the prize you want me to bleed for?” He raises a single brow, arms crossed over his chest, his expression one of sardonic disbelief. His voice is rough, perhaps shaped by years of commanding others or cursing the world.

He throws you a single, apathetic glance. His smile turns into a sneer. “She seems awfully fragile to be worth the trouble.”

Your cheeks burn with anger and humiliation. Perhaps you are, in a sense, fragile. Your hands have never gripped a sword, your feet have never trudged through mud and blood, and the realization that your parents are no longer alive threatens to make you crumble right then and there.

But his dismissal feels like an assault on everything you still hold within yourself.

You open your mouth to respond, but the words are sticky and stay clinging to the back of your throat, the glue being grief and exhaustion.

Sir Barton, however, steps forward, his voice low and authoritative.

“She is not your concern to judge,” he firmly declares. “She is your charge, whether you like it or not.”

There is a pause. Sir Barton stands rigid and straight before he continues. His words seem to have trouble coming out but he still makes them sound strong. But you can see the strain in his jaw, the slight tremor in his hand as he adjusts his grip on the pommel of his sword. “Your Majesties - The King and Queen - are no longer with us.”

You flinch, breath catching sharply.

The mercenary stands still. Dark brows shoot up in genuine surprise, though his face remains otherwise unreadable. The contrast is startling, though. His indifference was disrupted by that sharp, flickering reaction.

His surprise unsettles you. His lips part slightly, but whatever words have formed behind them don’t emerge. For a fleeting second, his hard, smug veneer cracks, but just as quickly it reassembles itself.

He purses his lips, looking at the wall for a few moments. His face smooths into something almost deliberately blank. Then his eyes narrow slightly, and though his expression is hard to read, there is something dark and bitter there. But what scares you is the tiny glimpse of satisfaction.

“They’re dead,” he grounds out almost flatly and you find yourself flinching again.

The mercenary gives a sharp, mirthless laugh, the sound echoing painfully. He shakes his head, smile slipping from his face. “Well.” His tone is laced with bitterness. An air of irritation floats around him as he exhales sharply through his nose. “I do believe that changes things,” he then sneers.

Your heart is pounding so drastically, you hope it doesn’t echo around the room as well. You try to breathe as silently as possible. Barton's eyes gleam fiercely as he takes another step toward the man. The mercenary meets his gaze with raised eyebrows, not backing down, not bothered in the slightest.

“I am sure you have not forgotten, Barnes. Do not make me remind you.”

The mercenary - Barnes, you guessed - narrows his eyes, a flicker crossing his features. “I have not forgotten,” he says, voice quiet, almost a growl.

“You swore to protect what mattered to her. You swore to see her will be carried forward. You swore an oath to her. What mattered to her still lives. The princess lives. She is what the Queen cherished above all else, and it is her safety you are bound to protect.”

You watch Barnes’s jaw tighten, displeasure clear on his features.

“You will protect her daughter. Therewith, the oath will be discharged.”

Barnes’s gaze flickers to you, and for the first time, you see something other than indifference or scorn in his eyes. It isn’t kindness, not for a long shot, more like conflict. As though he is weighing you, judging you against the memory of the woman who had once earned his loyalty. The woman that is your mother. Or was your mother, you acknowledge with a lump in your throat.

“I swore to protect what mattered to her. But I did not know it would be her daughter. His daughter,” he spat out the last part, disdain following along his harsh tone.

Your skin is flushed, your chest is heaving, your hands curl into fists. You are confused beyond belief about what exactly is going on. It’s like you are watching yourself getting shoved off into the arms of a mercenary who couldn’t care less about your life.

You don’t know what your mother has done for this man, how deeply her actions have tied him to your family.

But you really don’t like this conversation.

Sir Barton is clearly losing his patience. “And yet, you will protect her still.” His words brook no argument. “The oath binds thee, not to the Crown, nor to me, but to the memory of the Queen. Do you mean to forsake it now?

Barnes exhales a frustrated sigh.

“Fine,” he says at last, the word dropping from his lips like a stone into a well. He straightens, his broad shoulders squaring and his hard eyes fixed on you. “I will keep you alive. But you better not expect me to bow, curtsy, or kiss your hand, your Highness. Do not expect me to coddle you. I am not your knight, and I am not your servant. I’m just the man who gets to clean up your mess.”

He then steps closer to Barton, standing almost nose to nose but none of the men back down. Barnes’s gaze is menacing. “I am a man of my word. But do not mistake my actions for loyalty to the Crown.”

“I would not dare, Bucky Barnes,” Sir Barton counters coldly.

Something twists inside you at this man’s words - anger, yes, but also something deeper, something more profound, something hard to press down.

You hate the way he dismisses you, the way he refuses to see you as more than your title.

You want to protest, to tell Sir Barton that this is a terrible idea. And that this is not his decision to make. You should have a say in who guards you, who holds your fate in their hands. Though, being realistic, you never had a say in anything. Your father always made sure of that.

And despite him not being here anymore, the safety of the palace is gone, just like your mother's love. There is no way you are getting out of here safely without some help and you hate it. You hate the fact that you have no idea how to wield a sword, throw a knife, or face the horrors of war.

You grew up in the sheltered halls of the palace, surrounded by courtiers and silks, not steel and blood.

So, Barton’s faith in this man - however misplaced it seems to you - is all that stands between you and whatever awaits beyond the damp darkness of the tunnels. It’s all that can get you out of here in one piece.

You want to hate this Bucky Barnes. To rail against the unfairness of it all - fleeing in the dead of night in a gown that is not at all suitable for an escape, weighed down by the pain of your parents’ demise, entrusted to a man who seems to care little whether you live or die.

He might have sworn to keep you alive, but that doesn’t mean he won’t happily watch you get hurt.

And yet - for all his roughness, for all his scorn - you can’t shake that there is something more to him.

He is dangerous, that much is clear, but there is also a sense of control about him, an air of competence that both reassures and unnerves you.

This man does not want to protect you.

He does not care about your title, your lineage, or your grief.

He is here because he has to be, because of a single promise he made.

You wonder if he really is a man of his word.

Bucky Barnes studies you again. His expression is hard, inscrutable. Then he says, his tone dry, almost mocking. “The road ahead will not be kind. Do not expect me to be sympathetic.”

****

You stumble forward through the tunnels.

Your limbs feel like lead, your breaths are shallow.

The air seems to have forgotten to hold you.

You don’t know how your legs keep moving, how your body is able to obey commands you no longer consciously give.

Perhaps it is the inertia of shock. The kind that shakes in your hands, makes them search for a reality that is no longer solid. The kind that makes you believe the universe is folding in on itself, a star imploding in the vastness of your chest. You are the void it leaves behind - immense, consuming, and desperately reaching for light.

But there is no light.

The tunnels are silent and dark, except for the torchlight the man in front of you carries and the footsteps that sound out. But the torchlight seems to illuminate more shadows than it chases away.

There is a distant drip of water echoing through the labyrinth but you are too tired to try and make out where it comes from.

Bucky - or Barnes - or whatever you even are supposed to call him now, moves through the darkness as though it is his domain, as if the passages yield to his command.

He scarcely takes a moment to reflect on his path, turning corners and selecting forks with an animalistic accuracy that disturbs you.

His pace is brisk, his steps calculated. There is a certain confidence, a strength, in the way he holds himself, an instinctual awareness that might have captivated you, were you not so consumed by sorrow and wariness.

Just earlier this day you had imagined leaving those constricting castle walls but it seems the freedom you had dreamed of meets you in a way you never would have thought possible.

You don’t feel like the perfect princess you played just hours earlier.

You are a disheveled figure trailing behind a stranger in the bowels of the earth.

The air is lacking the lavender and citrus of the gilded halls you walked through your whole life. Here, the air is damp, heavy with the scent of soil and decay. The stones of those walls are cold and rough, nothing like the smooth marble walls from the polished balustrades of the palace.

The man walking ahead of you hasn’t spoken a single word to you since you parted from Sir Barton.

You’re not sure if the silence is meant to intimidate or if he simply doesn’t care enough to speak.

His broad shoulders move steadily. His stride is long and swift, forcing you to half jog just to keep him in sight.

He doesn’t look back. Not once.

Maybe it's for the best, you reflect with resentment. Any word that could escape his lips would likely be brimming with animosity towards your family regardless. And distance between you and this man feels safer.

There is something coiled about him, something you can’t name but feel in the way he carries himself.

The torch he holds throws flickering light across the sharp planes of his face when he passes too near a wall.

His jaw is set, his expression grim.

His eyes - bright in color but oh so dark, when they had deigned to glance at you before - are unreadable pools of shadow, devoid of warmth.

He is not kind. He is not comforting. He is a stranger, forced into your service by circumstances neither of you have chosen.

You don’t know what desperation Sir Barton must have felt to send you away with this wild man. Bucky Barnes seems as indifferent to your survival as he is to your existence, and yet, here he is, leading you through an underground labyrinth you can only hope leads somewhere safe.

You feel the urge to speak - to inquire about where he is taking you, to seek answers, to convey the growing frustration and fear that seem ready to shatter you. Greater than you already are.

But the words flee as soon as they are formed. Leaving only the roar of nothingness.

There hasn’t been time to mourn, no time to feel.

Sir Barton had hurried you through the secret corridors under the palace, with his hold tight on your arm, and his tone tense with urgency.

He didn’t ask if you wanted to flee. He didn’t ask what you thought was best. He simply acted, as though you were another piece in this tragic game of chess, to be moved and sacrificed as necessity demanded.

You are a princess, yes. But first, you are a person. And in this moment, you feel like neither. You are a shadow following a stranger in the dark, uncertain of the path ahead or the person leading you.

But there is nothing you can do about it.

The tunnels begin to shift.

The walls widen slightly, though the ceiling remains low.

The air grows colder, fresher, carrying with it the faintest scent of pine.

You realize with a start that you must be nearing the forest. Relief and fear wars within you. The palace is behind you, but how is this supposed to go on?

Barnes slows. Finally.

He comes to a stop at a rusted iron gate, the hinges creaking in complaint as he shoves it open with one hand.

Beyond it lay a rough-hewn staircase carved into the rock, leading upward into a faint glimmer of moonlight.

He turns to glance at you for the first time since you are alone with him.

“Keep up,” he says, his voice low, and rough, and utterly devoid of warmth.

You say nothing, biting your tongue. Perhaps to stifle the frustration that threatened to shove a snarky retort out of your mouth that might lead to your early grave, or the tears that threatened to sting behind your eyes ever since you heard of your parent's passing.

Instead, you nod curtly - he isn’t even looking at you anymore to see it - and step forward, legs trembling, feet already aching, with the effort, and follow him up those stairs.

The stone steps beneath your shoes are rough - like everything in your life now as it seems.

Each step you climb seems to strip something away - your strength, your breath, your will. Each step seems to demand more from your trembling legs, every motion a reminder of how deep you’ve fallen - from grace, from safety, from everything you have ever known.

Erratic shadows move over Barnes's ahead of you, his broad frame a dark silhouette against the faint moonlight spilling down from above.

You struggle to keep up. The air is cold, sharp with the sting of frost and pine, but it does nothing to clear your thoughts.

As you reach the top of the stairs, the night sky opens before you, vast and infinite, studded with stars.

But their light is dim against the inferno that rages behind you.

You turn around slowly.

Shock and utter terror flood every single one of your senses. The world seems to pull away beneath your feet, but it does not let you fall. It lets you hover, holds you suspended in a hollow-out silence as if it means to forget about you. As if you’re not worth the fall. Meant to suffer in silence. Meant to suffer the terror of drifting in a void where even gravity has abandoned you.

Far in the distance stands your palace.

Your home for every single day of your life.

And it is all up in flames.

Consumed by them. Greedily gulped up by them.

The towers that once touched the heavens now spit fire and ash.

The gilded walls, the halls where you had danced and dined and dreamed, collapse in on themselves, devoured by the flames’s hunger.

The sight steals your breath.

Your legs give out for a moment, and you stagger, clutching the bark of a nearby tree.

Barnes notices you falter, his gaze flickering back toward you.

You don’t make a move to look at him. You don’t do anything other than stare at your life breaking apart in the distance.

But for his indifference and gruff demeanor, he does not bark at you to move along. He just stands tensely.

The flames lick at the night sky, their glow painting the darkness in hues of violent orange and crimson. Smoke rises in thick, twisting plumes, swallowing the stars, blotting out the heavens.

The great spires that had once stood so proud against the skyline now crumble beneath the viciousness of the fire. The golden banners that had fluttered in the wind just hours ago are ash now, carried in the same breeze that chills your skin.

It has been only hours - hours since you stood in the great hall, dressed in the very same silks you are still wearing, the air filled with laughter and music. The banquet, the formalities, the endless charade of being a princess - all of it suddenly feels like a lifetime ago.

You had thought it then. How it might feel to leave it all behind. How it might feel to shed the heaviness of the crown, to break free from the stifling demands and expectations that constrained you, the scrutiny of the court.

You dreamed of freedom, of a life beyond these walls. You imagined it. You wanted to see the world, to be more than a title, more than a pretty body in a gown, more than a vessel for alliances and admirations.

And now here you are, watching it all burn.

It doesn’t feel like freedom.

It doesn’t feel like anything you had dreamed of.

Your body becomes foreign, a machine running on instinct alone. Your chest heaves. Because it knows it needs air. But it doesn’t seem to get enough, judging the harsh rise and fall of your chest.

Your heart thunders, but it seems to have lost its rhythm, shaking but not steadying. It’s in panic. Pumping and pumping and pumping so much blood but where is it supposed to go?

Every room that now is a pile of ash on the ground held a memory. Every part of the castle was your home. The gardens where your mother had taught you the names of every flower growing there. The study where your father's voice sternly had shaped your understanding of duty. The kitchens where the maids had smuggled you pastries as a child.

It is all gone.

You are gone.

Your parents are gone. The King and Queen - your mother and father - are dead. Their crowns, their rule, their lives reduced to ash.

Yes, you wanted to be free. You wanted to leave this life behind but you never wanted it to happen like this. You never wanted your home to burn, your family to die, your title to become meaningless in the most violent of ways.

You wanted to leave the crown and not have it ripped away from you.

You wanted to see the world but now you aren’t sure you even have a place in it.

Swallowing the tightness in your throat, you force back the sting in your eyes.

You want to scream, to rage, to fall on your knees and weep until there is nothing left of you.

But you can’t break down now. Not here. Not now. Not in front of him.

Barnes still stands a little away from you. He has turned as well, though his expression is unreadable. His eyes reflect the firelight, the flames flickering like tiny ghosts in his gaze.

He doesn’t say anything and you are sure you don’t want him to. He surely would not tell you he is sorry.

He doesn’t look sorry at all. If anything, he looks tired. Detached. As though this is just another job, another mission. Another life going up in flames.

He simply stands there, his figure slightly outlined by the torch and the moon, waiting.

You hate him in that moment. Hate the way he stands there so calmly, so unconcerned, while your world is crumbling down. Hate that he isn’t doing a single thing to acknowledge the gravity of what had happened.

But then his gaze shifts. Just slightly. For a fleeting moment, you thought you saw something crossing his expression. A shadow of something too fleeting to name. Pity? Regret? Compassion?

No, you tell yourself. He doesn’t care. Why would he?

And he shifts then.

After all, the world hasn’t stopped for your grief, and neither would he.

A clear of his throat. “C’mon. Told you to keep up.”

He doesn’t say it unkindly, but he says it bored. Monotone. Flat. And that might just be worse.

You draw in a shaky breath and turn away from the fire, though the image remains burned into your mind. It might be reduced to ash there too, but it won’t ever be swept away by the wind.

****

You have no idea how long you’ve been dragging your body through this forest.

It seems like an eternity.

Aching legs barely lift high enough to make the next step. The soles of your feet throb in time with the pounding of your head.

Your steps are so heavy, you might think the earth sought to pull you down, to bury you beneath its roots and brambles. You might just let it.

The thin slippers you wear - so ill-suited for a flight through the wilderness - offer little protection from the rocks and gnarled roots beneath.

The tightness in your chest is beating. Thud. Thud. Thud. It might be your heart, but it doesn’t feel like it.

Each inhale burns, the night air carrying shards of glass instead of cool relief. They scratch your throat and your face heats at the effort to keep from coughing.

Your arms hang limply by your sides. They are scraped and raw from pushing against barks and thorns. Even lifting your hands to brush a stray branch from your path feels like a monumental effort at the moment.

Your fingers are pale, losing their place in the map of your body.

The trees surrounding you loom high above. They stand so close together that only the faintest slivers of moonlight dare to filter through.

There are endless shadows, all connected with each other, twisting and merging, until there is no discernible path, no way to tell where you are or where you are going.

Not that you have a clue anyway.

The shadows seem to breathe. They surround you completely, absorbing every noise except for the crunch of leaves underfoot and the sporadic hoot of an owl, which causes you to jump each time it calls out.

Even Barnes seems like a shadow himself, moving with a surety still too many steps in front of you - silent, unknowable, untouchable.

And then he is gone.

You didn’t even notice at first. You were too focused on keeping your legs moving, too consumed by the fog of your thoughts. But when you lift your gaze, he is nowhere to be seen.

The tightness in your chest keeps thudding, so loud, so sharp, so fast. Thud. So many thuds. Thud. They try to escape. Thud. Try to leave your chest all of a sudden. Thud. Escaping. Thud. Fleeing. Thud. But there is no way out. Thud. Your ribs are closing in. Thud. Your chest is a locked room with no windows.

Panic.

Wild eyes are darting around, breaths sound in your ears, hands tremble at your side so helplessly.

You knew this was a bad idea. What in the world did Sir Barton think would come out of giving you into the care of a mercenary? Those men are not to be trusted. Those men don’t care about the things they promised.

Bucky Barnes waited for the perfect moment to leave you alone. He took you out, deep into the forest, and then vanished.

He left you alone. He left you to die. He left you to rot.

You should have seen it coming and yet your heart is thundering, your world is spinning faster than you can hold.

You won’t give this man the satisfaction of calling for him. Wherever far he might have gone already.

But you wouldn’t get a word out even if you tried.

Your body becomes its own betrayal, muscles taut and trembling, teeth clenching against the unbearable roar of your own pulse.

He betrayed your mother. He betrayed Sir Barton. He betrayed you-

There he is.

Leaning against a tree, arms casually crossed over his chest, making his muscles strain under the grey shirt beneath his brown leather armor.

He looks as though he’s been waiting there for hours, watching you stumble through the dark like some clumsy, lost creature. His head tilts slightly, his face twisted in an impassive expression that doesn’t make you relax as much as you had thought.

But then the corner of his mouth tugs up in a smirk. Amusement and mild exasperation mix in his gaze, as though your panic has been nothing but entertainment and a burden for him.

Your blood boils.

He doesn’t say a word. The slight raise of his brow, the subtle shift of his weight against the tree, say everything.

He simply turns and starts walking again, knowing you will follow.

You hate him.

Oh, how much you hate him.

But unfortunately not because of his smirk, tough that certainly stokes the fire. Not because of the way he moves through the forest so effortlessly, while you struggle for every step. Not because of his silence, his cold aloofness that feels like a slap to the face every time you dare hope for some shred of kindness.

You hate him because he is right.

You are fragile.

There is nothing you can do but follow. He knows it, and you know it.

You are helpless, a princess who grew up like one, trailing after a man who barely tolerates your presence. Because the alternative is unthinkable.

You don’t know these woods. You don’t really know any woods. Don’t know what or who might lurk within them.

You hate that he holds all the power, that your life is now tethered to his whim.

You hate that he seems so unaffected by it all while you are falling apart.

You hate the world for thrusting you into this nightmare.

You hate the gods that took your parents.

You hate the crown that marked you as a target.

You hate the life you lost in the span of a single, horrific night.

But most of all, you hate yourself.

For your weakness. For your dependence. For your title. For not fighting for freedom when you started hoping for it. For not learning what freedom even meant when you started dreaming of it.

Maybe you really aren’t even worth all this.

That would make him right again.

You would love to scream at him. To demand he acknowledge you, to force him to see you as more than a burden, more than a thing to be tolerated.

However, if you don’t believe in yourself as anything other than a hassle for him, then you definitely won’t persuade him to think differently.

Your hopelessness is rewriting you into silence.

And again, you hate yourself for it.

The forest stretches on and so does your pain. And somewhere ahead, Barnes moves through the darkness, being the guide you despise but can’t abandon.

The trees are swaying above you, almost whispering like they are mourners at a funeral. Your funeral.

Barnes stopped walking.

You almost noticed it too late, nearly colliding with him, his wide back suddenly a wall in front of you.

He cast a glance over his shoulder, his sharp eyes flickering down to your trembling form before moving past you to survey the shadows.

He says nothing - he never seems to say much - but you get the sense that this is where you will stay the rest of the night.

Or at least you hope so.

Your feet won’t carry you any longer.

He turns his back to you again and moves forward.

You follow his gaze. There is a small, haphazard clearing, tucked between the roots of a tall oak.

There is nothing welcoming about it.

A rough bedroll lay crumpled near the base of the tree. Its fabric looks weathered and stained. Beside it, there are charred remains of a tiny fire pit, though the ashes are long cold.

A battered pack leans half open against the roots, some of its contents spilling out. You glimpse rope, whetstone, and a dented flask.

You take in the thinness of the bedroll and how it might not even do anything for the hard ground, wondering how anyone could sleep like that.

Thoughts drift to your own bed that now may be reduced to ashes. It was high, draped in silk, the pillows stuffed with down. You used to sleep with the warmth of the hearth that burned low through the night.

It seems like a dream now, something too far removed from the reality that is your life now.

Barnes moves toward the tree, picking up the pack and tossing it down beside the bedroll.

He kneels, checking the contents quickly, before sitting back on his heels.

His eyes catch yours, and the twinkle of humor you had seen earlier is gone, replaced by his coldness, hardness.

You wrap your arms around yourself, partly to fend off the chill, partly to brace against the words that spill from your mouth before you can stop them.

This silence just got a little too unbearable.

“Is this where you slept?”

He looks at you, his expression flat. “What of it?”

The bluntness of his tongue stings, but you press on, emboldened by your desperation and the icy air that feels too silent.

“It does not look like much.”

His brow twitches. “S’ not meant to be.” Irritation roughens his words.

You hesitate. “Do you-”

“Let me make something clear,” he says, his voice low and dignified. He stands then, and even in the faint moonlight, his presence looms over you. He feels more imposing than the trees around you. You swallow hard. “I’m not here to answer your questions. I’m not here to keep you company or make you feel better about your little situation.”

Your cheeks burn, your arms around you tighten at the condescension in his tone. You say nothing, your breath caught in your throat. Your tongue is locked in your mouth.

His jaw is clenching and he exhales a sharp sound that is somewhere between a sigh and a laugh. It’s not a happy laugh though.

“I’m here because I have to be,” he continues. His eyes are fixed so intensely on you, you have to look away. “And you are here because you have nowhere else to go. That’s it. Don’t mistake this for anything else.”

He turns around stiffly and walks over to a patch of ground a few feet from his bedroll. He starts lazily removing sticks and stones to clear the space of dirt.

After he’s done, he moves away and gestures towards it with a careless hand, not even looking at you.

“You’ll sleep there.”

You are about to open your mouth, a protest on your tongue but his head snaps up, his eyes locking onto yours with a warning look.

“Go to sleep.” His voice is commanding. Unkind. He is done with tolerating you for today. “Now!”

You swallow the words that had risen, relieved they didn’t make it up all the way. Because there is no way you can win against this man and you don’t have the fight in you to argue at the moment.

Sinking to the ground he pointed at, you wrap your arms around yourself harder. The dirt is damp beneath you, cold seeping up through the ruined fabric of your gown. It is streaked with dirt, torn by brambles, and clings to you all wrong.

You shiver, your body curling in on itself, though that doesn’t make a difference.

You press your knees to your chest, burying your face in the crook of your arms.

But the chilly air still carves into your cheeks and whispers to your blood to slow.

You think of your mother then. Of the warmth in her smile and the way she used to stroke your hair as she tucked you into bed. You think of your father. He has always been a little harsh on you, a little distant. But you still relied on him in ways you always took for granted.

They are gone. And you are here. In the dirt. In the cold. In the woods. Alone but for a man who doesn’t care for you. He most certainly would leave you here without hesitation if it wasn’t for the oath he gave. To your mother.

You blink back tears, biting down hard on your lip to keep from crying. It is bad he already sees you like this. He can’t also see you cry.

The sound of Barnes’s blade scraping against the whetstone fills the silence.

You close your eyes and try to focus on the sound, trying to let it lull you into some semblance of sleep.

But it only makes your stomach queasy.

“The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly.”

- F. Scott Fitzgerald

[armysantiny]

Straight from where? – Sylus

P: Sylus x female reader | G: fluff, oneshot | Inc: mc!reader, those dreadful dark romance booktok books, office work, Mephisto being a glorified camera, a domestic morning, Sylus being compared to those shitty booktok male reads, mentioned Tara, mentioned Luka and Keiran, small mention of blood on Sylus| Wc: 1.9k | W: mentions of blood | R: G

Summary: After work, y/n’s gifted a few…interesting romance novels from a colleague at work, under the premise that Skye is just like the male love interests. The white hair, red eyes and slick motorbike? A perfect match, if Sylus actually was like the men in those dark romance books. Except he’s not, and the man in question is just as mortified to learn what y/n’s colleagues think he would do to her.

Min's notes: Remember when Sylus was intially released and people started wrongfully comparing him to those really shit male leads?? Yeah so do I which is why I wrote this out of spite. I started writing this a while ago, but it got sidetracked for my Wooyoung fic. Anyway~ enjoy almost 2k words of Sylus not being a shitty dark romance stereotype

It’s the sound of several books hitting her desk at the end of a gruelling workday that brings y/n out of her focus, fingers coming to a pause on the desktop’s keyboard. There are still the mission reports on her screen that need to be filled out, yet the new additions to her desk and her coworker’s eager expression spark curiosity. Taking a quick break to indulge in said sparked curiosities, as per a certain crow’s encouragement, shouldn’t be too bad. She’s been at this for hours anyway, safe to say she’s earned it.

So, she bites.

“What are these?” Y/n chuckles, then takes a proper look at the titles. “Romance…novels?” It’s not that she doesn’t appreciate a good book, but the titles she’s looking at are…fascinating, to say the least.

“Mhm! After Skye accompanied us on our outing last time, and since he’s been here to pick you up a few times, I figured I’d lend these for you to read!” Her fellow hunter answers, al bright-eyed and genuine. They go on a little longer, comparing Sylus—Skye, as far as her coworkers know—to the kind of dark romance male leads that are going viral online. A Zade Meadows kind of man, is the consensus y/n gets once her coworker is done explaining and bids her a good night before getting ready to head home themselves.

And while Sylus is… the way that he is, y/n’s having a hard time believing the very same leader of Onychinus would be capable of doing any of the things she’s heard these male leads do. To other people, sure, y/n’s seen Sylus exert his authority in a myriad of violent ways, but the Sylus Qin she knows is a man weak to her affections, amongst other things.

“Thanks for letting me read them,” she chooses to say after a beat, “I’ll try and get him to read them with me. I’m sure he’ll appreciate the comparison.” Moments after her coworker heads out of the office and is out of earshot, y/n snorts a laugh behind her palm.

As if he’d appreciate it. Which is exactly why y/n plans on taking these books with her to Sylus’ house—castle—tonight.

Driving into the N109 Zone after a long day, a long week in fact, is comforting, the never-ending darkness surrounding y/n as she rides her bike to her destination. The broach is fastened to her coat, a silent badge of protection in the place where shadows exist even in the dark. But it’s not long until she arrives outside the front door of her home away from home, and the home of her favourite crow.

“Pretty bird..?” Y/n calls out, helmet tucked under arm as she wanders around the oddly quiet walls of Sylus’ home. Sure, her bike is parked out front, and the hunter very clearly recalls hearing distinct caws as she left work, but the sprawling expanse of a home is pin-drop silent. Even by N109 standards, it’s quiet. Slipping her shoes off in favour of comfortable slippers, y/n continues her search, her helmet discarded on a side-cabinet.

An endless swath of doors, that’s what y/n decides Sylus’ home is after she opens the nth door to no success. Just where is this man?

Familiar hands wrap around her waist.

“Hello, sweetie.” Sylus smiles, cradling his hunter close against his chest. There are traces of blood on his clothes, a smear or two across his cheek, but that doesn’t matter. Not when his y/n has come all this way to see him. What an honour he’s been bestowed. “A pretty kitten decided to come all this way just to see me. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Do you enjoy scaring the hell out of me?” Y/n complains, trailing her words off with warm laughter that he could drown himself in. “Anyway, where have you been? The house was dead silent, it was weird. Thought you weren’t doing anything today.”

“I had to take care of some… last-minute business with the twins, it kept me longer than I’d have liked.” He admits, unfurling his arms from around y/n’s delectable waist when she wriggles around to go do something. There’s a pep in her step, an excitement that Sylus knows very well means she’s up to something. Or she has something to show him. Either is good.

But there’s still the pressing matter of blood on him and his clothes.

“I’ll head into the shower, sweetie.”

Heading out of the shower a full thirty minutes later and noticeably blood-free, Sylus is met with a stack of books on his dresser as he reaches for his robe, y/n watching him from her spot on the edge of his bed. It doesn’t take long, just a couple of glances between the literature and y/n, for him to come to his conclusion.

“I didn’t know we were expanding our library,” he purrs, sneaking in a forehead kiss and bringing some of the books with his Evol. “Did you buy these? Pardon the assumption, kitten, but I know your taste and… this isn’t exactly it.”

She snickers and oh, he’s not wrong. He’s being set up, lovingly, of course.

“Well, if these aren’t your taste,” he says, “enlighten me with your plans, since we’re evidently going to be reading these for the next few days.”

And, well. The next few days are interesting, to say the least.

He peruses the novels in between meetings, digesting chapter after somewhat delusional chapter, disbelief nearly a permanent expression on his face each time one of these novels are in his hands. How anyone finds any of this… literature, something of actual substance is a mystery and the sooner he can give these sorry excuses for published books back to y/n to return to her colleague, the better. Everything about the ‘romance’ stories he’s been reading leaves a rotten taste in his mouth, worsened further by the fact that this is how y/n’s colleagues think Sylus treats his beloved.

All accusations that couldn’t be further from the truth. Frankly, he’s a little insulted.

He should go and correct this mistake.

“Boss! We’ve got a lead on the group peddling fraudulent weapons out of the old warehouse!” Kieran announces, Luke already heading off to the armoury to gear up. “Shall we get the jump on them?”

So much for seeing his pretty hunter tonight. He’ll just have Mephisto watch her instead.

Just what is so good about these anyway? It’s the only thing that’s been on y/n’s mind all night, tucked in bed with one of the dark romance novels out of the set she’d given to Sylus. A flask of jasmine tea sits on her bedside drawer, the drink and her several plushies around her bed much more interesting than the book in her hand.

If she’s having such a hard time right now, sure her favourite crow isn’t faring any better. She can almost see it now; the displeased hum, his lips curled into a frown and the distinct furrow of his brows.

And of course, the only thing better than thinking about a grumbling Sylus, is to see it in person. Obviously.

Humming along to her playlist early on in the morning as she goes about preparing breakfast, y/n startles at the knock on her door. It’s god-awfully early today, ruling out anyone she could think of off the top of her head. Her hunting partner doesn’t get up for a few more hours at the very least, and there’s no delivery to pick up…

“Morning to you too, sweetie. Off to work?” Sylus grins as she opens the front door, bending down to greet her and with a familiar looking stack of books tucked away under his arm. “Why don’t I drop you off? You can take these back with you as well.”

“How did you know I had to get to work early today?” Y/n certainly doesn’t remember texting Sylus anything other than good morning and a series of happy crow emojis, so she watches him step inside and look towards her balcony. Locking the door behind her before following his line of sight, y/n deadpans.

The crow is there. What a surprise.

“So, would you like that lift to work, kitten?”

Sylus’ motorcycle comes to a stop outside the doors of the Hunter’s Association, the hum of the engine replaced by a fresh dawn breeze as y/n removes her helmet. Her bag is several times heavier, courtesy of Sylus’ effective persuasion during breakfast. Persuasion she couldn’t exactly say no to.

“Sweetie, you can’t possibly believe any of this is good reading material,” Sylus groans, leaning against y/n’s kitchen counter while she eats breakfast. It’s probably the most offended she’s seen him in a while, and out of everything that could annoy Sylus this much, it’s the borrowed book in his hand. “This is frankly a waste of paper and the publisher’s expertise, who allowed this to be released to the public?”

Trying not to laugh through a mouthful of food is proving quite the challenge.

“Some really stubborn people, I imagine. Safe to say you don’t agree with the author’s version, then?” Y/n replies, finishing the rest of her breakfast, pure satisfaction on her face at Sylus’ indignant grumblings. It certainly makes up for Mephisto watching her from the balcony like a glorified spy camera. “Here I was think you didn’t care much for romance. Silly me~”

“The only silly thing here, sweetheart,” his voice echoes out, in time with large, warm hands wrapping around y/n’s waist. “Is the ridiculous notion your colleagues have that I’d be anything like the bastards in those books. Where did that idea come from, hm?”

Surely he’s just messing with her.

“You know exactly why, c’mon.”

“No, enlighten me.”

Her desk is just as tidy as it was when she left it, except for a croissant and her favourite morning coffee from Tara. Setting herself up doesn’t take too long, and all y/n’s left with are the books she needs to return. Books she’d rather never have to look at or read again, thanks very much. Though, there’s nothing she can do about it just yet, when the book’s owner has yet to show up.

With remarkably little callouts, there’s nothing much else for y/n to do but catch up on her remaining reports. Her hands fly across the keyboard, filling out line after line with practically no interruption.

“Y/n!” The same voice from last time calls out, breaking her out of her concentration as her colleague bounds over with enthusiasm. “How were those books I lent you? Any good?”

…is there a polite way to say absolutely horrifying and utterly dreadful?

“Definitely pretty interesting,” Y/n nods, pushing her chair away from her desk to reach for her bag. Might as well return the affronts to literature to their proper owner while she’s at it. “Skye had a read of a few as well, don’t think he’ll be reading anymore now.”

The books exchange hands, finally out of her possession, and y/n’s phone buzzes. Of course it does. Of course he’s watching.

Pretty Bird: Finally, took you long enough sweetie. Good riddance [12:54]

Pretty Bird: Let’s agree to never punish our eyes with that garbage ever again. Deal? [12:54]

Miss Hunter: As long as you agree to pick me up after work, Sy [12:56]

Pretty Bird: Then I guess we have a deal. See you after work, my love [13:00]

© copyright work of armysantiny 2025-2026

If you’ve made it this far, thank you for reading! Consider reblogging, leaving some feedback or donating to my kofi!

Taglist: @freakywonbin | Taglist Form

[deadhands69]

Hitching a Ride

League of Villains x Villain Reader  Eventually: [Tomura Shigaraki x Reader]  [Dabi/Touya Todoroki x Reader] 

“what are the odds of two serial killers in one car?” A quick intro, no real tws for this series other than crimes committed? Unofficially a Route 66 type AU: no locations explicitly mentioned and some references are elsewhere but that's kind of the vibe.

Money acquired, security evaded, and you need to get out of here. 

The unlocked Kia you had your eye on is gone. So much for a getaway car. 

You'll have to hitchhike. With any luck, you can steal the car from whoever picks you up and be off the grid in no time. 

One issue, the deserted road you ran down has almost no cars. The few that have passed are definitely not bold stupid enough to pick up someone dressed head to toe in black with a suspiciously bulky bag slung over their shoulder. Especially not when the windows to the nearby bank are shattered.

But you keep trying, thumb held as high in the air as you can manage. 

You're aware the sirens in the distance are searching for you and you're about to give up hope.

SKKKRRRREEEEETTTCHHHHH

A white van with the words “New Faith Church of God †” on the side swerves two lanes towards you and over the curb half a block down. 

A church van isn't what you expected, particularly one driven so recklessly, but you're not in a place to complain. 

You run to make up the distance. 

Expecting a van of grandmas, you're shocked when a heavily scarred man in his twenties dressed in all black steps out and gestures you in through the sliding door. His turquoise eyes follow as you hastily enter, sliding to an open seat by a white haired man with red eyes. You notice he also has quite a few scars.

“You're in middle,” his gruff voice mutters before he climbs in after you, taking the seat on your other side after slamming the door shut. 

The van lurches back onto the road and you're off. 

“Thanks for the ride,” you exclaim, still breathless from the sprint over. 

“Of course,” a blonde girl in the passenger seat answers, “We had to. Someone thought you were pretty.” She stares at one of the men next to you. He's... also attractive, you think to yourself. Cheeks beginning to flush. 

“Where are you headed, anyways?” asks the purple haired driver. He swerves slightly while gesturing back at you. 

“Anywhere, preferably far.”

“Well, you certainly got lucky today,” a man with a top hat and feather laughs behind you. His face completely covered by a mask. 

The silence becomes tense as they wait for you to recognize them. Unfortunately, you haven't had time (or a consistent location) to relax long enough to watch the news so you have no idea who these people are. But you do know one thing - 

“You're not really a church group, are you?”

The white haired man next to you mumbles “what gave you that idea?” Most of the others laugh. 

In the next hour, you learn a lot. Everyone introduces themselves. Their names are pretty easy to remember, you're certain most of them are made up. You debate on giving them your real name, instead going with the alias you typically use (which might as well be your actual name at this point, no one's called you anything else in years.)

You also get the feeling they're in the same boat as you: on the run in a vehicle that clearly doesn't belong to them after doing who knows what. They haven't asked you why you were in a rush to leave so you return the favor. 

At this point, they've realized you're not a threat (and definitely not about to call the heros on them) so they loosen up. You do too.

“Who wants to play a game?!” Toga asks. The two on either side of you groan but everyone else seems interested so she continues. 

“I spy with my little eye, somethinggg green!”

Turns out I spy is incredibly easy when all you can see are fields and distant mountains. After a few turns, you've tuned the game out. As have most of the others. Twice, Spinner, and Toga continue to play while everyone else begins to nap out of boredom. 

Everyone but one person. 

The gorgeous guy from earlier, who is the reason you’re here instead of a jail cell. 

He rests his hand on the seat between you, pinky brushing against your thigh. 

This will be an interesting ride.

m.list

The following chapters start the same then split into separate Shig/Dabi routes.

This will probably be fluff/eventually suggestive, very minimal angst. I just wanted to make something light, fun, and easy.

Maybe a few smut side quests that aren't plot/are skippable, but idk yet. Those aren't written and i have no explicit plans for them.

This one is particularly short but they should all be pretty quick reads. This won't be a long series. (says everyone before dropping 20 more chapters of 5k words.)

[sweetbillwriting]

Way Out of Line

THREE

Beneath my perfume and make-up I'm just a baby in disguise. And though I know that it's wrong to be alone with him that "come on look" is in my eyes.

Character: Keith Toshko from Barbarian (2022) played by Bill Skarsgård.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW, heavy themes.

Notes: This will not be everyone's cup of tea. And I'm a rookie haha.

I followed the movement of his soft lips, and instead of feeling the excited urgency, I felt my body become mush in his arms, and my sex pulsed in the same rhythm. I moaned into his mouth, and I could feel him smile.

“That's it, honey…” he whispered encouragingly between kisses, and it made me giggle. It was something about how he guided me that was both sexy but also domineering. It was overwhelming to kiss him, to be so close to him in a way I hadn't been with my ex-boyfriend, Tim. There was a feeling in my chest that slowly spread to my limbs and made me feel dirty in all sorts of ways, and after a while the negative feelings took over. This was not me. I wasn't the type of girl who kissed married men, especially a man much older than me. I had always been the boring girl, who didn’t push the rules. I released his lips with a smack, and he looked at me with big eyes. He must have noticed my change of emotions.

“I'm sorry,” he said, fast and pulled away. I looked down at the ground, but I could see his feet nervously move. “I should go…”

I didn't look up and didn't say anything because suddenly I felt so uncomfortable and shy about it all. I was not a sexual person, and he was old. He really was old. He could have had children my age. I heard him leave my room, and I breathed out in relief. It was not a good idea; still, I could feel a pain between my legs, like a frustrated cramp. The shame got even worse. It was filthy and heavy in my chest. He was my dad's friend; it wasn't okay.

It was hard to sleep after that moment with Keith, and the anxiety crept around in my body like hungry insects, especially because I could still feel the pressure between my legs. I ran to the bathroom every fifteen minutes in the belief that I needed to pee, but I didn't need that relief; I needed an intrusion. I had never really masturbated, but after having laid with my legs crossed without being able to release the pressure, I needed something more effective; I needed something inside me. I didn't have the knowledge to make myself come, but it was enough to be penetrated for me to finally be able to sleep, even if I felt dirty by my own sexual feelings. I didn't want to feel what I did, so I tried to deny them. They weren't real; they were not me, just something my brain created after a bit too much alcohol.

×××

I had a weird feeling in my body when I started to wake up, like a nagging feeling of forgotten anxiety, and even if I wanted to ignore it, I started to search in my brain for the answer. At first I couldn't remember it, but when I moved and realized my panties were off and I just laid in my tank top, I remembered how I had slipped a finger deep inside of me to be able to sleep. I remembered the passionate kisses with Keith that had made me so sexually frustrated I had humped my own hand. It all was so dirty and shameful, and I looked down at my hand, disgusted by how deep my fingers had been in me. I tried to tell myself it was a one-time thing and stood up from bed even if I didn't have panties on. I couldn't even see them, and for a second I imagined Keith had crept into my room and stolen them, but it was then I found them tangled in my cover. I put them on, just to have something on, on my way to the bathroom to take a shower. Just like Christianity had told me, I tried to wash my sins away; I tried to scrub away my dirty thoughts and massage away every shameful feeling. It did kind of work, and I decided that I would forget about it all and leave it all behind. I fooled myself into believing I could do that and got myself to forget Keith actually lived in the house.

It wasn't that easy to move on when the man in my dirty imaginations sat by the kitchen table, eating egg and bacon with my father. He was there, and as soon as I saw him, I forgot my thoughts were sinful and embraced them instead of denying them. I didn't care if I was dirty, I didn't care if he was my dad's friend or that he was older than me. I remembered the image of his bulge in his sweatpants and thought about how his cock looked hard. I wanted him inside of me instead of my short fingers.

“Hey, honey, come and sit down with us,” said my dad who patted the chair next to him. There was a setting for one more person, and it was probably for me because my mom most often ate earlier than me and my dad. My dad was dressed in a comfortable jogging set, but Keith was dressed in jeans and a black zip hoodie. His hair was styled back, and it could be so that he had plans to go out that day. We glanced at each other quickly, but both of us looked away, and I sat down next to my dad, who gave me a side hug and patted my cheek.

“Slept well?” He asked and started to put up eggs on my plate. He knew I didn't eat bacon. I looked away, uncomfortable with the question, but gave him a low, “yeah.”

“Do you have any plans for today?”

He didn't ask me about my New Year's celebration or if I had been drinking; for him, it was probably obvious I had been a good girl and that Mom exaggerated.

“Um, I think I’ll just have a movie marathon…”

My dad grimaced, and I looked at him confused.

“What?”

“I'm sorry honey, but Disney doesn't work at the moment…”

“What?” I asked with a whiny voice. My dad looked at me almost in shame and played with one of my long locks that fell forward over my light yellow robe.

“I know, I can't log in and—”

“You can use my account,” said Keith suddenly, and by reflex I looked at his handsome face even if I didn't want to. He licked his lips that were shiny with grease, and he gave me a fast look before looking down at his bacon again. “Is there something special you want to see?”

“She always starts the new year with hopeful movies, right, honey? So Peter Pan and Alice in Wonderland?” My dad said with a smirk. I just nodded a little. Maybe my choice of movies also was childish and embarrassing, but Disney was such a natural part of my life I didn't think of it like that. I looked at Keith again. He had a stubbly top lip, and a strand of his hair didn't want to be a part of his slicked-back hairstyle and fell down in his eyes. He was too handsome to be a friend of my father's. He was way too handsome to want to kiss me. But he had.

“Thank you…” I mumbled and took the juice pitcher so I wouldn't need to look at him.

“We will go into town soon; Keith has a meeting, and I need to buy some things. Your mom is out with Felice, so you will be alone for a while. But I guess you can handle that? Now when you have Disney?”

“Yes, daddy,” I said and smiled at him. I could hear that I sounded like a ten-year-old, but we had that sort of relationship, so it was hard for me to stop. My dad always worried about me, and I was always eager to please him. Keith cleared his throat, but I didn't dare to look at him, and I wondered if he judged me for my polite behavior towards my father. He probably regretted that he had kissed someone like me, a silly girl.

×××

“You can fly!” Shouted the kids in Peter Pan while I sat stretched out on the couch with a bowl of ice cream in my lap. I still wore just pajamas even if it was 3 pm. I giggled a bit to myself when I thought about how many times I had pretended to be Lena, waiting for Peter Pan to come through my window. My biggest wish had been to never grow up. I had a nice time being alone and had no problems with it, so I was a bit disappointed when I heard the front door open.

“I'm so sorry, Keith, really. Do you want anything to eat or something?” Said my mom with worry. I turned down the sound in curiosity and tried to listen closely. It sounded like there were several feet in the hallway, and I could hear my dad clear his throat.

“No…” said Keith with a wobbly voice and sniffled. “I think I'm going to bed for a while… But thank you.”

It was obvious Keith was crying, and it made my throat dry up and start to scratch. There was something about hearing him like that that made me uncomfortable in so many ways, and I noticed how my hands were shaking too. I listened to him walking up the stairs slowly, but also my dad's deep exhalation after Keith had closed the bedroom door.

“Shit, Giselle… I really thought they would get together again,” said my father with a low voice, so low I almost didn't hear him. My mom's reply I actually couldn’t hear because she was whispering. I paused the movie and laid my hand on my chest. My heart was beating hard, and the dry feeling in my throat was now a painful barbed wire string from my heart up to my mouth. I understood what was happening, but I wanted to know more, so carefully I walked out to my parents in the hallway. My mom was hanging up Keith's bomber jacket while my dad was sitting down on the bench we had by the door. Both of them looked up at me when I tiptoed out to them.

“What's happening?” I asked, pretending like I hadn't heard as much as I had. My mom opened her mouth to say something, but my dad interrupted her.

“He got served with the divorce papers… So he is, of course, really upset.”

I nodded a little bit and looked down at the ground. I tried to keep my facial expressions in check because I was the only one of us three that knew Keith had been with another woman just the night before: me.

“Can you keep an eye on him?”

I heard what my dad said, but at first I couldn't understand the words and what he meant by them.

“Huh?” I looked at him confused and played with the thin bands of my tank top.

“We need to go grocery shopping. Can you take care of him?”

“Like how?” I asked, and I could feel my cheeks heat. My parents must have noticed, but they didn't understand why they became so rosy and must have made their own conclusions.

“Just check if he wants something if he comes out of the room. Nothing more than that.”

I nodded, and my dad gave me a thankful smile. They put on their outerwear again and left me alone with Keith. Their little girl and their old friend. They didn't have a thought, or even a half thought, that something could happen; that their little girl wasn't so innocent and the friend wasn't so trustworthy.

I continued to watch Peter Pan, but my thoughts drifted away to Keith over and over. I felt sorry for him and wondered if I should do something, but I was also afraid he would come down, and that I would need to comfort him. I thought about the night before, and in the light of day, I wasn't ashamed of it. I wasn't ashamed I had wanted him. Now I wasn't ashamed that he was married either because he would divorce, and the rest I could pretend were trivialities. I wanted him but I was scared of how much. I had never felt those sorts of feelings before, and it was frightening to feel how much I could lose myself in them.

“Hey…”

I turned to the doorway where Keith walked into the large room. His eyes were brimmed with red, but he wasn’t crying. He could have just been really tired, but I knew he wasn't, and the sniffle also exposed him.

“Hey…” I repeated and moved my legs and the blanket so that he could sit down on the other end of the couch. He sighed deeply and turned his gaze towards the TV. Something told me he just didn't want to be alone, so I didn't say anything, and just let him watch the ticking crocodile. I looked at him carefully a couple of times, and he smiled a little at the TV, and that made me smile too. After 20 minutes I dared to look at him completely, and he looked back at me and scratched his neck.

“Are you okay?” I asked carefully and sat up a bit better on the couch. Keith also sat up a little and took off his zip hoodie revealing the black t-shirt he wore underneath.

“Yeah… I knew this would happen. I just… It's a lot to take in, you know?”

I didn't know. How should I know? I had never been married, and my only relationship had ended when I was eighteen because Tim felt it became too serious, but I nodded anyway. Keith breathed heavily and dragged his hands over his thighs over and over. Something with his behavior made me feel braver, and I removed the blanket from my legs and scooted closer to him.

“Do you need a hug?”

Keith turned his eyes towards me, and for a moment we stared at each other intensely. As I sat next to him, I could see how he looked down over my body, especially my hardened nipples under my top. He looked up at me again and then moved my hair away so it fell behind my shoulders. He looked down at my chest again, this time more obviously. Just like the night before, a foreign feeling took over me that made me more confident and daring, so I pulled down one of the straps of my tank top slowly revealing one of my naked breasts for him to see. I looked him straight in the eyes while I did it and saw his eyes fall down to my chest when my nipple was exposed. Keith looked up at my eyes again and moved so he sat more towards me.

“You're such a beautiful girl…” His voice was low and raspy, and he laid his hand on my neck with his thumb on my jugular. I could feel the pressure between my legs grow again when he dragged his lips over mine sensually.

“My beautiful baby girl…” he whispered, putting some pressure over my neck. I moaned into his mouth when he kissed me and I laid my hands on his thick thighs. His hand moved down from my neck to my chest, and he released my lips to be able to look at his long fingers playing with my nipple.

“I've noticed your nipples are always so hard... Is it because you think so many dirty thoughts?” He looked up at me with a smirk and pinched my nipple hard. A pained groan left my lips, but the feeling also travelled down between my legs and made it hammer quickly. I didn't know what to say, so I let him kiss me again while my breast disappeared in his wide palm. His other hand held my head and steered me into every kiss. He used more and more tongue which made me feel that overwhelming feeling again. I was a good girl, but something took over me and gave me feelings I had learned to feel shame about. I was horny. I was so horny and wanted him in the dirtiest ways.

I dragged my hand over his crotch and could feel there was something alive under the denim. There was something moving in there. Keith pulled back a little so I could watch while he unbuckled his belt with a jiggle. I couldn't look away; I didn't want to look away. I wanted to see it. I wanted to see his cock. I thought of the word in my head: “cock.” I had never said it, but I knew I would call it that. He had a cock. My ex-boyfriend had a “penis.” Sometimes a “dick,” when I wanted to sound more relaxed, but I knew Keith had a cock.

He unbuttoned his jeans and pushed them down to the floor so that he wore just a pair of white boxers that didn't hide at all what was under them. I could see something long and thick and big balls being restrained under the tight material. Keith dragged a hand over the thick member causing the fabric to stretch even tighter. I could see veins and the shape of the head. I couldn't look away even if I felt I was blushing down to my chest.

“Have you seen one before?” He asked softly. His voice didn't match how dirty he looked with his legs wide apart and his cock trying to break free from the thin fabric. I just replied with a nod because my voice had disappeared at the same time my pussy had gotten wetter and wetter.

“You're not a virgin?” He asked and took hold of my chin so we could look each other in the eyes. I shook my head, and he looked at me with furrowed brows.

“I want you to talk to me. Hmm? Can you talk to me, baby girl?” He asked, pinching my nipple hard. I didn't know if that was some sort of punishment for not talking or if he just wanted to wake me up, but he got me to make a sound and then nod.

“I can talk…”

“Are you a virgin?” He asked again. I wondered why he asked that twice while I looked at him doe-eyed.

“No. I had a boyfriend.”

Keith nodded and gave me a soft kiss. He continued to kiss me softly, which made me relax. I felt safe with him, and when he leaned back and looked at me with kind eyes, I felt I needed to tell him something.

“It was a long time ago… And he was nothing like you. I… It feels new with you. You make me feel things…” Keith smiled a little and pulled me up on his lap. My pussy was pressed against his balls, and I could feel the hammering start again. I looked down at his crotch, seeing the thick line. Was it really that big?

“Do you want to see?” He asked, taking a hold of my chin again so I would look up at him. I looked between his eyes and lips, and that made him lean forward so I could press my lips against his again. I invaded his mouth with my tongue, but he slowed me down again when he took hold of my neck.

“Slow down, honey…”

My hands laid on his chest as I blushed. The feelings were everywhere, and I felt that intense pressure between my legs again. I was forced to sit down on his thigh and press myself hard against him.

“Does your little pussy hurt?” I looked up at him and nodded. Somehow it had become so much of an embarrassment that I worried it would be a permanent feeling. Keith sat up and shifted me from his lap, so I stood between his legs. He dragged his big hands over my hips and then took hold of my pajama pants and panties with his index finger. He looked up at me with a smile.

“Can I take them off?”

I nodded a little, too mesmerized by him and drunk on newly discovered feelings. Carefully he pulled them off, and I stepped out of them, so I stood in just my strappy top. Keith took my hands in his so I wouldn't be able to conceal myself when he leaned back. Now it was him who looked overwhelmed, and I could see his cock twitch.

“Completely shaved?”

“Yeah?”

“That was…” He cleared his throat and stared between my legs like he hadn't seen a woman naked before. “It was a long time ago… Can I touch?” He looked up at me with those big puppy eyes, and to my own surprise, I sat down over his legs. Straddling him with the soles of my feet pressed against the outside of his thighs. He could see everything.

A loud moan fell from his lips just by the sight of me like that as he dragged a hand over and over his member.

“Is this just for me?” He whispered, running his hands on the inside of my thighs. “Or do you give yourself to other men like this?”

I shook my head.

“Just you. You make me crazy.”

“Yeah?” Keith leaned forward and kissed my knee, then the inside of my thigh.

“I don't know what's happening with me…”

Keith smiled sweetly, then he turned his full attention to my pussy again. Carefully he put two fingers against me, shaped like a V, and massaged my outer lips, feeling my smooth skin. He breathed heavily, and after a while he let his middle finger drag between the lips, collecting my wetness. I could feel him stroke a spot higher up that made my whole body tingle, but to my disappointment, he just dragged his fingertip there teasingly. Instead, his goal was to penetrate me with his finger, and I wasn't all prepared for how rough he would do it. His fingers were long and thick, so when he pushed it in quite violently, my entrance cramped up at first and the pain shot out to my limbs.

“So tight... So tight...” he whispered. I had closed my eyes from the shock, but when he had started to pump his middle finger in and out of me in an even rhythm, I opened my eyes. The image before me shocked me because Keith had pulled out his thickness and jerked himself off in the same rhythm that he finger fucked me in. He was even bigger when I saw his cock like that, even while his big hand held it. He let his finger slip out of me and looked at me with such a sweet expression it was hard for me to not giggle.

“What?” He asked, showing off his deep dimple in his cheek. I giggled again, and he dragged his hands over my thighs. After having been watching each other for a while, he moved me away from him. The thought of him being pleased and finished stressed me, but he just pulled off his boxers completely so I could see his cock fully exposed. Had Tim been that big? Far from it. Did he really push that into girls? It wasn't possible. I continued to stare. I had just seen Tim's and had never really looked at it. I had chosen to never go down on him, and we had sex in the dark, but here I now sat next to a grown man that I had the feeling was quite well endowed. I wish I could say it was pretty, but a man's genitals were something else. It looked scary to me.

Keith smiled and pulled me closer so I could have my head against his shoulder, then he laid my hand on his thigh so I could decide myself if I wanted to touch.

“It's okay, honey, take your time…” he said and dragged his fingers through my hair. I looked up at him. It was so nice how sweet he was about it all and how much he took care of me. He really was such a man. I kissed him again and pushed my nose tip against his cheek. It felt like I was falling for him. That sweet, wonderful man. With his big cock. I looked down again and wrapped my fingers around him, feeling his girth and weight in my hand. Keith made a deep exhalation, but let me explore by myself. I dragged my hand all the way up to the head, feeling the mushroom tip against my palm. It was really wet, and I took the wetness in my hand when I dragged my hand all the way down to his balls. I looked at them a bit confused. I didn't know if I should touch them. I had never heard about that. I looked back at Keith, who sat with his head leaned back against the headrest, and he seemed to understand what I was wondering.

“I want you to play with them, roll them in your hands, squeeze them a bit carefully…” His voice was much deeper than before, so I looked at him with the biggest eyes. He smiled at me lovingly.

“You're so cute. Such a good girl.” I giggled a little at his praise and then looked down at his cock again, still in my hand.

I sat up a little so I could use both my hands, so with one hand I started to roll his balls in my hand; it felt a bit awkward, and Keith probably felt it too because he spoke up.

“Spit on them… Spit in your hands, baby...”

I looked at him confused, so instead he took my hands and pulled them towards his mouth where he spit several times into them. Long, watery saliva threads landed in my hands, but I wasn't grossed out. All of it was sexy in the heat of the moment. When I started to roll his balls in my hand again, they glided better, and with his hand over mine, we jerked his slick cock. He showed me the pressure he wanted. His breathing became more heavy with every stroke. I saw how his t-shirt had ridden up and how I could see a deep v-line but also a hint of abs. I leaned back looking at him with furrowed brows and how his wide chest rose and fell with each deep breath. He was so gorgeous. He was so sexy. I released his balls so I could touch myself, but when Keith noticed, he pulled me up over him and steered my pussy towards his cock.

“Take it. Fuck me.” He said it lowly, but I didn't dare. It was too big. “Take my cock. Take daddy's cock, baby girl.”

I looked at his face intensely, meeting his dark, lustful gaze. I wanted to but also didn't. I needed to make a decision. But not then and there, because when I looked out the window, I saw our neighbor Mr. Gardner look through the window, straight at us.

×

[speaknow-sw]

THE POET AND THE ROSE

Content : Deaths, battle, injury, fights, stabbing etc…

A/N : 7.2k of words for the end… last chapter I’m crying guys. I finished a fanfic for once. It has been my honor to introduce you to this AU I had the idea of, a cold winter night. Special thanks to @bimbo-baggins17 and @anisangeldust for helping me with tiny details. Hope you’ll enjoy. 💕

꧁ Chapter 9 : The Thorn in the Rose ꧂

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

No dawn could match your gentle grace,

Nor stars outshine your radiant face.

The moon itself would pale and fade,

Before your gaze, where wonders stayed.

Under Anakin’s desperate gaze, you crumbled to the ground, the arrow embedded deep beneath your heart.

“No… No, no, no…” His voice cracked as he dropped his sword and stumbled toward you, falling to his knees as though the weight of the world had struck him too. He took you into his trembling arms, his hands frantic, caressing your face, brushing your hair away from your eyes.

“Stay with me. Stay,” he whispered, his voice breaking into a plea. He pressed his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “Please… please…”

Blood soaked through your gown, staining his hands. His lips pressed to your temple, desperate and feverish. “God… help me. No…no…God please, help me, help us. Someone, anyone—help her!” His words turned into a raw roar, echoing through the chaos of the battlefield. His men fought on, unaware that their commander—their lion—had been brought to his knees by something far more devastating than a sword.

You reached up weakly, your fingers brushing his cheek. “Anakin…”

“Don’t speak,” he begged, his voice soft and frantic. “Save your strength. I’ll get you help. I’ll—” He choked on his words, pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your lips, muttering prayers between each kiss. “I need you… You’re my heart. You’re everything.”

Tears spilled down his cheeks, mixing with the blood on your gown. His hands pressed against your wound, desperate to stop the bleeding. “Stay with me,” he whispered again, like a mantra, like a lifeline.

You gazed up at him through heavy lids, love in your eyes, despite the pain. “Our baby…” you murmured, your voice barely audible.

Anakin cradled you closer, his chest heaving with sobs he couldn’t contain. “Our baby will know you. I swear it. They’ll know you—your kindness, your strength, your heart.” He kissed your hand, pressing it against his cheek, holding on like he was afraid you’d slip away.

In the distance, another arrow flew, striking the ground near them, but Anakin didn’t flinch. The world was burning around him, but he saw only you.

The stone halls of Ashmore Castle echoed with the distant roar of battle. Anakin moved swiftly through the narrow corridors, his arms cradling you against his chest as if you were made of glass. Blood seeped through your gown, staining his tunic, but he barely noticed. His mind was consumed by one thought: Save her. Save her.

“You’re going to be fine,” he whispered, his voice trembling as he pushed open a hidden door leading to a secluded chamber at the castle’s heart. His breathing was ragged, his steps faltering as exhaustion began to set in, but he didn’t stop. He laid you gently on the stone floor, his hands immediately pressing against your wound to stem the bleeding.

Your eyes fluttered open, and you gazed at him weakly. “Anakin…”

“Don’t,” he said, shaking his head as he knelt beside you. “Don’t speak. You need to save your strength.” He tore a strip from his cloak and pressed it to the wound, his hands clumsy and shaking. His usual calm, precise movements were gone, replaced by frantic desperation.

Your lips curved into a faint smile. “Remember when you said arrows always managed to find your most vital points?”

Anakin’s hands froze, his eyes snapping to yours, wide with anguish. “My rose…” His voice broke. “You are my most vital point.” His shoulders trembled, and his head fell forward, pressing his forehead to yours. “Please… please don’t you die on me. Not here… not like this…”

Tears began to fall, streaking down his bloodstained face as he whispered against your skin. “You can’t… you can’t leave me… For me… for our unborn child… please…” His voice cracked, the words coming out in ragged sobs. “For our little girl…”

You stirred faintly, your hand lifting to brush against his cheek. “H-how do you know it’s a girl?” you whispered.

Anakin’s chest heaved as he struggled to speak through his tears. “Because I know it,” he said softly, his voice trembling with love and sorrow. “The most beautiful little princess… with your eyes and your hair… and my nose and lips. She’s as beautiful as her mother… and as fierce as her father.”

He placed your hand over his heart, pressing it there as if willing you to feel the life beating inside him. “So please, my rose… for our little girl… don’t you die on me.”

You gazed at him, tears welling in your own eyes as you saw the raw, unyielding love in his. His lips trembled as he kissed your hand, then your temple, his breath ragged with grief and hope all at once.

“I won’t let you go,” he whispered fiercely. “Do you hear me? I won’t. You’re everything to me. You’re my home. And I will fight for you. I will always fight for you.”

But even as he spoke, your eyelids fluttered, the exhaustion overtaking you. Your breathing slowed, and a quiet sigh escaped your lips as darkness began to pull you under.

“No…” Anakin sobbed, pulling you closer. “No! Don’t close your eyes. Stay with me, my love. Please… stay with me.”

The battle raged on outside, but for Anakin, the only battle that mattered was here—fighting to keep you alive, fighting against the cruel fate threatening to take you away.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, pressing his lips to your forehead. “Stay with me… for our little girl…”

Anakin carried you in his arms as he stumbled through the crumbling remains of Ashmore Castle, his breaths heavy with exertion and grief. The night air was thick with smoke, the sky painted in hues of crimson and ash. Behind him, he could still hear the clash of swords, the anguished cries of dying men—his men—who had followed him into this doomed battle.

As Anakin pressed a cloth against your wound to stop the bleeding, you could see the torment in his eyes. His hands trembled, his breaths uneven. You could barely feel the pain anymore — only the ache in your heart, the sorrow of what you were about to leave behind.

Your tears spilled over, voice breaking as you spoke. "I'm sorry."

Anakin’s head snapped up. "No." His voice was sharp, panicked. "No, don't say that."

"I'm so sorry," you whispered again, the words barely audible through your sobs. "I'm sorry we won't be able to meet her."

His whole body tensed as if struck. "Don't. Don't you say that."

Tears blurred your vision, but you forced yourself to go on, needing him to understand. "You always wanted to be a father. You talked about it… dreamed about it. And now—" Your voice cracked. "Now I’ve stolen that from you."

Anakin shook his head fiercely, tears streaming down his face. "No. You haven’t stolen anything. You’ve given me everything."

Your lip trembled. "I wanted to hold her. To see her smile. To hear her laugh."

"You will," Anakin insisted, his voice cracking with emotion. "You will hold her. You will teach her to paint. You will show her everything you are. And if you can't, then I will. I swear to you, she'll grow up knowing you."

"But it's not the same," you whispered. "You deserve more than just memories, Anakin. You deserve to be a father in every way."

Anakin’s tears fell faster as he leaned closer, his forehead pressing against yours. His voice broke as he whispered, "You are my family. You and her. You’ve already made me a father the moment we knew about her."

"I'm sorry," you whispered again, your heart breaking with every word.

"Stop apologizing." His voice grew more desperate. "Don’t give up on me. On us. Please… fight. For her. For me. For the life we promised to give her."

Your hand trembled as you placed it over his heart. "I love you, Anakin."

He let out a shaky breath, pressing kisses to your palm, your forehead, your lips. "I love you too. So fight, my rose. Fight to stay with me."

Through your tears, you managed a broken smile. "She’s going to be beautiful, isn’t she?"

Anakin nodded, tears still falling. "With your eyes. Your smile. She’ll be strong, just like her mother." He placed his hand over yours. "And she’ll know how much we both love her."

You closed your eyes, letting his words wrap around you like a lifeline, holding on to him with all you had left.

You stirred faintly in his arms, your head resting against his shoulder, your breath shallow but steady. He clung to that rhythm, drawing strength from the fragile proof that you were still with him.

“I’ll get you out of here,” he whispered, though his voice was hoarse with doubt. “You’ll be safe. I swear it.”

As he descended the slope of the castle’s outer wall, his heart clenched at the sight before him. His army was faltering. The banners of England, once proud and fierce, now hung in tatters. His soldiers were retreating, overwhelmed by the sheer force of the French army.

He wanted to go to them, to rally his men, to turn the tide of this battle. But he knew his priority. Her. The woman in his arms. The future she carried inside her. They were his only reason to keep fighting.

Suddenly, a distant shout echoed from behind, and he turned his head sharply. The enemy was approaching—closing in on them. His time was running out.

A hollow rock caught his eye, nestled within the broken side of the castle wall. Without a second thought, Anakin knelt beside it, carefully lowering you to the ground.

“What… what are you doing?” you murmured weakly, trying to lift your head.

“I need to do this,” Anakin replied, pulling out the leather-bound notebook he had carried with him through every battle, every campaign. It held his thoughts, strategy plans, his hopes, his fears—and most importantly, it held your story. The story of how he loved you beyond reason, beyond duty, beyond anything he had ever known.

With trembling hands, he tucked the notebook into the hollow rock, covering it with stones to shield it from the elements.

“Why?” you whispered, your voice faint.

“Because your story deserves to be told,” he said, his voice breaking. “If we don’t make it… if I fail you… someone will find it. They’ll know what we fought for. They’ll know who you are.”

Tears welled in his eyes as he turned back to you. “They’ll know how much I loved you.”

You reached for him, your fingers brushing against his cheek. “We’ll make it,” you said softly, though your voice was filled with exhaustion. “We have to. For her.”

“For her,” Anakin echoed, his lips trembling as he pressed a kiss to your forehead.

A distant horn sounded—the enemy was near. Anakin stood, gathering you back into his arms, his resolve hardening like steel.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he vowed. “Not while I breathe.”

With that, he turned toward the path ahead, carrying you into the darkness, the notebook hidden behind—a relic of love and war, waiting for someone, someday, to uncover the truth.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

Your eyes, like skies before the rain,

Hold joy, and sorrow, and sweet pain.

Your voice, a song the heavens keep,

A lullaby that stirs my sleep.

The battle raged on, but for Anakin, time slowed to a crawl. His every breath burned in his lungs as he carried you through the rubble-strewn corridors of the castle. The once-grand stone walls now stood as broken witnesses to the chaos. Your hand gripped weakly at his tunic, your fingers trembling. He could feel your strength waning, your life slipping away, and he clung to you with desperate resolve.

“We’re almost there,” he whispered, more to himself than to you. “Stay with me, my love. Just a little longer.”

As he stepped out into the courtyard, the harsh light of dawn broke through the smoke, illuminating the scene of devastation. Bodies littered the ground, men cried out in agony, and the banners of both England and France hung tattered in the wind. Anakin’s eyes scanned the field, searching for a way out — a path to salvation.

But instead, he saw him.

At the far end of the courtyard, your father emerged from the shadows, flanked by French soldiers. His armor gleamed, untouched by the battle, as though he had orchestrated the chaos from afar. His expression was cold, detached. And when his gaze met Anakin’s, there was no trace of remorse.

Anakin’s steps faltered as realization struck him like a blow to the chest. “You.”

Your father’s lips curled into a cruel smile. “Did you really think this was about honor, boy? About alliances and loyalty? No.” His gaze flickered to you, limp in Anakin’s arms. “This was always about power. And she… she was nothing more than a means to an end.”

Anakin’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding together. “She’s your daughter.”

“She was supposed to be my son.” The words dripped with venom. “A son would have secured my legacy. A son would have brought glory to France. But instead, I was cursed with a daughter. A daughter who betrayed her country, her family, all for the love of an Englishman.”

You stirred weakly in Anakin’s arms, your voice barely a whisper. “Father… please…”

But your plea fell on deaf ears.

“I raised you to know your place,” your father sneered. “And yet you defied me. You chose love over duty. And now, look where it’s brought you. You’ll die here, just like the foolish child you’ve always been.”

Anakin gently lowered you to the ground, brushing your hair from your face. His hands trembled, not from fear but from the sheer force of the rage building inside him. His gaze lifted to your father, his blue eyes blazing with fury.

“You call yourself a man,” Anakin said, his voice low, dangerous. “But you’re nothing more than a coward.”

Your father laughed coldly. “Coward? I’ve played the game of kings and won. While you, Anakin Skywalker, are nothing but a pawn.”

Anakin rose to his feet, sword in hand. “Then let’s finish this.”

But as he stepped forward, your fingers caught his sleeve. “Anakin…”

He dropped to his knees beside you, cradling your face with both hands. His voice broke. “I’m here. I’m right here.”

Your eyes, heavy with tears, searched his face. “I’m sorry… I won’t… I won’t be able to stay…”

“No,” he whispered fiercely, shaking his head. “Don’t say that. You’re going to be fine. You have to be. For me. For our daughter.”

Tears streamed down your cheeks. “Promise me… promise me she’ll know how much I loved her.”

Anakin pressed his forehead against yours, sobbing. “She’ll know. I’ll tell her every day. She’ll know you were brave, and kind, and the most beautiful soul I’ve ever known.”

Anakin’s hands pressed desperately against your wound, his fingers slick with blood. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat growing louder, more frantic, drowning out the battle cries and clashing swords around him. Your breath came in shallow gasps, each one weaker than the last.

“No… no… stay with me.” His voice was trembling, desperate. “You’re going to be fine. I’ve got you.” He pressed his hands harder against the wound, as if he could force the life to stay in your body. “I’ve got you, my rose.”

Your eyelids fluttered, your gaze unfocused. “Anakin…”

“I’m here,” he whispered, his voice breaking. He cupped your cheek with his bloodstained hand, the contrast of red against your pale skin like a cruel reminder of how fragile life could be. “I’m right here. Look at me. Just keep your eyes on me.”

Your lips trembled as you tried to speak, but no words came. Tears welled in your eyes and spilled down your cheeks, mingling with the blood.

“No, don’t cry,” he begged, brushing the tears away with shaking fingers. “You’re strong. You’ve always been strong. You’ve fought through everything life threw at you. Fight now. Fight for me.”

A soft, broken laugh escaped your lips, more a gasp than a sound. “You always… believed… in me…”

“Because you gave me something to believe in.” His voice cracked with emotion, his eyes wide and wild with panic. “You’re my light… my home… everything good in this godforsaken world. Without you, I—”

Your fingers brushed weakly against his lips, silencing him. “It’s… okay…”

“It’s not okay!” Anakin roared, his voice rising with anguish. The sound tore from his chest, echoing across the courtyard. Soldiers paused in their fight, turning to see the broken man kneeling in the blood-soaked dirt, clutching his love as if he could hold her soul inside her body.

“You’re not leaving me,” he growled, his voice trembling with rage and grief. “You can’t leave me.”

You smiled faintly, tears slipping down your cheeks. “You’ll… be okay…”

“I won’t,” he sobbed, shaking his head violently. “I won’t be okay. Not without you.” His voice was hoarse, each word ripped from the depths of his soul. “You’re everything to me. Do you hear me? Everything. There is no life for me without you.”

“Don’t…forget me...” Your hand fell from his face, limp. Your eyes fluttered closed, your breathing slowing to a faint whisper.

“No… no, no, no…” Anakin’s panic mounted, his chest heaving as if he couldn’t catch his breath. He shook you gently, then more forcefully. “Open your eyes. Look at me! Look at me!”

Nothing.

Time seemed to slow as he stared at your still face, waiting for a breath, a sign, anything. But there was only silence.

A guttural scream tore from Anakin’s throat—a sound of pure, unrelenting agony. It was a sound that echoed through the castle, a cry that shook the hearts of everyone who heard it. He threw his head back, his voice raw and broken, as if the world itself should crumble beneath the weight of his grief.

Anakin’s scream echoed through the battlefield, a tortured cry of grief and fury. “NO !” He clutched your lifeless body, rocking you in his arms as if he could will you back to life. “Come back to me! Please, God… bring her back ! Bring her back ! Take me instead ! Take me !”

The battle around him blurred into nothingness. His world had shattered, and all that remained was you, lifeless in his arms.

The enemy soldiers watched in uneasy silence, their weapons lowered. Even your father stood motionless, as though stunned by the raw grief before him.

But when Anakin’s cries turned to silence, something far more terrifying took their place.

Rage.

Slowly, Anakin laid you down, pressing one final kiss to your forehead. He rose to his feet, his sword clenched in his hand, and turned to face your father.

“This ends now.”

Your father sneered. “Do you really think you can defeat me?”

Anakin’s eyes, once full of love, now burned with vengeance. “I don’t think. I know.”

Anakin stood motionless, his chest rising and falling with labored breaths. His sword trembled in his grip, the blood of Count Aulbry still dripping from its edge. But it wasn’t enough. Nothing could ever be enough to extinguish the rage that burned inside him like a wildfire.

Ahead, through the swirling chaos of battle and smoke, your father glanced at him with his sword drawn, stepping over the bodies of fallen soldiers with a callous indifference. His eyes, cold and calculating, locked onto Anakin’s like a predator eyeing wounded prey.

“So it comes to this,” your father said, his voice cutting through the din of war. “The great Anakin Skywalker. The traitor. The fool who let love make him weak.”

Anakin wiped blood from his brow, the sting of his wounds barely registering. His thoughts were consumed by one thing: revenge.

“You killed her,” Anakin growled, his voice low and venomous. His fingers tightened around the hilt of his sword. “You killed my wife.”

“Your wife was a pawn,” your father replied without remorse. “A piece in a grander game. One you’ve already lost.”

Anakin took a step forward, his eyes blazing with fury. “She was worth more than you’ll ever be. You don’t deserve to speak her name.”

Your father smirked, lifting his sword. “And yet here we are. Shall we finish this?”

Without another word, Anakin lunged, his sword slicing through the air with deadly precision. Their blades clashed with a deafening clang, sparks flying as steel met steel.

The duel began with brutal intensity, each strike from Anakin fueled by rage and grief. His movements were swift and relentless, driving your father back with sheer force.

“You took everything from me,” Anakin snarled between strikes. “Her laughter, her touch, her love. You took it all.”

“And I would do it again,” your father sneered, parrying another blow. “Because love is nothing but a weakness. A man who fights for love fights blindly.”

Anakin’s sword cut through the air, nearly grazing your father’s side. His strikes grew more desperate, each swing a testament to his unyielding pain. But with every movement, his body betrayed him. His injury slowed him, his breaths growing ragged, his strength waning.

Still, he pressed on, refusing to falter.

Their swords locked, the two men staring each other down.

“You’ll never win,” Anakin hissed through gritted teeth.

“I already have,” your father replied coldly.

With a sudden surge of strength, Anakin shoved him back, breaking the lock. He swung again, and this time, his blade found its mark—a deep gash across your father’s arm.

Your father stumbled, blood staining his sleeve. For the first time, his composed mask slipped, revealing a flash of anger.

“You’re not invincible,” Anakin said, his voice a growl. “And you’ll never take her from me again.”

But before he could strike again, a shadow moved behind him.

Anakin’s instincts flared, and he turned just in time to see the king himself—King Edward—emerge from the shadows, his sword gleaming.

“Anakin!” one of his men shouted in warning, but it was too late.

The king, with a cruel grin, drove his sword into Anakin’s back. The blade pierced through flesh and muscle, twisting cruelly as Edward yanked it free.

Anakin gasped, stumbling forward, his sword falling from his grasp. He clutched at his wound, his fingers slick with blood.

“A king doesn’t fight fair,” Edward said with a chuckle, wiping his blade clean. “A king survives.”

Anakin fell to his knees, his vision blurring. The world around him spun, but he forced himself to stay upright, his rage keeping him conscious.

“You… coward,” Anakin spat, his voice shaking with pain.

“Coward?” Edward sneered. “No, Skywalker. I’m a king.”

Your father stepped forward, lifting his sword once more. “And you, Anakin, are nothing but a fool.”

Anakin struggled to rise, his hands shaking. Blood dripped from his wound, staining the earth beneath him. But he refused to fall.

“You’ll pay,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but resolute. “Both of you. You’ll pay for what you’ve done.”

The king and your father exchanged a glance before turning back to Anakin.

“You’re finished,” Edward said coldly. “No one will remember you.”

But Anakin, even on his knees, glared at them with defiance burning in his eyes. “She will. Her spirit will haunt you both until your dying days. You may kill me, but her love will never die.”

With that, he gripped his sword once more, forcing himself to his feet, staggering but unbroken.

And as he stood, he whispered your name like a vow.

He looked at your corpse, laying on the ground. You looked so tiny in death, it infuriated him.

Anakin swayed on his feet, blood dripping from his wound, his breath ragged but unwavering. His eyes locked on King Edward and your father—the two men who had orchestrated his ruin. His heart thundered in his chest, the searing pain of his injury clawing at his consciousness, but rage kept him standing.

Edward sneered, stepping forward with his sword raised. "Still fighting, Skywalker? You’re a broken man. Admit defeat."

Anakin’s lips curled into a feral grin, blood staining his teeth. "I’ve been broken before, Edward. But broken men don’t kneel to cowards."

Your father circled behind Anakin like a vulture. "End him," he commanded Edward. "Show the world that traitors to the crown meet only one fate."

"After all… How can man die better than facing fearful odds, for the ashes of his fathers, and the temples of his gods." Anakin panted, his stature frigid.

He turned on his heel, his sword slicing through the air. The movement was slower than before—his wound weakening him—but precise. The blade met your father's with a deafening clash. Sparks flew as they locked swords, both men glaring into each other's eyes.

"You took her from me," Anakin growled, pushing with all his strength. "And for that, you’ll suffer."

Edward lunged from the side, but Anakin spun, parrying the blow with a brutal force that sent Edward stumbling backward.

"You call yourself a king?" Anakin spat, stepping toward him. "A king who stabs men in the back? A king who sends his pawns to die in his name? You’re no king."

Edward’s face twisted with rage. "You think you’re righteous? You’ve betrayed England, and for what? A woman?"

Anakin’s eyes darkened. "She was England to me."

Edward charged again, but this time, Anakin was ready. He sidestepped the blow, driving his sword forward with a roar. The blade pierced Edward’s side, sliding deep into his ribs. The king let out a strangled gasp, his eyes wide with shock as he staggered back.

Blood poured from the wound as Edward fell to his knees, clutching at his side.

Anakin wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, spitting blood onto the ground before stepping closer to the king. His own strength was fading fast, but he held on to every ounce of his resolve.

Edward glared up at him, wheezing in pain. "You… you’ll never win."

Anakin knelt down, meeting the king’s gaze with a chilling calmness. His voice was low, almost gentle, but it carried the weight of his fury.

"Death comes for us all, Edward. The crown won’t save you. Your throne won’t save you."

Edward coughed, blood trickling from his lips. "And you? What about you, Skywalker?"

Anakin smiled faintly, the pain etched into his face. "I’ve made my peace with death. The difference is—I don’t fear it."

He leaned in closer, his voice a whisper, but sharp as a blade.

"Because I loved. Truly. Deeply. And that love will haunt you for the rest of your days."

With that, Anakin let his sword fall from his hand, the weight of his exhaustion finally crashing down on him. His knees buckled, and he sank to the ground.

Behind him, your father approached cautiously, his sword raised to finish the job. But Anakin didn’t flinch. His head tilted back toward the sky, his gaze distant.

His lips parted, and his final words came like a vow to the heavens.

"I’ll see her again."

And with that, he knelt on the bloodstained ground, his body trembling from his wounds, his spirit unbroken.

The silence after the battle was suffocating. Anakin knelt in the dirt, his blood mixing with the ash beneath him. Every breath was a struggle, every movement agony — but none of it mattered. He crawled toward you, dragging himself through the wreckage with shaking hands.

You lay crumpled ahead, still and lifeless.

“No,” he whispered, voice raw with disbelief. “No, no…”

When he reached you, he collapsed beside you, his trembling fingers brushing against your cheek. Your skin was cold to the touch. His heart clenched, his stomach twisting in knots. He cupped your face, cradling it as if his touch alone could bring you back.

“Please,” he begged, his voice breaking. “Please… open your eyes.”

Silence.

His chest heaved as tears spilled down his cheeks. He pressed his forehead to yours, eyes squeezed shut, shaking violently.

“You’re supposed to be here,” he whispered. “With me. You promised…”

His hands slipped to your shoulders, shaking you gently, as if you were merely asleep.

“You promised me.”

But you didn’t move.

A strangled cry tore from his throat, guttural and raw, echoing through the shattered stone walls around him. His sobs came in broken gasps as he clung to you, his body wracked with pain and sorrow.

“I’m sorry,” he choked out. “I couldn’t protect you. I failed.”

He buried his face in your hair, breathing you in — the scent of you, faint and fading, slipping from him like sand through his fingers. He clung tighter, his hands desperate to keep you tethered to this world.

“I don’t know how to do this without you,” he whispered into the silence. His voice trembled, cracking under the weight of his grief. “I don’t want to.”

Moments passed in silence, broken only by his shuddering breaths. His hand slipped to your chest, pressing against your heart, willing it to beat again.

Nothing.

“I would’ve given everything,” he whispered. “Everything. Just to see you smile again.”

His gaze lifted to the sky, eyes glassy with tears. The stars, cold and distant, offered no comfort.

“You were my light,” he said softly. “And now I’m lost.”

He placed his hand on your belly — a gesture so gentle it seemed out of place in the ruined battlefield around him. His fingers trembled as he traced the curve of your form.

“I don’t know where to go from here.”

The weight of everything pressed down on him, crushing. He lowered himself slowly, laying his head against your chest, his ear pressed to where your heartbeat should’ve been.

“I’ll follow you,” he whispered, voice hollow. “Wherever you are… I’ll follow.”

The wind stirred, carrying the faint scent of smoke and blood. Anakin closed his eyes, his tears mingling with the dust on his face.

With those final words, Anakin’s body stilled, his breathing ceased. He died with you in his arms, his soul bound to yours in an unbreakable bond that not even death could sever.

All around him, the world continued — but for him, it ended there, in the ruins, with you in his arms. With his family.

From the Lays of General Anakin Skywalker, XIII century

No bloom compares, no art comes near,

To match the beauty I hold dear.

And if all fades, if worlds should part,

You’ll still remain within my heart.

The battlefield had fallen silent, save for the distant cries of soldiers retreating into the aftermath of victory. Yet, amid the chaos and carnage, there was one moment that stood out, stark against the ruin of war. They dragged Anakin’s lifeless body from where it had crumpled in the dirt, his once unbreakable vow now shattered in the eyes of all who witnessed it.

“No one will ever take you from me,” he had sworn, his voice burning with a promise that seemed unshakeable, his words laced with an iron will. Those who had heard it believed in it, too, because it had been a vow as fierce as the man himself. A vow that was supposed to endure beyond life and death, beyond the ravages of time.

But now, they took him from the earth with the ease of a flickering flame snuffed out by a gust of wind. The promise that had once held the world at bay, that had echoed through his every battle and every kiss shared in secret, lay in ruins with him. His body — cold, unmoving, a silent testament to a love that had burned too fiercely to survive — was being dragged away like some forgotten relic of a broken past.

It was then that the truth struck like a cruel blow — that vow, that promise he had made, had no power now. There would be no more breath in his lungs to fight, no more strength to stand against the world that sought to tear you apart. The world had won.

His final words, his final vow, had been rendered meaningless in the face of the inevitable. For even the fiercest of men could not battle the hand of fate, nor the finality of death. His body, once so full of life and defiance, was now a trophy to be shown, a piece to be desecrated. And as it was pulled away, like the remnants of a forgotten dream, the truth became undeniable — he could no longer protect you. He could no longer keep his promise.

And for the first time, those who witnessed it saw that the great warrior, the man who had once conquered every challenge in his path, had been beaten by something far more powerful than any foe: the silence of death.

They took him, not with the force of a conqueror, but with the quiet certainty that came with every broken vow. Anakin Skywalker, the man who had promised to never let you go, had lost the fight, and with it, the promise itself.

And though he was gone, his vow — a vow now broken beyond repair — lingered in the wind, a ghost of the love he could not protect.

Anakin’s body, still warm with the echoes of battle, had been dragged through the streets, a symbol of defeat and shame. The once-proud warrior, the man who had stood tall and unyielding in the face of the world’s cruelty, now laid at the mercy of those who sought to break him — to break everything he had fought for.

The French soldiers, victorious and cruel, dragged Anakin’s lifeless form through the mud. They spat on him, jeering and mocking his memory. To them, he was nothing but a pawn, a traitor to their cause. They cut away his armor, leaving him exposed, vulnerable — no longer the man who had once commanded respect. His sword, the one that had carved through the enemy lines with unrelenting precision, was stolen, leaving nothing but the remnants of his life.

It was a cruel humiliation — one that twisted the knife deeper into the hearts of those who still remember him. But for the English, Anakin’s sacrifice was not forgotten. In the silence of their grief, men in shadows whispered his name, remembering him for what he was — a hero, a protector, a man who fought for love, for justice, and for those who could not fight for themselves. His sacrifice was honored, though it was not sung in loud praises, but kept in the quiet reverence of the heart.

Days pass. The battle rages on, and with it, the loss sinks deeper into the bones of those who loved him.

Then, as if by some fate unknown, Anakin’s body had been quietly taken. The hands that came to claim him were hidden in shadow, their identities a mystery. The French who had once paraded him in shame now looked away, as if afraid of the silent vigil that had come. His body was laid to rest, not in the grand tombs of kings or warriors, but in a quiet, forgotten place — a patch of earth where no one would found him, where his name would not be desecrated. His body was placed beside yours, as if even in death, you were meant to rest together. It is the only peace he will ever know — the only peace he will ever get to offer you.

But in the darkness, behind the veil of secrecy, the true hero of this story remained unseen — Obi-Wan Kenobi, the man who had once walked beside Anakin, the one who had shared his dreams and his burdens. The man everyone thought was dead… He stood over their graves, the weight of loss heavier than any battle he had fought. The world had turned against him, his hands tied by the restraints of his own weakness. He was powerless, unable to avenge his fallen friend, unable to exact the revenge he so desperately desired.

Instead, Obi-Wan bowed his head, the tears of a brother falling silently, a soft promise to the wind.

“I cannot undo this,” he whispered to the earth. “I cannot bring you back. But I will tell your story. I will carry it with me, and I will speak your name to every soul I meet. Your sacrifice will never be forgotten, Anakin. The world will know what you did, who you were. You may have fallen, but your spirit will endure.”

With that, Obi-Wan placed his hand on the earth, feeling the weight of both the world and the grave beneath him. It was a silent vow — one that bound him to Anakin’s memory for as long as he lived.

“England will remember.” he whispered again, as the winds stirred, carrying the promise of an everlasting legacy.

He buried a flat rock, where was engraved the words : "Here lies two lovers, who were taken too soon and loved each other even in their last moments. May they rest in paradise.. For they were each other's forever"

And so, Anakin’s story continued, passed on through those who remembered, those who carried his memory like a flame. And though the world may never see him as he truly was — a hero, a father, a warrior, a simple man with a simple love — there will always be those who knew.

700 years later, 1994

The crumbled stones of what once was a magnificent castle lay silent beneath the weight of centuries, a forgotten relic buried in time. The earth had swallowed the remains of battles fought, of lives lost, and of promises broken. Yet, there was always something left behind — a faint trace of the past, lingering in forgotten corners where history had been too eager to fade.

It was on one such dig that archaeologists uncovered a hidden chamber, deep beneath the ruins. Their tools chipped away at the stone, the echoes of their labor carrying through the air, until a small wooden chest was revealed, its edges worn by time but still intact. Inside, beneath layers of dust and age, they found it — Anakin’s notebook, worn but sturdy, its pages yellowed and brittle.

Carefully, the archaeologists opened it, handling the fragile relic as though it might shatter under their touch. The pages revealed a mixture of thoughts, calculations, and fragments of a life long gone. But amid the disjointed words, there were poems — beautifully penned lines filled with love and longing, written in a hand that had once been steady but now appeared frantic, desperate.

One of the first poem was like a breath of air that had been trapped in time:

My rose, my heart, my love, forever bound, Even the winds will carry your name. The stars above may flicker and fade, But your light will never wane.

Each page turned brought more. Some poems spoke of hope, others of loss, of battles fought not for glory, but for the protection of something deeper, something more personal. But never once did he mention your name, at least not clearly. Each word was a veiled reference, a symbol. My rose was all he called you, the single constant in a world turned upside down by war and betrayal.

As the archaeologists continued to read, they uncovered the depth of his devotion. His words were raw, full of anguish, a heart spilled onto the pages, bleeding with every line. They spoke of promises, of unfulfilled dreams, and of a love so fierce that it had become the driving force of his very existence.

In one entry, he wrote:

“No force, no battle, no enemy can take you from me. I will fight for you, even when the heavens fall. My rose, my heart, my eternal love — I would die a thousand deaths for you.”

Another poem was filled with grief, the ink almost smudged from the tear stains that had soaked the paper:

“You are lost to me, yet here I remain, My love for you never to wane. Though time may pass and we may part, You will forever be my heart.”

The archaeologists, unaware of the full significance of these words, marveled at the depth of emotion captured in the ancient notebook. But there was no name, no clear identity. They could only speculate — who had this man loved so fiercely? Who was the rose he spoke of, the woman who had stolen his heart and held it until the end of his days ?

And so, they named it “Lays of General Anakin Skywalker,” a title that would honor his memory and the story that had nearly slipped through the cracks of time.

Legends were slippery little things. For the glory that coated them hides the pain, suffering and death that spun them.

England remembered. England remembered the fallen who had fought on its land, the warriors whose sacrifices had shaped the future. Amid the pride of its triumphs and the sorrow of its losses, the name Anakin Skywalker would remain — not just as a general, not just as a soldier, but as a man whose heart beat with the deepest kind of love. The land, which had borne witness to his final breath, carried his legacy forward in its hills and valleys, in the whispers of the wind, and in the pages of the notebook that spoke of a love that would never be forgotten.

The castle itself, now little more than rubble, seemed to echo the same questions. The ruins offered no answers, only the quiet testament of a love lost to time. But the notebook, its pages fragile yet enduring, was a record of something eternal. Anakin’s love, untouched by the centuries, still lived on in ink and paper, reaching out from the past like a whisper from another world.

And though his name, too, was a shadow of history, his words would forever speak to those who cared to listen — a love that had survived wars, betrayals, and the passage of time. And through it all, the rose he spoke of remained an enigma, a ghost, the embodiment of a love that refused to die. 

Yes, England remembered.

The Legend of the Poet and the Rose

In a war-torn land, a poet loved a rose, Her name whispered in every verse he chose. He vowed to her, with sword and blood, To hold her close, through fire and flood. But time stole both, and England remembers their love, forever echoed above.

[strawberrystepmom]

re: cancer men - the creators and dreamweavers of the zodiac:

okay hi hello. i was reading and am perpetually reading anthony bourdain's books and felt inspired to kind of break down at least astrologically the mystique of the cancer man. this is not a defensive essay but rather a piece that can offer a (hopeful) shift in perspective with regards to how we view these people in our world and our lives.

so the cancer man often has mommy issues. i hope you heard me sigh very loudly saying that because i hate using catch all terms for things that require nuance but it's a concept we are all familiar with based on term alone so it's what i'll use. my rebuttal to this is also - who doesn't? in some capacity? then i remember i'm a water sign and my mom was a cancer and i need to keep this moving on...

mommy issues aren't an indictment, they're most often just an indicator of areas where a person needs more support. perhaps they're a little scatter brained and need a partner who wants to help them get organized. perhaps they're a little emotional and have been told such their entire life to the point they're no longer wanting to be emotional so they need a partner who is willing to be a bending ear.

these areas of emotional need can lead to cancer men specifically tending to really need a lot of strong reinforcement from the women in their lives if they're unwilling to look inward and re-mother themselves so to speak. they can lean on their partners a lot because it's hard to talk about the deep feelings they have. when you agree to love a partner who shows you they need this support, you guys are gonna get mad at me for saying it, but it needs to be provided in a healthy and functional way. if you cannot provide that support do not take up with a man who already has inherent emotional distress just bc he dared to be born under a water sun.

that being said - i implore you, cancer man who may be reading this, to become your gentle inner voice. to reassure yourself that you're doing a good job and that you haven't done wrong. a cancer's fears can seem almost childlike to the uninitiated (do i know what i'm doing? is this going to last forever? what if they change their mind? what if? why? who? when?) but my rebuttal to that is also - all of our own inner monologues are our child selves or someone who hurt our child self. reserve judgement about the maturity of other's emotional processes.

cancers (all genders/identities) instinctively use their protective shell to get them through life. they are symbolized by the crab after all, so they sometimes assume costumes both literal and metaphorical.

in men these may be different personalities - you'll find the doer who shows up to your house with boxes and helping hands when you tell him you're moving, the quiet stoic lover who meets your needs in the most unassuming of ways, the man who is using macho as a defense mechanism who peacocks around and uses emotions as a weapon and finally, the man who is using his own machismo as a charming safe haven for others with hands that only wish to caress and heal (my favorite).

i mean god, a lot of cancer men either lean into the super affable cute sweet guy in hoodies and jeans while absolutely blasting the most insane screamo music in those headphones or they are tattooed, love to look alt because it hides that their top artist for this year was mitski just to give you an idea of the physical identities they may assume.

cancer men crave intimacy. their deep desire for enduring love, family, a place to call home no matter how transient everything else in their lives may feel isn't incidental, it's their birthday candle blow and falling star wish every time they see one.

they just have a tendency to rebuild their shells if they have broken through and start to feel unsafe with someone. they can become combative. the "yeah and what about you?" starts at that point and things can start to break down if you aren't willing to look deeper and realize he's hurting and that's why he's lashing out. it isn't okay, it isn't right, but it's the way cancers (and tbh all water signs why else do we have terror reputations) behave when they are retreating.

cancer men are gifted at making their loved ones dreams come true because almost always, they're making theirs come true as well through the process. they're life builders. commit to him and don't question him and he will give you everything you could ever want if he's done his inner work and he's ready to do so. let him build you the fantasy. embrace a man that loves you so much he wants to give you a babylonian garden of your own.

that being said, it's not your responsibility as someone who loves him to get him to that point so proceed as you wish but be aware that if you give up, you won't get the opportunity to come back once he's all fixed. don't cross a cancer - they're twice as vengeful as a scorpio with a virgo's very, very long memory and you will live your entire life being reminded that you didn't love them when they needed to be loved the most regardless of how true it may or not be. cancers deal in facts and feelings both and oftentimes their feelings are where the facts come from and experiences may vary.

but anyway yeah

[auxmodi]

hiiii! I love your stories and have enjoyed myself binge reading them. was wondering if you could do a super angsty fic with sandor? I've been craving it lmao. thank youuu mwah! <3

thankyou SO MUCH. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES i am so glad you asked this O HMYGOODDDD i love love love angsty shit this is gonna hurt so good.

summary: you’re a healer, tending to the wounded in the chaos of war, always close to sandor clegane, but you don’t listen when he tells you to stay behind. you’re taken, captured by the enemy, tortured, and broken. sandor, consumed by a mix of fury and guilt, tracks you for days, desperate to find you.

word count: 2.1k (sorry)

my masterlist

#warnings: heavy violence, SA, rape, physical abuse, angst, emotional distress, swearing, war, disturbing themes, blood, kidnapping.

the battle had been endless. you couldn't remember how many hours had passed, how many bodies had fallen, how many lives had been taken. the clash of swords, the screams, the blood splattered across the snow… it was all too much to process. you weren't built for this. you were supposed to be helping, healing. you were supposed to be where the wounded were, not in the thick of it, not caught up in the violence.

sandor had warned you. so many times. “stay fucking close. don’t wander off. these men aren’t here to play nice.” but you hadn’t listened. you thought you knew better. you thought that you could handle it, that you could save the wounded and not get caught up in the chaos. that the brutality of war wouldn’t touch you.

but you were wrong.

you were so wrong.

it all happened too fast, one minute you were kneeling beside a wounded man, trying to stop the bleeding from his side, and the next, a rough hand was pulling you from the ground. the sound of clashing steel and dying cries seemed to fade as a wave of panic washed over you. you tried to scream, but a heavy hand clamped over your mouth, dragging you backward, away from the chaos of the battlefield.

no. no, no. not like this. not now.

you kept fighting, but the grip on your arm tightened painfully as they dragged you deeper, farther from the fight. your eyes darted wildly. 

sandor. where was sandor?

your throat burned as you tried to scream his name. but the voice of the man holding you was loud and unforgiving.

"shut up," he spat, slamming your head against a broken wall. your vision swam, your thoughts hazy. you tried to keep your focus, to stay awake, but everything was going black. the sharp pain in your skull was overwhelming.

this was the kind of thing that only happened to other people, to those who wandered too far from safety. but you weren’t supposed to be that person.

today you were and there was nothing you could do about it.

you were pulled through the woods, the sounds of the battle gradually fading into the distance. fear curled in your gut, the panic rising as you realized no one was coming. the men were speaking in low, guttural tones, and though you couldn’t understand all of their words, the sneers and chuckles were unmistakable. they were taking you somewhere. somewhere far away.

they shoved you into a small shack, a foul-smelling place that felt more like a tomb than a hiding spot. you stumbled as you were thrown to the floor, landing hard on your knees. your palms scraped against the cold, rough wood as you gasped for air, panic flooding your chest. you tried to crawl, tried to run, but before you could, one of the men grabbed you by the hair, yanking you back.

“you’re a pretty little thing,” the man sneered, his breath rancid. his hands roamed over your body with a violence that made your stomach churn, his fingers digging into your skin as though you were a prize to be claimed.

you tried to fight back, kicking, scratching, but the other men were closing in, pinning you down, taking away the little strength you had. the terror in your chest was all-consuming, suffocating, but it didn’t matter. they were too strong. and you? you were just a helpless girl in their hands.

please, sandor. you thought. where are you?

but he wasn’t there.

they took turns with you, each moment worse than the last, each touch more brutal. your mind screamed for escape, but there was no place to go. no one was coming to save you. no one would.

the world turned hazy, the pain numbing as you tried to retreat into yourself. but you couldn’t. you couldn’t forget the words they whispered, the laughter that followed each brutal touch. you couldn’t forget the way they made you feel, worthless, broken, an object to be used.

and then, mercifully, you passed out. you weren’t sure if it was from the pain, from the exhaustion, or just the sheer overwhelming weight of everything that had happened to you, but the world went black. thank god, you thought. thank god for the darkness.

you woke up hours later or was it days? in a cold room. your body ached, the bruises on your skin swollen and painful, your head spinning. the scent of blood and filth clung to the air, and the silence was deafening.

you could barely move. your limbs were stiff, your hands bound tightly to the bedposts. the very thought of the rope around your wrists made you sick. 

was this it? was this how it ended?

you tried to shift, but even the smallest movement shot pain through your chest and limbs. you were covered in cuts, bruises, your skin too sore to even touch. you could feel the weight of everything, the terror, the helplessness, the rage building up inside you.

but mostly, you felt broken.

the door creaked open, and you froze. the sound of footsteps echoed in the small room, and you knew immediately who it was. one of them.. you couldn’t even bring yourself to look, too terrified to meet their gaze.

"still alive, huh?" he mocked, voice thick with contempt. his boots scraped against the wooden floor as he stepped closer to you.

“thought you’d be begging by now. but guess you’re just a quiet little cunt after all.”

you barely registered the words. please, no more. you wanted to scream, but your throat was too raw, your body too shattered. you couldn’t do anything but lie there, too tired to fight, too numb to care.

and then, it happened.

the door slammed open with such force that the hinges screamed in protest. the men froze, their laughter dying in their throats.

you didn’t know what was happening at first, everything happened so fast. but then you heard it. the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor, the strangled gasps for breath. who was it?

and then you saw him.

sandor.

blood on his hands, fury in his eyes. he was a fucking beast, hacking through men like they were nothing but flies to be swatted away. his sword was a blur of steel, slicing through flesh with a speed and precision that could only come from years of living in blood-soaked shadows. the sickening squelch of metal meeting bone, the gurgling of the men who couldn’t even scream before they were cut down, filled the room.

one by one, they fell, their pathetic whimpers swallowed by sandor’s rage. he didn’t even look at them. didn’t waste a single breath on the bastards who had dared to lay a finger on you. it was the way he moved, cold, methodical, violent, that made your heart race.

he wasn’t talking to them. no insults, no threats. just death. he was cutting them down with no mercy, no hesitation, as if their lives were nothing. nothing compared to the rage inside him, compared to the fury that burned like wildfire in his chest.

you could barely see through the blood and sweat, but you knew this:

sandor wasn’t going to stop. not until every last one of those sons of bitches was dead.

sandor had been hunting for days.

the trail had been cold for a while, but his gut never lied to him. he could feel it in his bones, in the air, the weight of your absence pressing down on him. the fact that you had vanished, taken from him while he had been off fighting with the enemy, gnawed at his insides in ways that felt like a constant, sharp ache.

he had promised to protect you, hadn’t he? but he had failed.

and now, after days of searching, after killing his way through every bastard who had dared to even look like they were lying, he had finally tracked you down to this godforsaken shack in the middle of nowhere. he had seen the marks on their bodies, the bloodied, mangled corpses and he hadn’t even felt satisfaction when the last of them fell. no, the rage was still there. still bubbling, an unrelenting fire in his chest.

when he forced open the door, the sight that greeted him nearly shattered his mind.

there you were, broken. gods, you were broken.

your eyes were half-lidded, your face pale, and there was a dullness to them that made something inside of him crack open. you were lying on a bed, but your wrists were bound to the posts, and your clothes, what was left of them, hung in tatters. your body was battered, bruised, marked in ways that made his chest tighten with a violent, unbearable pain.

"no," he rasped, the word coming out in a harsh breath. he couldn’t even control the tremor in his voice. everything about this was wrong. this was his fault. he failed you.

your head turned slightly, and for a brief moment, your eyes met. the sight of you, so broken, so fucking vulnerable made his heart pound harder in his chest. anger twisted in his gut, his hands shaking as they hovered over the sword at his side, desperate to end the lives of those who had dared to lay a hand on you.

he moved toward you slowly, cautiously, as if you might vanish if he made the wrong move. you barely seemed aware of his presence, your gaze distant, your breath shallow. and when he reached your side, when he finally let his hand rest against your cheek, his whole body stiffened at the coldness of your skin.

"hey," he muttered, his voice low, strained. he didn’t know if you could even hear him, but he had to say it. "stay with me, damn it."

your eyes flickered, but you didn’t speak, didn’t respond. nothing. you were so empty, so broken, that sandor wanted to scream.

sandor’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. he gripped your arm and pulled it toward him, the ropes still cutting into your flesh. “we’re getting you out of here,” he said, but it was empty, hollow, a promise that meant nothing in the face of what had already been done, what had already been taken.

he didn’t waste time untying you gently. he didn’t care if he hurt you. he just needed you free. needed to get you out of this hell. his hands were rough, unyielding as he cut through the ropes, his fingers slipping slightly with the blood that had stained his palms.

when you finally fell into his arms, the weight of your body felt like an unbearable burden. you were too light, too fragile, too fucking broken.

the air felt too thick to breathe, and for a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. he was angry. so fucking angry. not just at you, no, never at you, but at the whole fucking world. the fact that he hadn’t been there, that he hadn’t been able to stop it from happening.

"we’re going back to the others," he said finally, his voice hard, but there was something else there, something darker.

“no one’s ever gonna lay a fucking hand on you again,” he growled, teeth clenched tight. the words spilled out like poison, dark and deadly. “i’ll burn every last one of those bastards to the ground. i swear it."

you didn’t answer. didn’t say a damn word, you just stared, hollow-eyed, distant, as if his words had no weight at all.

it ate at him, gnawed at his insides like a wound that wouldn’t close, and the rage swelled up in his chest until he could barely breathe, it hurt more than anything he’d ever felt.

the quiet between you was unbearable, a suffocating weight in the air. sandor’s jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he brushed your hair away from your face. he touched you, needed to touch you, but you didn’t feel real anymore.

“rest,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. “you’re safe.”

but even as you closed your eyes, the tired, broken part of you retreating into unconsciousness, he knew that safety was an illusion. you would never be the same and neither would he.

carrying you, every step felt like a cruel reminder of how much he had failed, how much he couldn’t undo.

the battle had already been won, but in this moment, sandor knew: the war for you was far from over and no matter how many men he killed, how many bodies he left in his wake, there would always be this, this piece of himself that he had lost.

and it would never come back.

[softpine]

Omg I want to know more about Cas and Coco's relationship! Do they have any "weird" things they do as a couple? I don't think this is weird but when asked that question people always say "we pop each others zits?" Hopefully you get what I mean.

ohh yeah for sure 😭 because of everything they go through together and how honest they eventually become with each other, there's nothing they can't say or do. which means they can get pretty weird. also coco has chronic health issues and she's on medication that makes a lot of it worse, mainly the not-fun gastrointestinal issues. so trading information with each other that would be tmi to anyone else is very common. coco will text casper like "GUESS WHATTT i finally pooped" and he'd text back like "❗🎉🎉❗❗🎉💃🏻🎈💞✨🌈🌈💖💖 i knew you would good job sweetheart 👍🏻🔥💞" fjkjsds

as you know casper has bad anxiety and is prone to asking "what if" questions that only make him more anxious, so whenever he asks coco something like "what do i do if this traffic never clears and i'm late to work and i get fired" she'll respond with something like "what would happen if a regular pigeon grew to be the size of a pterodactyl and he was mostly benevolent but very hungry on account of his size so he ate all the french fries in los angeles. would that be fucked up or what" and it's usually bizarre enough to stop him from spiraling. also they kind of turn it into a game and start imagining how they would live their lives in these weird universes coco creates

they like to go to the gym or go for runs together and if one of them is ready to go home the other will lick their face and decide if they should call it quits depending on how salty they taste. neither of them remember who started this. all their friends hate it.

when coco is in a good mood and/or casper has done something that made her happy she will inexplicably start singing happy birthday mister president no matter where they are, which leads people to falsely believe it's casper's birthday all year long

they take turns laying on top of each other with their full body weight, not doing anything, maybe scrolling on their phones or whatever. casper likes it because it forces him to stop thinking so hard and be more present in the moment, coco does it because she likes getting crushed by heavy men idk

and many more, these are just the ones i've already written down in my notes :')

[starsonablackboard]

again about anger management

remember how i said that the next post will be "tomorrow"? yeah each time i mention any deadline you can double (or better quadrouple) that. so

continuing with local banished god – ofelia

with this one i'll go into the design process first because it has more behind it by nature of goat's "narinder" not having any official design or anything

about more obvious things: narinder is a black cat with red eyes. black cats are associated with devil (sometimes), narinder is the devil of the narrative (first achievement being deal with the devil) and his vessel is the lamb – the holy sacrificial animal. the goat is associated with satan so their "narinder" should be associated with god, right? lion is one of the animals associated with god, narinder is black, so ofelia is a white lioness with purple eyes (bc the purple crown)

about symbolic stuff aka extra arms: narinder's third eye is a symbol of enlightenment (the ritual of enlightenment is literally red with a single eye as its icon) and also death as transgression to the other side does give enlightenment. i made the "twisted" version of enlightenment to be empowerment, and i think two extra arms symbolise empowerment (capability skill etc) quite nicely

oh and just for me i made her bigger and softer cause my narinder is a scrawny annoyed man. he has stripes on his face so ofelia has ??sircles?? and narinder has tussles so ofelia gets lil beads. also her scarf thing kinda sorta mimics the folds of narinder's hood

ofelia is the bishop of balance. i didn't want to make her a bishop of life because it's too simple and i like to be different and obnoxious, so my thought process went: death -> change -> TwiStiNG -> stasis -> stasis but pretty -> balance. also balance can give empowerment since it's a stable safe foundation

narinder's name means "king of all men" (or along the lines of) and death is kind of like that cause we all will die in the end. ofelia (ophelia) is a greek name meaning "help" and balance is, indeed, helpful. also it hints at her "others before self" personality. i chose greek because, like sanskrit where the name narinder is from, it's one of the oldest languages

and now ~the story section~ (pre belial's first death)

i TRICKED YOU there was more to that chart (please ignore the different spelling it's nothing im just inconsistent)

before her confinement ofelia was the most influential of her siblings. lands of old faith were in balance (stasis) since the dawn of time (aka since the only five siblings were left). the balance in question meaning circle of rebirth and reincarnation, never changing pattern of climate, etc. this was the direct result of ofelia forcing her and her crown's influence onto the lands, it wasn't natural state for the realms, so after thousands of years ofelia was beginning to wain and wilt. it wasn't noticeable at first, and for the longest time she hid any signs both from her siblings (to not make them worry) and her cultists (to not lose their faith which kept her afloat)

but at some point she finally came to terms with the truth she couldn't ignore any longer – this is unnatural, this is bad and will have devastating consequences in the long run. she shared her worried with her siblings, and they panicked – balance inflicted by ofelia was beneficial and safe, and losing it would be a very hard and demanding change. in the result her siblings blinded her (symbolic retribution for her finally "seeing the matter clearly") and chained her in the beyond which is timeless and neverchanging

her crown is still in this world, tho, and it's still keeping the balance intact – since ofelia isn't dead the crown haven't lost it's power. it is kept in the depths of ofelia's main temple, guarded by four barriers, each one kept intact by one bishop (like with nari's chains)

that's all for today, thanks for coming to my yapping session

[witchygagirlwrites]

Kelly Severide x Reader x Matt Casey

Vibes based off Fix What You Didn't break by Nate Smith

Edit and request by @desimarie12

When you started at fifty one it was a temporary position. Someone to help out as a partner for Sylvie until someone permanent could be found. Matt and Kelly never knew they'd find the one person who could repair their hearts the day you came sweeping into the doors of the station house.

You were quiet at times you should be loud and loud when you should be quiet, unbearable at night because you barely slept, acted like you couldn't exist without music and drank more coffee than rescue squad combined. 

You could also talk everyone into a snowball fight at two in the morning. You made the best pancakes and somehow could guess everyone's favorite color within a few minutes of talking to them.  You picked up on people's moods and could figure out if they needed someone to vent to, help finding a solution or just a distraction from whatever was plaguing them at the moment.

The day Kelly started to fall was actually Shay’s birthday. You didn’t know what the day was or why everyone, including Matt, was even giving him such a wide berth. He’d locked himself in his quarters where he planned to stay until a call came in but then you came knocking. He hadn’t looked up the first time but you were nothing if not persistent.

When he finally stood and unlocked the door you walked past him and sat down on the edge of his desk “Do you want to talk about it?” he sat down in the chair about a foot from you and stared you down “About what exactly?” 

The smile you gave him was one you normally reserved for trying to calm patients but he could tell it was genuine nonetheless “Whatever it is that’s bothering you so much even Matt hasn’t hardly looked your way. Your shoulders and jaw are so tense my muscles are hurting looking at them and your eyes look so damn sad”

He didn't know what it was but staring into your eyes he couldn't keep that wall up no matter how hard he tried. He found himself telling you all about Shay. By the time he was done you were standing next to the chair with your arms around his shoulders and his head was leaned over on your stomach “I'm so sorry Kel. I can't imagine losing someone like that. I've never had anyone mean that much to me. Just remember those we love are never truly gone as long as we carry them in our hearts. Any time you want to talk about her, come and find me. I'll be glad to listen” 

He probably should've been embarrassed, falling apart like that. Not showing a stronger front but he couldn't find that emotion in himself. He felt better after talking to you, a little less broken. He had no idea how you managed to have that quality about you, a tornado of a thing but yet here you were calming those around you. The eye of the storm and helping to calm it down. 

“Thank you darlin” he whispered and saw a smirk slip onto your face “Darlin huh? Listen at you being all sweet. She must have been one hell of a woman to have that effect on you”

The day Matt started to fall was when all of you responded to a call with another station house. You were working triage as they bought victims out of a warehouse fire.

The way you handled yourself as you worked the tent was extraordinary. You were helping Sylvie along with the medics from the other house. Moving from patient to patient, offering them a kind smile and never showing any sign of exhaustion.

When he went in he could hear your voice across the radio, behind Chief Boden yelling at the other house's men. He had no clue what was going on so he and Kelly worked continuing to clear the floor they were on until Boden called for them to clear out.

When they made it out you were currently being held back by Cruz and Capp from arguing with the captain of the other house. “Woah. Why is my medic trying to kill you?” He asked and you stopped fighting to turn towards the sound of his voice “This asshole decided to tear a wall down when Boden told him not to and forced the flames back towards you and Severide. That's why the clear out had to be called”

He turned to the other captain “Why didn't you listen to my chief?” The other captain shrugged “You have to take risks every now and then Casey” then glanced towards Kelly “Ask your boyfriend. We all know his track record” 

“That's it!” You yelled and dove over Cruz’s shoulder and Matt barely caught you as Boden ordered the other captain off the scene.

He carried you over to the triage tent before sitting you down. You were still breathing heavy and glaring at the members of the other house “Assholes want to endanger my captain and lieutenant then act like it wasn't a big deal”

“Your captain and lieutenant?” He asked and you shrugged “Until Boden finds a permanent partner for Sylvie” a smile slipped onto his face “I don't know you're sounding like you belong here” and you grinned “Maybe I just have decided you two won't take care of yourselves so someone needs to”

Kelly and Matt stood in their kitchen across from each other at the counter, both silent drinking coffee. “Y/N's contract is up this month” Kelly broke the silence.

“We're not letting her leave are we?” Matt asked and Kelly shook his head “Not without an effort to get her to stay”

______________

The day they finally got up the nerve to ask you if there was any way you'd let the two of them take you out you surprised them with letting them know you were officially a permanent fixture of fifty one.

"What made you decide to stay?” Matt asked as the three of you walked by the waterfront. You looked between them then shrugged “Maybe I like my captain and lieutenant just a little bit”

You wouldn't let either of them get in their heads. If Matt pulled away from Kelly you were pulling him back and vice versa. If Benny came around making Kelly doubt himself you were there, reminding him how good of a man he truly was.

Neither of them knew what it was about you. Was it the fact that you were wild where they were calm and the calm where they were wild? Was it the fact that you could see through any facade they put up and pinpoint exactly what was going on in their heads at the moment? 

You were the light to lead them home no matter the storm and always shined bright. When you would curl up between them and make sure to be touching them both before falling asleep, when they'd find you the next morning wearing one of  their shirts and dancing around the kitchen while the coffee made. 

When they would see your eyes tracking them on a scene and how your shoulders relaxed when they walked out. When they would have their absolute worst days but then come home and you would curl up on the couch and ask them to watch a movie and that day would melt away?

Yeah. You didn't realize it but you saved them. With your love, your spirit and just the person you were. 

[shortmomma1993]

I didn't. But I was to be hung. When I woke up the next morning they dragged me out and I saw...the gallow...I just accepted my fate. I walked up with as much grace as I could and *touchs neck* I remember the rope. Being places around me. Right before they pulled the lever Henery stopped it. Telling everyone he would take me. But only if I begged to be his wife. So I did. I got on my knees and begged him. He said he had taken pity on me. But I realized all of this had been set up. My mom got Rin to force himself on me...so no one would want me. I don't think she expected Henery to want me but I don't think she cared much. He was 56 I was 11. I took my job as a wife seriously though. Putting everything i has been taught to the test. He would use me like those men. He was never gentle or kind. And when I got pregnant a month later he was so happy until he wasn't. I think he realized it could've been anyone's child who had visited me...that week so he made sure when he was finished with me that I wasn't pregnant anymore. And I guess he liked beating me....because, like my mom, he would find any excuse. I lost 25 pregnancies because of him. And it was always my fault. He started asking my mom for help. And they worked together to find more ways to torture me. Burning, beatings, broken bones...selling me. The pillary was their favorite. I couldt move much. Which made it great for when they let the peopld of the community "teach me". I was a harlot... When I turn 15 I decided I need to escape. So I did. I climbed my communities gates and finally got out free. I spent a year teaching myself to hunt for survival. I finally found a city and faked documents to get into school through a computer at a library. Which was hard because I had never used one before. I got into school at started learning programming.

Sooo, we just found out Hoppy was also pregnant but lost the baby because of stress but didn't tell you because you're also pregnant and she doesn't want to stress you

What!? *gets worried* hoppy!! @hophopscotch

[xxplastic-cubexx]

Charles representation enjoyed here again! I’ve not read much of the comics bc I can’t afford them but I just rewatched FC and I was wondering if Charles being paralyzed is the same in the comics (Erik doing it)? Do they often include that part of his story?

hello my inquisitive friend :] !!!! im more than happy to give some more info bout the origins charles' disability in the comics- to the best of my abilities that is !

while they don't include an origin for his paralysis in EVERY story/run, as far as i know there are three major ways charles loses his mobility (though like yourself, i havent read many of the comics so far, so i could be missing a few. this is the part where i invite readers to submit additional info if im leaving any out)

the very first manner of charles losing his legs was relayed to us in the original X-Men run of the 60's in issue #20

(X-Men #20: "I, Lucifer!")

before magneto was regarded as charles' main adversary there was the extraterrestrial lucifer (who sported the same color scheme, ironically. it wasnt as though lucifer came before magneto so it was definitely A Choice..) who charles would have a semi-reoccurring feud with for a bit early on in the series. during their first encounter, charles would corner lucifer in his lair only to have a stone slab dropped on him, disabling his legs indefinitely

the second manner in which charles loses his mobility- and the time where erik is the most involved and is most deliberate- comes from. Our Favorite Universe in 2001: The Ultimate Universe

(Ultimate X-Men #1: "The Tomorrow People")

as is typically how charles x magneto team-up arcs go, while charles and erik worked together for some time it wasn't very long before erik wanted to pursue more Dramatic Measures for mutantkind. and As This Story Goes, amidst trying to escape the savage lands sanctuary he and erik built, erik drove a metal spike through charles' spine, leading to his disability in this verse

lastly, we have the House of M- or more specifically its prequel miniseries, Civil War: House of M- verse in 2008:

(Civil War: House of M #2: "Revolution")

(Civil War: House of M #3: "Reign")

similar to Ultimate and the movies, this is another timeline where charles and erik team up. this time however, charles is more willing to follow erik's ideas after seeing the horrors of genosha upon reading the mind of a mutant who escaped the island, and the two seek to liberate the other mutants left behind. unfortunately, during their mission, a sentinel collapses the building charles and co. are infiltrating, leading to the loss of his legs

hope you had fun reading- i had fun typing up everything and looking back at these issues :] !

[skunkes]