#trio of forgotten sexualities

[denerturee]

Get in the car if you are asexual aroace or aromantic

[frenchkisstheabyss]

♡ Motivation ♡

♡ Pairing: boyfriend!mingi x chubby!fem!reader x best friend!yunho

♡ Genre: smut/angst

♡ Summary: Yunho hasn't been able to get you out of his head or his life since the night his best friend Mingi fell for you. He tries to look at you as his best friend's girlfriend, surpressing any forbidden feelings that arise for you, but one night and a single forgotten pair of panties is all it takes to make him break. What will he do when you walk in on him in one of his most vulnerable moments? More importantly, what will you do?

♡ Word Count: 7.9k-ish

♡ Warnings: reader's the brat of all brats, just a tad bit manipulative, both Mingi and Yunho simp for her hard, some subby boy vibes w/ a lil dom Mingi, a lil dom reader, jealous Mingi, perv Yunho, kissing, male masturbation, panty sniffing/licking, deep throating, sexual fantasies, penetrative sex, rough sex, marking, oral sex (m receiving), overstimulation, nipple play, choking, low-key breath play, fingering, swallowing, overstumilation, throat fucking, creampie, handjob, things get very wet, general worship, pet names (baby, good boy, baby girl).

♡ A/N: I need to make this clear. This fic is in no way 7.9k words of smut. There's at least 1k words of something else in there so, ya know, I'm not a total pervert (I am a total pervert 💜). I have so much more planned for this trio but this is what I have for now and I hope all of my sexy chubby babes out there have fun with it. Love you my darlings.

There’s something off about you. 

Yunho knew it the moment that Mingi brought you home from the club. It wasn’t a rare occasion for Mingi to bring a girl back to the apartment. Usually Yunho would be right by his side, stumbling through the door with his tongue shoved halfway down the throat of a girl whose panties hit the ground before he could even learn her name.

But that night he made the rare decision to stay home. He had a paper due the next day and it was either lock in or fail. So instead of partying with his friends, scoping out his prey for the night, he spent his time rotting on the couch, staring at his laptop until his retinas burned out. Fully consumed by the task at hand, he hardly noticed what time it was when the front door clicked open and you came skipping through like you owned the place. 

“Ooh, a smart one” you teased, leaning over the back of the couch to grab a peek at his screen.

You smelled like strawberries and cream with the faintest hint of vodka. Fresh. Sweet. Edible. Your lips were glossy and plush, tinted with a shade of pink that made them particularly kissable. Even by the quickest glimpse of you in his peripheral he could tell that you were pretty. Not pretty like things people take pictures of. Pretty like things men start wars over. 

“What’s your name?” you asked, extending a smooth, manicured hand out to greet him.

Mingi groaned, his arms already around your waist to usher you towards the bedroom, “It doesn’t matter what his name is.”

“Yunho” he managed, turning to get his first full look at you. Heat rushed to his cheeks at the sight of you in that tiny black dress. It clung to your curves for dear life, making every part of you look especially plump in ways that made the heat rush to other parts of his body. 

“Yunho?” you giggled, your fingers skimming his, leaving little sparks of electricity dancing at his fingertips. You didn’t say his name. You sang it like a lullaby, your eyes seeming to twinkle at the sound of it. “I like that name.”

Mingi was all over you, ready to tear you apart, and you were doing nothing at all to stop him but somehow you still seemed fixated on Yunho. Or maybe he was the one fixated on you. “I’ll see you later, Yunho” you winked, Mingi nibbling at your neck just enough to make you moan it out. 

You were just another girl. Mingi’s girl at that. Yunho knew he shouldn’t care and yet he found himself staring at the spot you were once in long after you’d left it. He couldn’t understand what it was about you but he wanted you to come back. Lean over the couch again. Whisper in his ear. Say his name.

“Yunho? I like that name.” 

Shrugging it off, he rubbed his exhausted eyes, dragging his attention back to the task at hand. What he felt was nothing. Just some weird side effect of sleep deprivation. It’d be gone in the morning and so would you. Only that wasn’t true at all. The feeling didn’t go away and neither did you. Not that morning or the morning after that or the morning after that. Mingi kept bringing you around and that feeling—this almost surreal pull you seemed to have to you—only worsened with each passing day. 

Mingi felt it too. Yunho knew that he did. The only difference was that Mingi could indulge in it. In less than a week you were Mingi’s girlfriend and he was crazy about you. Ravenous almost. Yunho had never seen him get this way over a girl. Anything you wanted, everything you wished for. You only had to ask and Mingi  would stop the world to make sure you had it. More than once Yunho wanted to stop his best friend and ask, “What’s she doing to you?” Were you a witch? A demon? Some magic being that had cast a spell upon his best friend, making him your zombie slave.

Whatever you were, your presence in the apartment was driving Yunho insane. He couldn’t stand to hear your voice because he heard it in his dreams. He couldn’t stand to see your face because it’s all he pictured when he closed his eyes at night. Anytime your body was anywhere near him his fingers seemed to tingle with the urge to touch you. Even when you weren’t around the scent of your perfume lingered in the air so that he couldn’t forget you once. Not for a second. Your existence was a small form of torture. Wanting you, longing for you, but not being able to have you was enough to make him insane.

There’s something off about you and Yunho can’t explain it. He can’t justify why he so desperately needs Mingi to get rid of you and he can’t justify why he’s standing outside of the bathroom door listening to you as you sing in the shower, blissfully unaware of his presence. It wasn’t his intention to end up here. He’d been on his way to the kitchen to grab a snack when he noticed the door was cracked and the shower was on. Naturally he’d assumed it was Mingi but before he could go on his way your singing pulled him back. 

You’re adorable when you sing. You’ve done it around him before—cheesy pop songs at karaoke nights—and each time he finds it more endearing than the last. In the back of his mind he knows he shouldn’t be standing here. He doesn’t even know why he’s standing here. Maybe the answer’s something wholesome like him wanting to be near you when you’re doing something cute or maybe it’s something filthy like him getting hard at the knowledge that on the other side of that door you’re completely naked. Or maybe it’s somewhere in between. Either way he knows it’s not right. He shouldn’t be here. He shouldn’t be feeling this. 

“Get it together. What’s wrong with you?” he groans, raking his hands down his face. He presses his palms into his cheeks, fingers drumming at his temples. “We have to get out of here.”

“Hello?” you call out and Yunho’s heart stops dead in his chest. He doesn’t move an inch. He doesn’t even breathe. He couldn’t if he wanted to. There’s no way you heard him. 

“Hello?” you repeat, peeking your head out from behind the shower curtain. Fuck, you heard him. You wait a moment, positive that you heard something but not entirely sure what. Glancing over at the mirror you catch the reflection of a silhouette just outside the door. “Mingi, if you’re trying to scare me it won’t work. I can see you.” 

Yunho’s plan to run in the other direction is halted by your words. You’ve already seen him. He can’t just run away now. If he does and you mention it to Mingi later you’ll know it was Yunho anyway. You’ll think he’s a creep and a pervert. As if him standing here to begin with does anything to argue against that theory. 

Clearing his throat, Yunho digs deep to find the most normal explanation for his current position. “I’m sorry. I just had to use the bathroom. I didn’t know—”

“Oh, Yunie! Hold on a second!” Switching the water off, you reach out to grab your towel from the hook and toss it around yourself. “I’m sorry if I was hogging the bathroom” you apologize, hurrying out to gather your things. You expect him to come in but when he doesn’t you open the door yourself to find him standing there like a lost puppy. A terrified lost puppy. 

“Yunie, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“I…uh…I…” he stutters, struggling to find the right words—or any words at all—in the presence of your half naked body in front of him. Even wrapped in a towel you’re glorious to look at. What skin that's left showing is more than enough to fuel the imagination and he wishes it weren’t. 

“You…uh…you what?” you tease, feeling guilty when he averts his gaze from you, his energy growing even more anxious than before. “Calm down. I’m just messing with you. Seriously though, everything okay?” You rest your hand on his chest, smoothing over the soft white cotton of his t-shirt. His chest tenses at your touch, his heart picking up speed. It thumps against your hand like the beating of a drum and you twiddle your fingers along to the tune. “If you ever need anything, Yunie—”

Yunho slips around you to get into the bathroom, knowing he’ll combust if you touch him for any longer. “Thanks but I’m good, really. I just needed to use the bathroom.”

You giggle, turning to bid him farewell, “Well alright then. You have fun in here.”

You’re barely out of the bathroom when Yunho’s pushing the door closed behind you, listening for your footsteps before rushing to the sink to splash cold water on his face. This is borderline embarrassing. All you did was touch his chest and he’s short circuiting. What’s wrong with him? The sensation of something pulsing elsewhere on his body brings his attention down below his waist where a rise in his sweatpants has his cock pressed right up against the edge of the sink. 

“Seriously? This is not the time” he whispers down at it, knowing that there’s no way he can leave the bathroom in this condition. At least not until he’s sure you’re really gone. Reaching down to readjust himself, his attention’s drawn to something blue lying on the ground near his feet. At first he’s unsure what it is, it’s all bundled up, indiscernible from any other fabric, but when he picks it up there’s no mistaking what the lace blue fabric is or who it belongs to. 

Your panties dangle from his fingertips, delicate and pretty, a little silk bow adorning the front band. Yunho’s no stranger to the type of panties that you like to wear—he’s caught a glimpse of them once or twice when your dress was shorter than you might’ve known—but touching them is different and the added knowledge that you’ve worn them has him straining even harder against his boxers. The voice in the back of his head whispers that he should put them back. Leave them right where he found them and walk away before he does something he shouldn’t. 

But there’s another side of him, one that would gnaw its own arm off for any piece of you, and it has him burying his face in your panties, every inhale filling his lungs with the sweetness of your scent. He loses himself in thoughts of what it must be like to have his face pushed between your legs, your pillowy thighs resting on his shoulders as he drags his tongue along your slit. His tongue darts out, soaking the lace and he swears he can taste you. His free hand finds the waistband of his sweatpants, shoving them aside with his boxers in one swift motion to take himself into his hand. 

Yunho hisses at the satisfaction of his palm skimming his length as his cock slips free. “Yunie” you always call him. He doesn’t know when you started calling him that but every time you do it does something to him. Would you call him that while the tip of his tongue’s circling your clit? Would you tug at his hair, grinding yourself against his face, and say “Yunie”? Precum leaks from his cock as he circles the tip, your panties becoming a gag to muffle the sounds escaping his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut, desperate not to catch the slightest glimpse of himself in the mirror. 

The sick part is he doesn’t know if that’d stop him. He should probably feel bad but there’s no room for a conscience right now. There’s only room for you flooding his taste buds. Only room for the pursuit of a high unlike any he’s felt before. The pressure building inside of him is almost too intense, his knees going weak each time he strokes his cock.

Biting down on the fabric, Yunho feels the muscles in his stomach tighten. His slick fingers dance up and down his shaft as he thrusts into his fist. Are you one of those girls who closes her eyes when she cums or do you leave them open? Would you stare down at him with tears in your eyes, your bottom lip quivering just as you’re on the edge of your high?

“Yunie” you whisper into the void of his fantasies, “I told you if you ever needed anything…” 

Your voice sounds so clear. It rings in his ear as if it isn’t coming from the depths of his mind but from you directly. Yunho’s eyes open slowly, cautiously, to find out why it seems that way. Because it is that way. You’re standing right there beside him in your towel, watching him like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

When you realized that you’d left your panties behind you didn’t expect to come back to this but you aren’t exactly complaining. You’ve always known that Yunho had a thing for you and the harder he tries to pretend that he doesn’t the more obvious it is. 

You almost feel bad for how much fun you have teasing him when you all hang out together. He probably thinks it’s all accidental. Your hand brushing his when you walk by, your panties peeking out when you bend over, your voice getting a bit lighter when you say his name. All of it’s intentional. Done for the express purpose of seeing how far you can push him before he breaks. Seeing him standing here with your panties stuffed between his lips, his cock leaking all over the tile floor, you figure he must’ve hit his limit. How lucky you are to be here to see it. 

Cupping his cheek, you gently trace his jawline, pressing your body against his side. “Don’t stop,” you coo, staring into his warm brown eyes, “Be a good boy and cum for me.” 

You’re gorgeous. As gorgeous as you were the day he first saw you. Gorgeous enough to make the word “shame” non-existent. His fingers are still wrapped around his shaft, his cock throbbing in his grasp as your lips grow closer to his. When you’re close enough to feel the lace brush your lips, you pluck it away with your teeth, no barriers left between the two of you. He’s trembling, on the verge of falling apart and you’ve never wanted anything more.

“Tell me, Yunie. What’s my pussy taste like?” You tilt your head, brushing his lips with yours, and his body shudders one last time before he’s gushing down his hand, warm droplets of cum marking his sweatpants and pooling on the sink. He pulls away from you, fighting back what’s left of his orgasm as he tries to catch his breath. 

“Fuck, fuck, fuck” he whines, reality hitting him like a freight train. Fumbling to fix his pants, he looks back at you to find you giggling.

“You’re so cute you’re flustered” you say, your panties now secure in your hand. You can see him spiraling. The pleasure of his high and the confusion of your reaction splitting his world in two. Approaching him casually, you offer him a quick peck on the cheek. A treat for a job well done. “You might wanna clean yourself up. Oh and thanks for holding onto these for me” you smile, shoving your panties into his pocket, “But you can keep them.” 

Exiting the bathroom as quietly as you came in, you disappear down the hall leaving Yunho alone to pick up the pieces of whatever that moment was. There’s something off about you and now Yunho knows it for sure. But why does that make him want you more? 

“Oh come on! Are you serious?” Mingi yells into his headset, the scene playing out on the TV mere seconds from launching him into a blind rage. 

You’d advised him to do something relaxing before bed. Listen to some rain sounds. Do some yoga. Drink a nice cup of chamomile tea and read a book. Unsurprisingly, jumping on the game with Jongho and Wooyoung wasn’t anywhere at the top of that list. It wasn’t even on it. 

“Stop yelling at him, it’s not his fault!” Jongho shouts back, defending Wooyoung despite knowing that the mistake was kinda his fault. 

“Mingi, what’d we say about yelling?” you ask, shuffling past the war zone on screen to grab something from the dresser. 

Mingi pouts, sitting up in bed, “It’s not my fault, baby. They’re betraying my moral loyalty here.”

Wooyoung scoffs, surely rolling his eyes on the other end, “You’re so dramatic.”

“I am not dramatic!”

Slipping out of your towel, you toss on a baggy shirt and hop into bed with your boyfriend. “You are kinda dramatic” you tease, cuddling up beside him. Mingi throws a look back at you, one ripe with betrayal, and you rub his lower back to soothe the pain. 

Mingi giggles, your fingers like magic to the muscles of his back. “Don’t start. You know that’s my spot.”

Jongho audibly cringes, “Alright. Match over. I’m out before this gets weird.”

“You’re going to bed already?” Mingi whines, “I was just getting started.”

“Tell ‘baby’ we said goodnight” Wooyoung says and Jongho hops right in with him. 

“Goodnight, baby.” 

“They said goodnight” Mingi huffs, his fingers at the ready to click the game off. 

“Goodnight boys!” you sing just before Mingi rips his headset off, tossing it off to the side with his controller.  

Never happy to see Mingi sulking, you take him by the arm, guiding him to lay by your side. He settles right in, tucking his arms around your waist to hold you tight. For all the things he’s tried to help him unwind, nothing’s ever seemed to work as much as being next to you has. Just the feeling of your body beside his like this, your fingers massaging his scalp as he runs his hand along the arch of your hip, is enough to make him forget that anything else in the world exists. It’s one of many reasons he rarely ever lets you leave. You wonder why you’re even paying rent at your place at this point. Outside of work 90% of your time is spent here with Mingi and—

You chew at your bottom lip, recalling what occurred a few minutes ago. You and Mingi aren’t the type to keep secrets from each other. Especially not about something like this. It might be Yunho’s worst nightmare for you to tell him but there would’ve never come a day where you didn’t. 

“Baby” you sigh, playing up an innocent voice that signals to him you’re about to say something not so innocent. 

Mingi grabs his phone, opening it up to check his notifications, “What’d you do?” 

“What’d I do? Why’s it always something I did?”

“You know I didn’t mean it like that” he swears, kissing you on the nose, “So, what’d you do?”

You tug harshly at his hair, your own bit of revenge, “I didn’t do anything, well, I mean, kinda? You know how I had to go back and get my underwear from the bathroom?”

Mingi nods, invested in some message sent to him through the group chat but still allotting some attention to you. 

“Well…” you continue, “I found them and they were kinda…in Yunho’s mouth?”

Mingi begins to type a text message but stops in his tracks at the conclusion of your sentence. “They were what?” 

“He kinda sorta had them in his mouth and his dick was in his hand but it wasn’t, like, weird or anything” you ramble, trying to explain enough that the stunned look on your boyfriend’s face fades. If that were ever possible. 

Mingi responds to you with a long span of silence broken by hysterical laughter. “I knew it! I knew it! I told you. He’s a pervert.”

“Mingi, he’s not a pervert” you scold, finding the word a tad harsh. 

“I mean, I’m a pervert too” he shrugs, “I’m not that much of a pervert though. I knew he liked you but I didn’t know he was that serious about it. That’s kinda pathetic actually.”

“Pathetic? So, what are you saying? You’d never suck on my panties?” you ask, just to get a rise out of him. 

Mingi pinches the bottom of your shirt, raising it up to expose your lack of panties. “If you ever wore any around me maybe.”

You swat his hand away, taking your turn to pout, “That’s not the point, Mingi.”

Dropping his phone, Mingi stares intently at you, seriously contemplating Yunho's actions and your reaction to them. “Then what’s the point? You saw him doing it and what? You liked it?” 

There’s a shift in the bass of his voice, something different about his body language. You know what it looks like when your boyfriend gets jealous and with a few simple words you’ve more than gotten him there.

“I never said I liked it.”

Mingi rests a hand on your leg, skimming along your velvet skin to tuck a thumb right where your thighs kiss. “You never said you didn’t like it. Is that what you want me to be? Some pathetic little boy beating my dick to you cause I can’t have you for myself?” He slides his thumb up higher, coming into contact with your clit and he can already feel how swollen it is. 

A moan threatens to escape you, racing its way to the tip of your tongue but you choke it back, refusing to give him the satisfaction. “What would be so bad about that? Huh? Am I not good enough for you to beg for?” you ask, grabbing his wrist to still the slow circles he makes around your clit. 

Pressing harder against the sensitive nub, he grins at how your hips instinctively raise to meet his touch, “Don’t be a brat. You want it.” Even with the death grip you have on his wrist, he manages to sneak two fingers between your legs, dragging them along your entrance. You can feel yourself clenching, your arousal coating his fingers as he teases your slit. He’s right, you do want it, but you want something else much more. 

“What I want…” you say, your other hand clamping around his wrist, “Is for you to beg for it or you get nothing and I mean nothing.” You push him away, rolling over on your side, your back turned to him in the ultimate act of defiance. “Goodnight, Mingi.” 

It pains you to do this. Your clit’s throbbing from just a few seconds of contact, the warmth pooling below your waist worsening all the while, but you can’t let him have this. You never can. 

Mingi cuddles up behind you, his chin propped up on your shoulder. He’s giving you the eyes, those shimmering brown boba eyes that always make you soft for him, but you aren’t even looking his way. 

“You aren’t really going to sleep are you?” he pouts, sliding a hand up your shirt to squeeze your side. 

You throw out a fake yawn, shifting in bed to get more comfortable, and let your eyes fall closed, pretending he isn’t there. That’s the worst thing you can do to Mingi. Ignore him. Deprive him of your affection. He loves to present himself as indifferent, a man fully unaffected by whether you want him or not, but if you pull away even an inch he’s groveling at your feet. You enjoy it, maybe a little too much, but a girl has to have her fun. 

“Baby, turn back over…” he whispers, trailing kisses up your neck. He stops right behind your ear, his breath tickling the back of your neck, “Please.”

A chill washes over you and you arch your back, pushing your ass back into his growing bulge. You can’t help the faint smile that creeps across your lips at the sound he makes in response. He sounds like he wants you so badly it hurts. Good.

Gently nibbling at your ear, Mingi cups one of your breasts, his thumb and pointer finger coming together to apply light pressure to your nipple as it stiffens for him. “Pretty please. Just turn around. Just look at me, please.” 

The decision to give in isn’t an easy one. You could keep going like this all night if you wanted to, letting him have just enough of you to keep him hard until the sun rises, but you decide not to. Not out of compassion or pity but out of your own selfish desire to see the look on Mingi’s face when he’s this needy. 

Turning to face him, you find yourself far from disappointed at what you see. He has that look, the same one that Yunho did when he realized you were standing beside him, like the sun sets and rises in your eyes. It’s addictive. 

“You want me, Mingi?” you tease, your hand disappearing into his pants to palm the cock that aches so badly for you. You trace the veins along his shaft with your fingertips, feeling the blood rush to its swollen head.  

Mingi’s on the verge of a whimper, his mouth crashing into yours in an attempt to conceal it, but it tumbles out anyway and you stroke him faster, always wanting more. 

“Want you…mmm…need you” he mumbles between sloppy kisses, his arousal coating your palm. “Please…fuck…I need…I need…”

Snatching your hand back, you grab onto his shoulders, rolling him on top of you. You tug your shirt up over your head to leave yourself naked beneath him, your breasts sitting beautifully on your chest. “If you want me then take me.” 

You present it as if it’s a challenge. In a way it is and Mingi has no intention to back down. He’s on you before you can say another word, devouring your figure with his hands. You clumsily help him out of his clothes, tickled by his eagerness. It isn’t that Mingi doesn’t notice your amusement. It’s more so that he doesn’t care when he plans to fuck it right out of you anyway. 

“Mingi!” you squeak when he snatches you up, forcing himself between your legs, your ankles resting at his shoulders, his fingers digging into your plush hips. 

He aligns himself with your entrance, pushing the tip in to watch your juices leak around him and pulling back out at the last second. Licking his lips, he slides two fingers through your folds, rolling your clit between them. “Do you know how pretty you are?” 

“I don’t know” you pant, your body tingling from head to toe, “Show me.” 

Technicolor dots sprinkle your vision as he slams into you all at once, his thickness stretching you beyond what you remembered he could. You can’t control the way your body vibrates in response to the pleasure, the fullness almost too much to handle. Mingi reaches out for your neck, his fingers closing around it as his hips snap into you harder. You feel helpless, completely at his mercy, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“You’re so fucking wet for me, baby” he grunts, his gaze drifting down to the place where your bodies meet. Each and every time he pulls back his cock’s wetter than before, dripping with juices so decadent he’d get down on his knees and lap them up right now if you asked him to. “You think Yunho could get you this wet? Think he could fuck you like me? Hmm?” 

You part your lips but nothing comes out, just short uneven breaths mimicking the English language. Mingi leans in close to you, his grip loosening, “Can he do it? Can he fuck you like I can?” 

“Aah…n-no…mmph” you moan, holding onto his biceps to keep yourself steady, “Only you, Mingi.” His hand closes around your throat once more and your words are lost again. Hooking an arm behind one of your legs, he pushes your knee to your chest, slipping in even deeper, and your vision blurs with tears, your stangled moans filling the air. 

Mingi can’t get over how precious you are. How ridiculously perfect you look taking his cock. From the first night he met you he knew that no other girl could make him feel the way that you do. You fit him like a glove. It’s like every groove and every dip, all the finer details of your walls, were crafted especially for him. Yunho could never make you feel this way because you weren’t made for him. You were made for Mingi. Even your body knows it. It tells him by the way it responds, clenching around him so tightly that he can barely move. 

“Baby…” you manage, locking your legs around him. You don’t need to say anything else. Your walls spasm so wildly that he can’t ignore the signs. You’re dangerously close and he’s right there with you. He has been from the start. He could’ve cum from the feeling of you alone and it took everything in him not to. 

“Say my name” he commands, reaching between you to play with your clit. 

Your body trembles from the overstimulation. It’s like you’re on a rollercoaster. Higher and higher, so high you’d think you were floating, and then that earth shattering, mind blowing drop.

“Mingi!” you cry his name out loud and clear.

Mingi turns your neck loose, enveloping you in a kiss just in time to spill into you, his seed filling you up deep inside, dripping down your thighs to make a warm sticky mess. Your tongues are still entangled when you both come down. Your spent bodies melting into each other’s. 

“You can have your fun” Mingi whispers between your lips, “Just make sure you remember who you belong to.” 

He eases down on the bed, resting his head on your chest, and you run your fingers through his hair, planting a kiss on his forehead. You smile to yourself, knowing that you got exactly what you wanted in every way. How cute it is that Mingi thinks you’re the one that belongs to him when he’s the one who belongs to you. 

He can’t go out there. Yunho’s been pacing his bedroom floor for 15 minutes trying to figure out what to do. But whatever he does he can’t go out there. He thought that if he woke up early enough he’d be able to prevent this but by the time he finished brushing his teeth you were both wide awake. Now he can hear the two of you in the kitchen, playing your music and cooking breakfast like you always do.

He turns to his bedroom window, contemplating how bad a fall from the 6th floor could really be. He’s tall enough to make it…maybe? Maybe he could call out of work. He has enough vacation days to make up for it. He could just crawl back into bed and pretend to be sick, hiding away until both of you left the apartment. 

The possibility dawns on him that you haven’t told Mingi at all. If you had, he probably would’ve murdered Yunho in his sleep. If not then why? What reason could you have for keeping this a secret? Then again, what reason do you have for anything you do?

“What? Are you dead?” Mingi says, bursting into Yunho’s room, nearly giving him a heart attack. 

Yunho tries to act natural, scrambling to pick up a few things from the floor to pretend he’s cleaning. “Knock much?” 

Mingi pats him on the back, throwing an arm around his shoulder. “Stop being so sassy. Breakfast is ready. Come eat with us.”

“I-I can’t. I have to get ready for work.” 

“You don’t work for what? Another hour? You’ve got time. Come on” Mingi insists, emptying the contents of Yunho’s arms onto the nearby bed. 

Yunho stands frozen, unsure what to do. He’s always found Mingi’s stubbornness charming but in this moment he completely despises it. “I told you I can’t—”

“Let’s go!” Mingi cheers, yanking Yunho out towards the kitchen before he can think of protesting again. 

Yunho blinks, his eyes adjusting to the bright sunny kitchen where you dance around the table pouring drinks into three glasses. The plates are already set, the delicious aroma of an expertly cooked breakfast filling the apartment. Your food’s always the best, he usually rushes to the table to inhale it, but today he stares at it like it’s been secretly poisoned. 

“Good morning, Yunie” you sing, twirling past him to place the container of juice back in the fridge. 

Yunho takes a seat, his gaze lingering on you a moment longer than he’d like it to. You’re wearing the same shirt from last night with the addition of a pair of rose pink panties and some cute mismatched socks from Mingi’s favorite anime. Your hair’s messy but not a mess and you’ve yet to put your makeup on. Both men prefer you like this but only one can admit it. 

Mingi sits across from him, digging right into his meal. “So…” he says through a mouthful of food, “Are we going to Wooyoung’s party later or what?” 

“Eat” you whisper, gesturing towards Yunho’s plate and he does. “I don’t know, baby. I just have this feeling that somehow you’re gonna end up on that stupid fucking game and I’ll just be sitting there bored by myself. Unless, of course, Yunie’s gonna come keep me company.” 

Yunho nearly chokes on his food, rushing to take a sip of his drink to wash it down. “Keep you company? I don’t think…I mean…I don’t really know if I’ll have time. I’m kinda busy tonight” 

Mingi tilts his head, eyeing Yunho curiously, “You’re acting weird today. What’s up with you?”

“Weird? I’m not acting weird.” 

“Mingi, leave him alone” you sigh, easing down into Mingi’s lap. You pick a strawberry from the plate of fruit at the center of the table, flicking the leaves away. “If he doesn’t wanna come, he doesn’t wanna come. Maybe our boy has a date or something.”

“I don’t have a date” Yunho’s forcing out so quickly the worlds almost get jumbled. There've been girls in the past, too many to remember, but lately he’s found himself uninterested in them, his brain too preoccupied with one in particular to focus on any others, and for some reason he finds himself longing for you to know that. 

You take a bite of the strawberry, your lips pursed sensually around the fruit. Some juice drips down your chin and you wipe it away, licking it from your fingers. “So you’ll come for me then, Yunie?” 

Yunho’s jaw nearly drops to the floor. You couldn't have said what he thought you said. He must still be half asleep. “I’m sorry. What’d you just say?” 

“You’ll come for me. To the party.” 

“Oh…yeah, the party. I’ll come.” 

Turning back to feed Mingi the remainder of the strawberry, you share a knowing glance before turning back to Yunho. 

“What did you think she said?” Mingi asks, honing in on Yunho’s weak spot like a trained sniper ready to pull the trigger. 

It’s quiet enough to hear a pin drop. No one moves. No one speaks. Yunho’s so nervous it’s oozing off of him and you can feel it creeping across the table right into your lap. Just as the tension becomes unbearable you and Mingi erupt into laughter giving Yunho the feeling that there’s a joke he isn’t in on and he doesn’t like it one bit. 

“Thank you for the food but I really should get ready for work” he huffs, pushing his chair back to get up. 

“No, wait, hold on!” you say, hopping from Mingi’s lap right into Yunho’s. You poke out your bottom lip, batting your eyelashes at him sweetly. “I didn’t make you mad did I?” 

“I’m not mad at you, I—” his sentence trails off as he registers where you are. Straddling his lap…with no pants on…and your boyfriend sitting close enough to punch his teeth out. 

Yunho keeps his hands at his sides, careful not to touch you, but that does nothing to stop you from touching him. Brushing his hair out of his face, you subtly grind yourself down onto his lap, marveling at how handsome he looks fresh out of bed. “You look sexy with your hair pushed back. You should wear it like that tonight.” 

“Y-you should get up” he stutters, dodging any chance of eye contact with Mingi. He doesn’t want to push you off but he doesn’t want to get hit either. 

“Do you want me to get up or do you think he does?” Placing your arms around Yunho’s neck, you lace your fingers together, leaning your head back to address your boyfriend. “Baby, you want me to get up?” Mingi shakes his head, fully invested in the plate of food in front of him. “See? My boyfriend says ‘Yes’. What do you say?” 

Yunho takes a deep breath, the room suddenly feeling ten times smaller than it previously was. “What do I say about what?”

Mingi takes another quick bite of his food, rising from his seat to stand beside you. You look up at him with the brightest smile. His little demon. “What do you say about her?” he says, kissing you so deeply you almost tip out of Yunho’s lap. When he breaks from the kiss he pets your hair as your lips drift closer to Yunho’s mouth. 

“You want me, Yunie, yes or no?” you ask despite being able to feel the answer stiffening between your legs. 

Yunho hesitates, his eyes flicking back and forth between Mingi and you. Mingi. You. Mingi. You. Mingi. You. Yunho grabs your face, kissing you hungrily, months of pent up tension pouring onto your lips. You must admit, you didn’t know he had this in him. There’s enough passion to get drunk off of and you’re ready to down every shot of it he’ll give you.

Not one to share you too much, Mingi grabs the back of your neck, pouring his everything into another kiss. He only has you to himself for a split second before Yunho’s pulling you back to him. You find yourself breathless, being bounced back and forth between two men so quickly that everything’s a blur. There’s a mouth on you at all times. Pressed to your own. Kissing your neck. Marking your collarbone. 

Tilting you back towards the table, Yunho pushes your shirt up, capturing one of your breasts in his mouth. It fills the space between his cheeks, muffling his moans as he twirls his tongue around your bud. Still kissing you, Mingi reaches down to cup the other, enjoying the weight of it in his hand.

“Mmph, harder” you moan for both of them to hear. 

They’re beyond happy to do as you ask. Yunho’s teeth and Mingi’s fingers closing around your nipples. You can’t touch your panties to say for sure but you know they must be wet. Completely soaked through. Ruined.

Reaching your hand out to hold onto Mingi’s leg, you mistakenly come in contact with his clothed cock. The first brush may be an accident but the second isn’t and neither is the third. Determined not to let Yunho feel left out, you squeeze your hand between your bodies, massaging his bulge through his pants. Neither man can hide the ecstasy of what you’re doing to them, rutting themselves against your palm and moaning like it’s the best thing they’ve felt in their lives. 

What’s that word Mingi used to describe Yunho again? “Pathetic” was it? What would he call himself now? Is this not pathetic? Is this not pitiful? For you it’s none of the above and both in the same breath. They’re both pitiful in a needy, endearing sense. In a sense that you want them to be this way over you and only you. There was once a day where you couldn’t imagine anything better than one man who’s willing to worship you but now you know there’s something much better. Two. 

Tucking a finger between the band of Mingi’s underwear and his bare skin, you tug at the elastic. “Gimmie” you command, your head back, tongue sticking out to the sky. You do the same to Yunho and your body rises as he rocks his hips, freeing himself from the confines of his pants. 

Yunho’s heard you with Mingi before. The walls in this apartment aren’t the thickest and you’re far from one of the quieter girls Mingi’s been with. He’s gotten off to the sound a couple of times, picturing how you might look in all manner of ways, but he never imagined he’d actually be here to watch you open your mouth expectantly, taking Mingi’s cock to the back of your throat like gag reflexes don’t exist. 

Mingi strokes your cheeks, admiring how puffy they get with him filling them up. “You’re doing so well, baby, fuck…” he beams and you wiggle your tongue on the underside of his shaft, relaxing the muscles of your throat to take him better. In your hand Yunho’s dripping with enough arousal for your hand to smoothly skate up and down his length, circling the rim with your thumb before massaging it back to the base.

You easily set a rhythm, perfectly balancing the two. Mingi in your mouth and Yunho in your hand. The arch of your tongue. The rotation of your wrist. With Mingi it’s simple, you know what he likes and you know how to do it, but with Yunho it’s different. You have to learn him as you go. Which spots make him quiver. Which angles make him twitch. Lucky for the both of you, you’re a quick learner and symphony of hushed moans whispers that you’re doing it just right. 

Keeping an arm looped around your waist, Yunho gradually pushes your panties aside, giving you every opportunity to protest. When all you do is push your hips toward him he takes it as a sign, rolling his thumb through the warmth of your folds to find your clit. Your body jerks when he bumps up against it, a melodic hum of satisfaction vibrating around Mingi’s cock.

You lift your hips letting another of Yunho’s fingers slide along your entrance. When you come back down his finger slips in, your drenched hole sucking it right up. There’s an audible squelching as he swishes his finger around, your juices already leaking down into his palm. His fingertip finds that soft, spongy spot inside of you and curls into it, and you rock into him. Your body’s way of saying, “Yes. More. Please.” Yunho hears you loud and clear, pressing harder, delving deeper. 

Hearing your moans turn to strained whines, Mingi grabs the back of your head, gliding himself out of your mouth until just the head of his cock rests at the edge of your tongue. His cock’s still pulsing, pink and glistening with your spit, as the tip traces your puffy lips leaving them shimmering with his precum. You wiggle your tongue, pushing your head forward to draw him back in but he doesn’t let you. 

“Breathe for me” he says, teasing you with an inch, “I can’t have my baby girl choking, can I?” 

Following his instructions you take a few deep breaths, feeling the cool rush of air through your lungs. You hadn’t even noticed the deprivation and the sudden introduction of hair leaves your head spinning. 

“You okay?” Yunho asks, running a comforting hand across the small of your back. 

“I’m okay” you smile as cutely as you ever have, offering Mingi the same confirmation. “I’m okay so give it back to me now.” 

“You want it that badly?” he asks and you nod impatiently. “Then take it.”

Mingi thrusts into your mouth, stealing away your last breath of precious air. With how hard he’s fucking your throat you’d think it’s been weeks. You’d think he wasn’t just inside of you last night making you scream his name like it’s the only word you know.

Drool leaks down your chin, your hollowed out cheeks greedily accepting everything he gives you. Yunho sneaks another finger inside of you, scissoring you open, spreading you wide, his thumb still rubbing your clit at a merciless pace. At the start you were intentional, calculating your every move, but now your movements are mindless. You’re a slave to pleasure and everything else is secondary. 

In the midst of it all an odd feeling overcomes you. A tugging at your heart that makes you think that you never want this to end. You could stay like this forever. Spend every single morning with them like this. It may not be holding hands in the park on a sunny day but there’s something romantic about this moment. Something tender in the perversion of it all. The reason behind it begins to surface. A word that you try to chase away as soon as it begins to spell itself out. L…Lo…Lov…

“Oh god…” Yunho gasps, his eyes widening in shock at the suddenness of his orgasm. 

He hadn’t even felt it coming, he just knew he had at least a few more minutes in him, but here he is spilling all over your hand, covering your black nail polish in a sheet of white. He fingers you harder, bouncing you in his lap, wanting you to hit your high before he comes down from his.

The warmth of his cum splashing against your exposed pussy is enough to make you lose control and you give him just what he wants, your body going limp as your orgasm crashes into you like a wave. You feel a vacancy in your throat and open your mouth to scream but it’s muffled by a sudden rush of liquid cascading across your tongue. Mingi keeps your head steady as he empties himself into you, making sure you don’t miss a drop, and you lap it up happily, kissing the tip as he pulls out. 

There’s a whooshing in your ears and your limbs feel like jello. You’re a sticky little mess who can barely hold herself up and you love it. You love it so much. Planting a clumsy, dizzy kiss on your lips, Mingi stumbles back to his seat, almost missing his chair as he plops down. Yunho tucks himself back into his pants and you spin back around to face Mingi, elbows propped up on the table, chin resting in your palms. 

“So…” you say, still gasping for air, “You boys still got room for breakfast?”

[sakurablossoms-world]

Shadowpeach Headcanon:

(Art belongs to @kazehita)

General:

Macaque is FtM and the only person he trusted with this secret was Wukong (and the little monkeys)

Macaque is Demi (romantic and sexual), he wants a genuine relationship with someone but struggles to truly connect with anyone until he met Wukong

Wukong is aroace and had no interest in relationships prior to meeting Macaque

They met when Macaque washed up on FFM sometime after Wukong returned from his training with Sabodi

Macaque is very insecure about his ears, but Wukong adores them and makes sure to always praise them

Despite being the flirt of the two Wukong is easily flustered

Macaque loves to put on performances for Wukong because it’s the only time he feels like he can truly impress his king

Despite what others would assume Macaque was the one to courtnap Wukong

Due to his insecurities Macaque is a very jealous lover, despite this Wukong is the one who will get aggressive if anyone flirts with Macaque

The reason Wukong doesn’t typically take Macaque with him on his adventures is because Macaque has expressed a dislike for the world beyond FFM

The two are very cuddly and affectionate with each other, with unique expressions of affection being Macaque kissing Wukong’s eyelids and Wukong nipping Macaque’s ears

Macaque’s nicknames for Wukong are: My King, My Hero, My Sun, Peaches, Sunlight, Sunflower, Sunshine, Sunstone, Sunny

Wukong’s nicknames for Macaque are: My Queen, My Warrior, My Moon, Plum, Moonlight, Moonblossom, Moonbeam, Moonstone, Mooncake

Havoc in heaven/JTTW:

Even amongst the brotherhood, not many people knew that Wukong and Macaque were mates

Macaque never spoke out against the havoc (or the camel ridge trio) because he had too much faith in Wukong’s abilities

The fight under the mountain (while not their first fight) was the first time Wukong had actually insulted Macaque

Macaque was never angry at Wukong for killing him, he was angry that he was abandoned and practically forgotten by Wukong

Wukong meanwhile pushed Macaque away because he was still haunted by his death and didn’t want to hurt him further (even if he won’t admit it)

Post-LMK:

Despite having once been a very affectionate couple, they now can barely touch each other without feeling guilt for their past actions and can only hold each other’s pinkies

They struggle to talk to each other because they’re so used to fighting and don’t want to fall into that same pattern

They have weekly therapy sessions with Sandy’s therapist to help them with their communication and affection issues

Wukong has the bad habit of shouldering the blame for Macaque’s past mistakes, and Macaque has to always remind him that he’s responsible for his own mistakes

They often go on dates to try to redefine their relationship and build something new together

Macaque has now become the bigger flirt of the two, though he mostly does it whenever Wukong is in a self loathing mood

Despite struggling to be affectionate, whenever either has a nightmare/panic attack, they fall back into old comfort habits very easily

It takes a while, but eventually they manage to become a strong, stable couple once again (now with the experience and maturity to survive any hardship)

[anghraine]

Further contemplated the femslash Spirk concept while I was going to sleep, inevitably, and concluded:

I am perfectly aware this has been done before in the last, you know, nearly 60 years of this ship's towering fandom influence; I've definitely seen art and cosplay. However, I'm deliberately insulating myself from reading any other versions until the finer details are more nailed down in my own head.

McCoy is definitely still a man (specifically DeForest Kelley c. TOS) because it only later occurred to me that 1) thematically, I definitely prefer this trio as a mixed gender group and 2) the advocate for emotion and instinct and human warmth being a male doctor and the voice of logic and discipline being a woman and technically his superior pleases me greatly. I also like the McCoy-Kirk brotp as a male-female friendship that is intense, complex, and 100% platonic.

I'm still figuring out how Kirk being repeatedly menaced by the woman of the week would pan out with f!Kirk. With m!Kirk it feels like the show pushes him having an irresistible appeal to women in general (regardless of the woman's morality) that is where this ultimately comes from, but he's got a lot of Odysseus tropes to him as a character that make his femme fatale allure and willingness to use it as a tool more interesting than as the inevitable fate of a female space captain. Also, even in a femslash context, it feels homophobic for it to always be women sexually harassing f!Kirk.

Kirk's going to be Jessica instead of my original idea of Deborah. I was thinking of what would be a sturdy, ordinary name in the Midwest comparable to James that would also abbreviate conveniently to a common short form (Jim / Deb / Jess). I wanted the shortened version to be something that could carry the emotional weight of Spock's very occasional "Jim" without feeling that the nickname itself is more significant than Jim is for a dude from Iowa. I also wanted to avoid the -y/-ie endings of so many English nicknames (sorry, Francophones). Deb seemed to work well enough, except I'd forgotten that I have a considerably older family friend who not only uses Deb (and is named Deborah) but happens to have very similar coloring and background to young Shatner. As I was plotting the femslash, the association with her felt increasingly weird and uncomfortable, so I switched to Jessica (chosen for reasons largely unrelated to it also beginning with J, but that helps!).

Does Jessica Kirk wear the miniskirt and go-go boots while issuing non-negotiable orders from her captain's chair? Definitely.

[lokisgoodgirl]

A Gentlemen's Agreement [Reader x Loki/Steve/Bucky]

A link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: It's time for you to make up your mind. And the boys have just the plan to help you do that. (w/c 3.2k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smutty. Teasing. Sexual tension. Not a foursome. A/N: Loki is my king. I just needed to get this out thanks to @sidepartskinnyjeans

The click of Steve’s dress shoes echoed as he ushered you away from the busy ballroom of Stark’s county house. Your nerves were fizzing, but your face didn’t betray the flutter of excitement growing in your belly. In the darkness of the mahogany lined corridor, firelight licked from a solitary open doorway. A nod from the captain urged you silently inside. Walking into the room, your breath hitched. Whatever you had expected from his clandestine invitation in the crowd, this wasn’t it.

Steve circled around you, taking his place in the menacingly sensual line-up. There they stood in quiet stoicism, dressed in fitted finery – the trio of beneficiaries to your relentless flirtations. Their arms were folded, their legs wide in triangular determination. For the briefest of moments, you wondered how all of them had managed to excuse themselves from the party at once. But seeing the way they were taking up space, stretching the air with their achingly large egos, that question was quickly forgotten. Each was more breathtakingly handsome than the last. Rogers. Barnes. Laufeyson. “What is this?” you giggled nervously, snapping to each set of blue eyes in turn. They began to smirk in unison. You shivered despite the heat from the fire. “S’come to our attention you’ve been pulling the same tricks on all of us,” the winter soldier drawled, his accent thick with playful taunt. You swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. “I don’t know what you-” “Oh, I think you do, Agent,” Laufeyson hummed, tilting his head. Long fingers drummed on his bicep as he rocked on his heels. Roaring firelight was haloed behind the ebony mane that cascaded around the shoulders of a midnight-blue suit sitting snug to his body. You pressed your lips together, stifling a whimper. “Look fellas, she’s blushing," Steve teased. The three of them chuckled. “I don’t blush,” you snipped, folding your arms to match them. “And I’d appreciate if you could tell me why the three of you are lined up like...like…” The words you searched for ebbed as you readjusted your feet. It was all you could do not to go over on your ankle in these stupid heels. Heat was building between your thighs, the unmistakeable thump of arousal beating as your addled thoughts raced beneath their penetrating stares.

You knew exactly what Bucky meant. And now it seemed, so did they. You knew bending over to pick up that pen in front of all three of them yesterday was a bad idea. Although, no one in the world would blame you – working with three of the finest specimens of masculinity ever created. Had you gone out your way to tease and flirt with each one of them over the past several months? Possibly. But hey, it was good for morale. And besides, there wasn’t a hope in hell any of them would return your affections. Not serial-bed hopper Barnes, he didn’t fuck where he ate. Not tightly wound Rogers, you seriously doubted he’d approve of subordinate relations. And as for the ice king – you weren’t even sure he knew your name.

The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire. God, you wished it wasn’t so hot. Your eyes searched the floor, hearing Loki clear his throat. “As Barnes noted, you have been toying with each of us in a manner both indecent and egregious these past months.” He let the rhetorical judgement marinate in silence before continuing. “Do you deny it?” You raised your eyes to his, seeing the embers of mischief smouldering within. “No,” you said confidently, as all three men cast conspiratorial glances to one another. Rogers balanced his elbow on a tight fist, raising his fingers to his chin. He narrowed his eyes. “That dress though fellas," he growled with uncharacteristic lust. "Have you ever seen such a thing?” Barnes snorted. “Forget two birds with one stone, that outfit takes out three cocks with one hit.” His blue eyes were dark in the low light, heavy brows shadowing the contours as his chin dipped. “An assassin, even off the clock.” he grit. “And she knows how much I love that neck.” While he was speaking, you instinctively brushed a strand hanging from your up-do away from the boatline collar of the dress. He was right. You did know. You had known ever since the first of his ragged breaths, tangible desire pulsing in his veins and stretching his trousers as he massaged your shoulders. The first time you had asked, he had thought you were joking. But every time you felt the cool flatness of his metal limb against your spine, steadying you as his fingers found every pocket of tension in your upper body – both you and he knew it was no laughing matter. Had you exaggerated the moans of pleasure his touch released? No. There had been no need. It felt fucking phenomenal. Orgasmic, even. And you hadn’t held them back. Your neck had extended to the side as his fingertips pulsed into the most delicate areas, breathy pants filling the air that you hoped made him think of how you would sound as he fucked you into the headboard. “And she knows how much I love those legs,” Steve smouldered, curling a finger against his lips as his gaze ran from your hips to the floor and back again. The dress stopped midway up your thighs, perfectly tight before the sheer drop of your limbs to the heels. You had caught him staring open-mouthed as you pulled yourself dripping wet from the ocean on a mission in the Seychelles months ago. His face had flushed as you’d clocked him running up your femurs, a bite of his lip betraying the base need boiling beneath an all-business exterior.

On every mission, you now made a point of elevating your leg as you snapped on the holsters, lunging forward against the nearest bench. Wall. Anything to drive him mad. You wondered how often he thought of your legs wrapped around his hips while his tactical suit lay strewn around his ankles. Without fail, his teeth always found their way to his bottom lip; a clench of his ass and a forbidden husk of ‘goddam’ under his breath making you smirk as you turned away. “And I think not that I need to point out what aspect of the offending garment is for me,” Loki purred, releasing the cross of his arms to fall behind his back in a ceremonial clasp. “It’s green," Bucky stated, licking his lips. “Yes," Loki replied in baritone, cheekbones sharpening. “It is.”

Loki. Now that was a story. Yes, you had felt the linger of his keen eyes on your ass. But who hadn’t. And yes, his gravelled pleasantries that always dripped a little closer than necessary into your ear were tempting. But the god was a walking temptation. It was his nature. He was indiscernible, a mystery. Aside from briefings, the longest you had ever spent in his company had been when he would extend his hand wordlessly on nights just like this, leading you the dance-floor. All onlookers would see was the standard wrapping of his arms around your waist, and yours over his shoulders. They did not see the small circles grazed on the nape of his neck beneath his curls, the half-innocent moans released by his ear when he brought you in from a spin. They did not see the lingering play of your fingers on the delicate skin of his wrists, the bite of your lip as Loki’s hips pressed into your stomach. A solitary flame in a sea of cold indifference. You’d take any heat from him could you get. They didn’t see his brows twitch as he registered the green lingerie down the carefully calculated neckline of your dress. Just for him. Your breathing had becoming shallow. Were you actually about to have all three of them at once? Was that even physically possible? Two super-soldiers and a god? You didn’t know if you would survive – but something told you it might be worth it. Positions and logistics raced through your mind, making you dizzy. You shook your head.

“OK you got me, I fancy all of you. So what? It’s just a bit of fun,” you gasped, running sweaty palms casually down the front of your dress. “The fellas and I have an idea, if you’re agreeable of course,” Steve said slowly, following Loki in clasping his hands behind his back. You squinted, congratulating yourself for encouraging the captain’s foray into unbuttoning the top of his shirts. His pulse was racing, you could see it pumping beneath his jawline. Bucky still stood with his arms loosely crossed over a waistcoat, the cotton of his thick white shirt bulging against metal and flesh. A sliver of steel glinted in the firelight, sleeves folded up to the elbows. He nodded once, without a flicker of a smile. Fuck, they all looked so good. “A gentlemen’s agreement, if you will,” Loki uttered, a smile curling on his lips. He’d been waiting to deliver that line, you could tell. “You like us. We like you. But we don’t share," Bucky glowered matter-of-factly. You could feel the thin fabric of your panties sticking to your lips, tacky and unbearably wet from this erotic ambush. “You don’t?” you quipped. “What a shame.” “We don’t," Steve repeated. “At least not ye-” he cast a glance to Bucky, before clearing his throat. “We think it’s important you uh...focus your attentions. If that’s what you wanna do.” A sudden thrill raced through your blood. The idea that they had planned this, that they had spoken about you in hushed whispers behind closed doors made your pussy hum with forbidden pleasures.

You wandered to the antique sofa to the side, feeling the heated stares of each of the men follow you. “What’s this gentleman’s agreement, then?” you purred, crossing your legs. Steve swallowed as the tight emerald fabric rode up your thigh. The god of mischief laughed softly, a deep sound which seemed to shake the room like bass.

“Each of us will kiss you, and then you must decide,” he said matter-of-factly. “The unsuccessful will respect your choice of victor and no retaliation will be made.” “Decide?” “Which of us to get to know better," Steve explained, shrugging off his suit jacket. He threw it gently over his shoulder, making it land on the back of a chair behind him with magnetic finesse. Bucky rolled his eyes. “I think what the captain’s tryna say is that we all wanna get to know you, better. So it’s lady’s choice,” he winked. You raised an eyebrow towards Loki. You couldn’t imagine him ever agreeing to something like this. A solitary nod was his only response, eyelashes fluttering down in a moment of panty-wetting reverence. “I accept,” you said slowly, running your eyes across the line-up. Their competitive sincerity was catching. You wet your lips in anticipation, still in disbelief that this was actually happening. Perhaps your corpse was lying strewn on the dance-floor, paramedics hoisting you onto a trolley in a body-bag. Perhaps this was heaven. And maybe it was the low lighting, or maybe it was the dancing shadows licking their wide bodies stacked with endless muscle. But you could swear that each and every one of them was hard. “As discussed. Thirty seconds,” Loki murmured coolly to the men standing to attention on his right, flourishing a hand. Barnes stepped forward, smoothing long strands of chestnut hair behind his ears.

“Alright,” he growled confidently, swaggering the several steps and planting onto the sofa beside you. His thighs spread against the antique furniture, flexing beneath the tight suit trousers as he twisted his torso to face you. The scent of his cologne filled your nostrils, smoked wood and lingering sage like a wet autumn forest. His hand cupped your jawline, the steel arm resting on the back of the curved rest.

“Here goes nothin,” he whispered to himself, curled digits trailing longingly down the curve of your neck. They tugged at the neckline of your dress, slipping it over the curve. He leant forward, parted lips colliding with the crescent of your shoulder. Your eyelids fluttered closed, a staggered moan you didn’t realise was hiding released as he worked across your skin. His stubble tingled against the delicate surface, the flat of his nose slotting beneath your ear as his kisses became hungrier against your pulse point. Less delicate. “You’ve no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this, darlin',” he rasped, before licking licentiously from the base of your throat to the angle of your jaw. In seconds, his mouth was pressed to yours; tongue eagerly flicking against your lips before you let him enter. Bucky’s moan was dynamite, fingers guiding your chin as he devoured you in targeted desire. He leant you backwards into the cushions while your arm instinctually slid between his shoulder-blades, pulling him closer. Barnes groaned as his hand slid covetously from your waist and up the curve of your breasts, before burrowing deep into your bun. He thrust gruffly against you on instinct, something thick and menacingly primal dragging against your thigh. The feeling of his fingers tugging at your scalp sent your heat into overdrive, clenching desperately around air. “Time,” Loki purred calmly. Stubble scratched a final time, your hand flying to rest on his metal arm as you breathlessly broke apart with a whimper. Barnes winked, the skin surrounding his mouth pink as he rose and re-joined the other two. You cast glances between them while your chest heaved.

“Do you need a moment?” Steve inquired politely, folding the sleeves of his shirt up further. You watched the veins in his muscled forearms tighten with the movement, the slight bend of his knees as he gave a deferential cough. As if he’s preparing for a fight, you thought as your head continued to spin from Bucky’s kiss. “No, I’m good,” you slurred, smiling as you straightened and patting the sofa beside you. “I prefer it standing, if that’s alright,” Steve said tentatively, brow twitching in mild alarm as he saw your eyes widen. But he didn’t retract it. Standing obediently, it suddenly occurred to you that a kiss on the hand would be very on brand for him, perhaps rethinking his part in this atypical charade. But Steve paced towards you, looking as determined as he did striding down the ramp of the quinjet. Your breath hitched as the captain’s hands cupped your face, walking you expertly back towards the walled bookcase. A shelf pressed against your spine while Rogers bore down, his gentle tongue nudging at your lips; and with a whimper, he breached. The warmth of the muscle caressing your own made your knees wobble. Hard, rippling abdominals pressed flush against your chest, pinning you softly beneath Keats and Wordsworth while his hands began to smooth over your shoulders, over your waist. You felt like the poets would approve. Steve moaned into your mouth as his palms slid possessively down your thighs, grunting as he whipped them forwards effortlessly around his waist. You yelped in surprise before his lips swallowed yours again, ankles crossing around taut hips. The heat from his skin warmed the scent of ginger wafting from the base of his collarbone, its spice firing in your nostrils. The kiss was hungry and desperate and wild. You could feel his solid cock rubbing against your stomach, tasting every inch of your passion as his fingertips dug into the soft flesh beneath your ass. He thrust softly with every wax and wane of his jaw, needy fingers running through his newly mussed golden hair. You pulled greedily before there was a soft clear of someone’s throat. It sounded like Loki. “Time,” Bucky barked, and reluctantly, Steve returned you to the ground. Still in a daze, and with palms spread against the bookcase, your eyes fell on the final figure. “Believe me…” Loki purred condescendingly, “you’ll wish to sit down for this.”

With shaking steps you teetered to the sofa, plonking down with a sharp intake of breath. Loki glided towards you, elegantly manoeuvring his long limbs aside your own. He brought a finger beneath your chin, tilting your head back. “You are so beautiful.” he murmured, before pressing in to a firm, chaste kiss. One of your hands flew to his thigh, running your palm over the hard, forbidden mass concealed tight and thick beneath the cotton. You desperately keened into him, tongue searching against closed lips. Loki withdrew with a chuckle, sweeping the hair from one side of his head. “If you wish me to stop, tell me,” he whispered hot in your ear, a wave of amber and spices and decadence filling your senses before he slipped from the sofa to his knees. Your eyes widened as he gently spread your legs. “The rules did not specify where I could kiss you.” he explained softly, pre-empting the questioning thrill lighting your eyes. Disgruntled huffs from Bucky and Rogers barely registered as you felt a cool tingle of the god’s magic dissolve your favourite underwear.

Loki’s smouldering gaze latched to yours, lust-drunk and determined, before it fell to the glistening mess at his eye level. “Do you consent to my audition?” he hummed, tentatively pushing the sides of your dress to the tops of your thighs. Your stare flickered to Steve and Bucky, suspiciously observing Loki on his knees with pure jealousy. "Yes," you heard yourself murmur under your breath. Fresh arousal was seeping from your centre, spreading down your heated skin. You had never wanted anything more. "Louder, please," Loki smirked, the curve of his fingers fastened to your knees. “Yes, Loki...g-god-” you gasped, brow furrowing as you urged him on with a tilt.

Immediately, his tongue licked a wide, earth-shattering stripe up your slit from base to tip. Your head fell back with a rattling moan, one hand combing through his hair as the other gripped the armrest. Loki quickly moved your legs over his shoulders, sliding you further back. The god’s open mouth latched to your swollen clit, sucking and lapping lower with sinful precision. All you could see was his dark curls and proud brow, the sight of the god buried between your open thighs making reality blur. Every caress made your hips thrust further into his mouth, shaking breaths shuddering your body as he moaned against your wet heat. The noises he made were utter devastation, muffled pants and enthusiastic slurps sounding between your splayed legs as he ate you out like a starving man. Behind your eyelids, you could feel the covetous gazes of the two soldiers rolling over your body as Laufeyson’s fingertips dug into your calves like a hunter. “T-time,” Steve choked. “No!” you gasped, pawing at Loki’s cheek in despair. The god smiled, chin glistening while closing your trembling knees in a move that could only be described as gentlemanly. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, unfurling and retreating backwards to the line-up with his arms spread in a show of feigned innocence. You panted, gathering your thoughts as your gaze landed on each of them in turn. “Lady’s choice,” Bucky re-iterated gruffly, widening his legs. Beside him, the captain’s fingers rested wide on his hips, biting his lip while his eyes lingered on the fresh sheen of sweat clinging to your legs. Loki raised a finger absent-mindedly to the corner of his mouth, brushing the edge before sucking it clean to the second knuckle. His eyes smouldered, fixed on you, the flicker of firelight casting deep shadows in hollowed cheekbones. You took a deep breath, the only name it was ever going to be dancing on the tip of your tongue.

🤷‍♂️ For those who want a bit...more - A Gentlemen's Bond is the follow up to this.

Tags @meowmeow-motherfucker @muddyorbsblr @imalovernotahater @avengersalways @littledark11 @lokikissesmyforehead @simplyholl @fictive-sl0th @thedistractedagglomeration @loveroflokiforpoeticjustice @coldnique @holdmytesseract @jaidenhawke @silverfire475 @vbecker10 @imalovernotahater @thomase1 @morriggannlostinfandoms @marygoddessofmischief @sebstanwhore @xorpsbane @peacefulpianist @maple-seed @yelkmelk @wheredafandomat @mistress-ofmagic @acidcasualties @ozymdias @peaches1958 @your-taste-on-my-lips @lokidokieokie @kikster606 @peachyjinx @tbhiddlestan83 @trickster-maiden @skymoonandstardust @justjoanne242 @sidepartskinnyjeans @ladyofthestayingpower @wolfmoonmusic @brittbax @smolvenger @lunarnights95 @superficialdomina @kaleenjackson @fictional-hooman @psychospore @littlespaceyelf

[bitumz]

Title: Lay that rifle down

Pairing: Cooper Howard / Lucy MacLean Word count: 4.5k+

Rated: E [explicit sexual content, gun play, dom/sub undertones, cannibalistic tendencies]

gif credit: @kaorym ❤️

~~~~~

“Ten caps says you can’t teach me something about a rifle that I don’t already know.” Lucy sent over her raised arm.

And Cooper took it as the bait it was. 

“Aight Annie Oakley, target practice ain’t got shit on the real thing.” He sneered with a tip of his head. “You ever have to pull a repeater on a rabid herd of radroaches crawlin’ at your feet down there in that squeaky-clean sealed-up vault of yours?” Cooper asked, and Lucy only looked over at him as if the thought was foul. “Or how bout a pack a’ radhounds foamin’ at the maw for a mouthful of that hot blooded complacency all over your fuckin’ face... Didn’t think so.” He bit. “And keep that goddamned elbow up ‘fore it gets knocked from its socket.” He reminded again through his teeth, and she couldn't be sure if he meant from the kick of the stock or his hands-on training approach.

Three empty cans of Cram hung from twine on a tree branch twenty yards out and Lucy squinted at them down the barrel of Cooper’s sawed off. Their light ammo was running low, as was their luck, a bandit encampment separating them from their most recent diversion, a bounty that would earn them enough caps to not have to worry about bullets or supplies for the next few months if lady luck got her shit together. 

“No, no radroaches down there, thank goodness.” Lucy answered. “But there was those few raiders that one time. And the bandits back in Nipton... The deathclaw that nearly knocked your head off.” She preened. “They all moved pretty quick. I think Annie would be proud.”

Cooper snorted at that, ambling down range to run his gloved hand lazily across the cans, sending them swaying side to side. Stepped safely out of the way.

“Raiders…” he still pondered the first of her list. The one that still stung the most when she thought on it too long. “Moldaver’s golden fuckin’ ticket huh... What was his name again?” Cooper asked, eyes thinning in a derisive show of thought. Like he’d actually forgotten, though the tightly drawn bow of his shoulders said otherwise, pent up exertion waiting to be freed in one way or another. Lucy shifted on her toes in the sand. “Monty, right?” He sent her a withering grin from beneath the shadow of his hat. “Imagine how much more effective buckshot woulda been.”

Lucy glared back, took aim, and fired, the hollowed rounds free of shrapnel, (waste not, want not Cooper would say) but striking the trio of moving cans in repeat, near-perfect precision all the same. A sense of pride swelled in her chest as they spun wild from their twine, right alongside the burning memories of being betrayed and choked and stabbed in the gut… She looked over to find Cooper again, closer now, watching near her side. 

“I slashed his throat, you know.” Lucy reminded him with a smile of her own, and as always it flashed something bright and hot in his usually carefully disinterested hazel eyes.

“Oh I know.” Cooper nodded. “But your first mistake was lettin’ him close enough to have to.”

With the warning he attempted to reset the stage, gloved hands reaching out to grasp for anything vital, another repeated lesson in reading between the lines of people's bullshit. And they had earned her a few bruises here and there as she’d grown stronger and quicker and improved till he’d deemed it unnecessary to pull his punches, just as she’d begun drawing a bit of blood of her own.

But Lucy had always been a fast learner long before the wasteland. Now, with the push of her heel against the dirt she dodged back and spun whole-bodily to put the barrel of his rifle between them, pointing it an inch away from the hastily sewn button over the center of his chest. 

“He was a liar.” Lucy said simply. “Fucked me and wanted a quick out... Like most men, come to think of it.”

And Cooper chucked low, gloved palms up in a short lived impasse. Raised his stormy expression toward the sky. “Most men, like the poor souls weren’t trapped in there with you.” He finished the roll of his eyes and met hers again. Smirked a fiery thing. “Or related to ya.”

Lucy took the jabs in stride.

“This again? Really? Right now?” She asked, adjusting the butt of the shotgun more securely into the divot of her shoulder. “Not like I had many options down there. Still don’t sadly…”

“And yet?” Cooper bid with the lift of his browline, hat shifting the slightest bit higher on his forehead and letting the sun play brighter along the deep hollows of his face. And he took the final, daring step that put him flush against the jagged metal of the muzzle. Sent her a warning look across it that burned deep in her belly as if it were his own finger on the trigger. Stared at her as if he awaited something even more gutting in her answer. 

And she knew him well enough now that she could give him that.

“Well if this is you actually asking, I’ve dealt with my fair share of assholes, sure. Down there and up here... But with Monty,” she breathed out, sugar sweet and disgustingly indulgent. “I’ve never cum so hard in my life.” 

Then she reached out over the barrel of the rifle, flicked the brim of his hat up another inch higher across his brow just to be a bitch. And at her teasing smile he growled.

Cooper snatched the gun from her hold single handedly, slinging it down in the dirt beside them so hard it kicked up dust. Grabbed her by the knot of the vaultsuit at her waist and yanked her in close, looming that few inches over her that sped her heart in her chest and weakened her knees every single time without fail.

“You sure you really wanna tug on that thread right now girl?” Cooper hissed, chemical-laced breath washing hot across her face in a smell she was coming to relate to painful, invigorating pleasure if she played her cards just right. Because the hands she was dealt could change at a single slip of the tongue, but she was getting more and more secure in her ability to read the table. “Cause it’s been a rough few weeks,” he drawled, “and them prissy vault assholes ain't got shit on me.” 

As if she needed reminding of just how full of it he actually was. He was heavy handed and a downright son of a bitch when the occasion called, but the only lasting marks he left on her skin these days were asked for in gasped breaths and pleading little cries. He'd done nothing during their ample downtime but raise her up to the harsh standards of the wasteland, training her muscles and sharpening her mind and she'd felt more alive in the last few months than she’d ever had in her entire life.

“Technically he wasn't a vault dweller.” She corrected with a small shrug. Squared her shoulders. “But ya, I’m sure.” Lucy nodded in challenge.

And Cooper stared her down just long enough to raise the small hairs at the back of her neck…

Then his rough hands were everywhere all at once, ripping her suit the rest of the way down her hips with one to let it pool at her feet. He bit the middle fingertip of his glove over the other to free it from his scarred skin. And as always his right trigger finger shined paler up at her, nearly completely healed now in a line near his knuckle where two became one. It skimmed up her stomach alongside his others, under her dirtied tank top, gripping the sensitive flesh there and squeezing as she steadied herself against his shoulders to kick her fallen suit to the side.

And Cooper watched the small act with something like veneration in his eyes. 

It emboldened her enough to reach into his own cover, small hands slipping beneath the lapels of his ragged duster to try and push it down from his shoulders. But her wrists were caught in his ensnaring hold before she could make any real progress. 

“Leave it alone,” he snarled, shoving her back and away from him with such a force that she tumbled down onto her ass in the sand, grains scratching against the strips of bare skin that her underwear didn’t cover, but the new angle did something even rawer to her insides as she looked back up at him, standing tall above, chest heaving in an inevitable anger that she found she wanted to siphon out of him like blood, in the very same way he’d done her all those months ago in the hazy heat of the desert. Kicking and screaming and fighting until all the trauma he’d piled on and on atop the already shaky foundation was free of her skin and torn right back into his. And it was a damn enticing thought.

“There she is.” He said unmoving, in that way that pushed her further, as if he knew her better than she knew herself. And that could only be true if she allowed it. 

So she pressed her weight up onto her elbows. Carefully schooled her expression. Sharpened the words in her mind just as Cooper would his bowie.

“You know, I vaguely remember Monty saying something similar to me as I rode him into the mattress.” Lucy said, looking past him to the safety of the tree line. “The first time.” She added pointedly. 

And Cooper’s laugh slithered in the humid air above.

“You sure are a funny little thing, I’ll give ya that.” He said down at her, the lilt of his accent at odds with the glare. “All talk and no substance.” He goaded, tongue darting out to swipe at his chapped bottom lip. Then a sudden thought burned quick and troubling in his eyes. “Unless you care to prove it?”

For a while neither moved, Lucy only returning his malice back up to him as he thought something over in his mind. It thinned in his eyes like her patience.

Then all at once it clicked, Cooper bending forward to retrieve his rifle from the dirt. He shoved it barrel-first into the loose sand between her legs, so sudden and so close to the apex of her thighs that she nearly flinched back to protect her own anatomy…

“Let’s see it then cowgirl.” He taunted, taking a step back and watching her as if she were a puzzle he was bound to solve, whether the pieces fit in place or not. A game to be mastered to completion. One she’d started playing first this time around.

And she would never again back down from a challenge out of fear. Not ever one from him.

“Okey dokey.” Lucy said, paired with the sweet curve of her lips that she knew, together, bit him right in the ass. 

Her hands only shook the faintest bit as she wrapped them around the barrel, using it as an anchor to draw herself the small distance forward it took to have it flush against the gusset of her underwear. The metal itself was warm to the touch, near burning under the tips of her fingers from such recent use, but it sat just right against the heat already building between her legs at the way his shell shocked eyes ate up her every move. 

She held them with her own as she drew into mind the memory of those show girls she’d seen on an old holotape beneath Chet’s mattress. Dressed in clinging silk and dolled up beautifully as they danced around and clung onto tall metal polls like they were lovers. Lucy tried to mimic, making an experimental roll with her hips against the cylinder, firm pressure pushing against all the right places as it parted her folds and met her clit through the thin material of her panties. But the real pleasure came from the look it left on Cooper’s face. 

Lucy moaned a low sound and his boots shifted in the sand before her.

“That’s all it takes huh?” He drawled, his gritty, flustered voice brewing even more pressure deep in her gut than the contact itself. “Fuckin’ get it then.”

She rolled her hips again, arching her lower back and drawing the stock closer to her chest in the dancelike chase of her own pleasure, rocking her cunt against the hard barrel more like a cowboy would his saddle in those old westerns than the painted ladies she’d set out to mirror originally… And then she looked right up into Cooper’s gaping eyes.

“Like this?” Lucy asked him in a breathless gasp, straight teeth flashing harsh in the sun as she drew in a breath through them.

“Just like that.” He growled back, bared hand tugging slow at his remaining glove before both fell to the pair of buckles at his waist. 

And the methodical way he undid the clasp of his holster while still watching on had Lucy’s thighs tightening shut around metal in anticipation, sliding slicker against the friction. She’d been lying when she told him Monty was the best lay she’d ever had but she found that it was almost always in her own best interest to give Cooper new and ever changing goals to focus on. He was an excellent student when given the proper time and motivation to study the material, just as she herself had been during all those pivotal pubescent years in the company of only a Radiation King television set and her own two hands. 

But she was very much a woman now, her body screaming it at her so as her movements grew quicker and sloppy, her hands drawing the rifle against herself in pulses as she rolled her hips forward faster in chase, the pressure building and building low in her groin, throbbing but empty and wanting. 

“Cooper please.” Lucy begged in a shaky breath, though she couldn't pin down exactly what for. She sought out his eyes for the answers. 

“Nu uh.” Cooper denied in a breathy exhale, flicking his pistol barrel up at her a pair of times in vague acknowledgement. “You started it. Fuckin’ finish it.” He bit and the frustration it lit in her chest rekindled her efforts.

If he wanted her to finish then she fucking would. 

Lucy reached down to pull her panties aside, soft curls lacing around her fingers as she unceremoniously dipped a mismatched pair between her folds and into the slick of her arousal, earning a low, satisfying rumble from Cooper’s chest that had her walls clenching tighter around them. She rolled her wrist in the familiar pattern that’d earned her many a decent night sleep. Looked down as she fucked herself on her fingers, gun still standing tall from the dirt between her legs like some last little bit of modesty between her and the eyes that looked on as if they were trying to swallow her whole. She tried to imagine his mostly-own, thicker digits pushing into her. His own thumb circling rough over her clit. And under his careful study, she’d never been more turned on in her life.

“That how Monty touched ya?” Cooper slithered down to her like a curse, breaking the spell and stirring her up further all at once. He stepped aside to fall languorously into a crouch near her knee to better see the show. “All soft and sweet-like. A proper little lady.” He growled.

And Lucy gasped a laugh up at the blue sky, falling to her back as her muscles tensed to a near excruciating tautness at his goading, the attempt only exposing another of his weaknesses and twisting tighter the coil low in her own gut. “He didn’t touch me at all actually.” She confessed, fingers squelching obscenely as she quickened her pace at the reminder. “Made me do all the work myself. Just like this.” She accused up at him with the bend of her neck. “Had more fun fighting him honestly...”

A quick breath huffed from Cooper's nasal cavity. 

“Mm,” he nodded. “Figures.” He drawled, eyes trailing down her body with a dangerous edge thinning his lips. Then he aimed his pistol passively at the dampening sand between her legs, a crazed glint sparking in his eyes that she’d only ever seen in ghouls gone rabid. “Well I got another gun here if ya need it.” He offered.

And the rush of adrenaline at the implication alone was what finally sent her falling over the edge, back arching over the ground, thighs quivering and clenching closed so hard around her own hand that the rifle between them toppled sideways right into Cooper’s waiting hold. 

“That’s it, darlin’,” he praised, steadying himself over her against it like a crutch, honey gold eyes raking over every inch of her exposed, trembling skin. The peaks of her breasts teasing through her thin tank top. Her slowing fingers between her legs as she brought herself back down. “Monty ain’t got shit on those greedy little hands huh?”

And she knew he was talking but the words wouldn’t register right in her pleasure deafened ears. Overstimulated and still unsatisfied in equal measure for the taste of oblivion she could never quite reach on her own anymore. 

“Cooper…” Lucy breathed, strained and gasping in the throes of her waning orgasm. “Cooper please - please…”

He grew tense near her side, that practiced mask of indifference slipping a bit at her honest to god begging. 

“Cooper what?” He asked, almost sweet, in itself an unnerving thing. 

And Lucy let her legs spread back open wide. Slowly traced her pleasure drenched fingers up to the bare midriff of her pale stomach. Dipped them beneath the fraying hem of her panties.

“Please don’t make me do this alone again...” 

Then her underwear joined in the pile of her vaultsuit, Cooper ripping them off her himself as he gave in with a deep throated snarl. He shoved the rifle out of the way in the process, in the rush of kneeling between her legs. Dropped his pistol to the dirt at her side.

“Always so fuckin’ needy,” he bit out in a pant, parting her folds with a single bared hand and pressing his face down between them without so much as preamble. He licked a hot stripe up the damp seam of her, watching her face as it screwed up in pleasure toward the sky, hips pressing harder against his mouth on instinct alone. He held them down against the earth. “This what you wanted sweetheart? A monster like me to do it for ya?” He drew back just enough to ask, pressing the first two fingers of his right hand deep inside her so quick and rough that instead of denying the moniker aloud, she could only moan the breath from her mouth. "Let me fuckin' hear it." Cooper growled, then dragged out more of that answering sound with the seal of his coarse lips around her clit.

Lucy basked in the burning stretch, her walls deliciously taut as he curled his fingers forward inside her, deep against a spot that had the coil low in her belly already flaming burning hot again with a practiced expertise that continued to put the few experiences she had before him to shame. His mouth trailed away from her center, leaving sharp toothed bites across the hinge of her leg, down deeper into the muscled meat of her thigh, every bit one of the foaming-mouthed radhounds he'd often warned her about. Taking her apart and consuming the ruin piece by tender piece.

Lucy hissed air from between her teeth as his jaw set tighter and tighter each time. She reached a hand down, attempting to gently guide him back in the right direction instead of his distracted path to somewhere beneath her skin. The rough curve of his cheekbone was hot beneath her touch for only a second before he tore himself away.

“Hands off,” Cooper ordered, looking up at her through his lashes, lips damp and swollen and so very touchable. “Or I'll stop.”

“That's not fair.” Lucy said, drawing back against the dirt and squirming against the slowing pulse of his fingers because she wasn't sure she could handle it if he followed through with that particular threat. “You touch me all the time.”

“Life ain't fair.” Cooper promised with a dark flair of his eyes. “You'll see.” 

Then he hooked a forearm around her thigh to drag her closer to him across the ground and began to eat her proper, wet, obscene sounds filling the air as his tongue laved in quick swipes over her swelling clit and his fingers scissored in upward strokes to meet them in tandem. And though the mid day sun burned hot against her sweat-slicked skin, Lucy saw fucking stars above, dancing and flashing before her eyes in bright bursts of gold and royal blue.

“Fuck,” Lucy swore in a throaty groan and Cooper's tongue faltered once mid motion. “Just like that.” She gasped, hands falling palms up against the ground on either side of her head as he worked her higher and higher into the throes of something like madness, spine already tingling and muscles twitching from the over sensitivity still lingering on from her first small taste of pleasure…

This second orgasm crested slow, swelling over her in heavy waves as Cooper carried her unceasingly through it, continuing his relentless worship of her cunt with a single minded focus that she’d only elsewhere seen him use on those down the barrel of his gun.

“Does that make you Buffalo Bill?” Lucy asked breathless, a lifetime later, as her spine finally began to flatten and she remembered how to inhale.

His fingers slowed reluctantly to a stop, still inside her, and back during the first few times she used to wonder why. The job was done, the end goal reached, but he always kept touching her skin like he wanted to, exploring her inside and out even still, with the slight pet of his fingertips and hot, opened-mouthed kisses across the swell of her hips.

“Pardon?” Cooper asked absently from somewhere in between, voice muffled near the raised scar on her belly.

And Lucy laughed at the absurdity of it all. 

“You called me Annie Oakley earlier.” She reminded, looking down the length of her heaving chest to find his eyes. “Come to think of it, it may have been the first real compliment you've ever given me... She was a badass sharpshooter. Way ahead of her generation.” Lucy propped herself back up on her elbows and raised a quizzical brow at him. “And regardless of which version of her story you read, she out-shoots Bill every time. So-” and she gestured toward him.

But the indisputable facts only left an odd look on Cooper's face, teeth flashing back at her in a predatory smile from just above her skin. Like he was the only one of them on the inside of some incomprehensible joke. Then he actually laughed.

“That's why I bring the legacy of Buffalo Bill to mind in this scenario ‘a yours?” Cooper asked, exasperated. "The gunslingin'?" He nipped hard enough at her hip bone to make her hiss. Left pointed divots behind in the thin skin there. “Had me worried for a minute there, precious.” Then he slowly slid a pale fingertip up the middle of her stomach to the rise of her sternum.

And Lucy was left confused and underwhelmed at the newest pet name and his uncharacteristic lack of offense. 

“I'm saying I'm a better shot than you.” She clarified briskly. 

Then she watched the claim set across his features as if she herself were the punchline all along, burning a bit more life into his tightening eyes.

“Care to lose another wager then?” Cooper asked in lieu of taking the bait this time, shoulders lax and rounded as he shifted up over her, hands coming down to restrain hers on either side of her head. “Cause ya owe me ten caps already.”

“Try me.” Lucy said without faltering, because she actually was very good at riflery and reading (books, and lies, and straight through his bullshit, at this point) and fighting and fucking and a great deal of other survival skills… And she was so incredibly tired of feeling the need to dumb herself down to fit in some box that no longer existed. Especially not now on the ground between Cooper’s arms. Not when he looked down at her like that. Like not even he had control anymore.

“Tell ya what,” he started, raising a hand to lift his hat from his head, dropping it to the ground just above her own. “If you're able to aim for shit by the time I'm done with ya, we'll call it even, right? Double or nothin’.” He nodded, lowering himself down close into her space, the torn tendrils of his duster tickling where they dragged along the bare skin inside her knees, rugged lips slowing inches over hers and Lucy’s tongue darted out across her own chapped skin in preparation. Because right from the very beginning of it all, Cooper had been nothing if not terribly honest and true to his word. 

“Deal.” Lucy accepted easily, victorious either way.

Then with a quick dip of his hand between them and the promising cling of his belt buckle, she could feel the hot, thick pressure of him pressing insistent against her entrance, still slick and ready and desperately waiting. 

Even so, he gave her a moment to adjust, eyes like searing supernovas where they watched her expression from above as he pressed in slow, deeper and deeper until he was buried fully beneath her skin and she'd claimed another piece of him as her own.

Then Lucy exhaled her relief. Pushed the sweetness of his consideration far from the front of her mind. Looked up at him with all the pain she could gather beneath her fingers with the curl of her dull nails into the backs of his hands. Drew her plush bottom lip between her teeth and smiled in that endearing way she knew pissed him off…

“Go on then cowboy.” She bid, pressing him in closer with her heels against the backs of his sturdy thighs. “Or are you all talk and no substance?” She added when he didn't move right away, sealing her own sentence beneath the tightening of his hold.

He answered with the dip of his head in fevered disagreement, the frenzied press of his mouth searing down against her own. Then he was moving, hips rolling forward in punishing strokes that dug deep enough into the core of her body to drive out any other thoughts but him, and yes, and please, and it was the last she spoke apart from his name for a good long while. 

Twenty caps, she reminded herself later that evening, carefully Radawayed and still sprawled shapeless against Cooper’s chest across the cooling sand. She couldn't let herself forget.

Because she knew damn well that he wouldn't.

[catwalks-on-high-if]

Welcome to the Requiem

Welcome to CORSAIR

Mech pilots, the heart and soul of CORSAIR. The mercenaries of legends fighting anyone and everyone as long as the price is paid. If you want a job done at the end of the day you hire them. But this story isn't about the pilots, at least not really.

You've never left your home, let alone your homeworld. But after an... incident at work you don't have much of a choice if you want to keep your freedom. Opportunity knocks in strange ways, that being CORSAIR Mercenary Company.

With a knack for being able to fix things along with a greater than average knowledge of mech scale weaponry this should be easy. That is till you're thrown head first into the arms of the Graveyard Shift mechanic team. They're not the problem though, that honor goes to Zweihander Squadron and their trio of bullet magnet pilots.

Find your place in the home for the lost and forgotten, make your time there matter before it all burns away.

[Catwalks on High is rated 18+ for: Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Themes, Explicit Violence, Use of Drugs and Alcohol, and more]

Let Me Show You The Features

Customize your mechanic: Their appearance, sexuality, gender identity. How they work under pressure, what vices keep them steady and what reason they have to stick around with the Graveyard Shift.

Explore the relationship of replacing someone in a culture built around comradery.

Fall in love (if that's your cup of tea), make friendships that last the test of time (hopefully that's your cup of tea), burn bridges and make rivals, and make the Requiem your home.

Work grueling hours to let pilots do what they do best: Stand in the spotlight.

Learn the names under the callsigns by getting close, or pushing people to the brink

Get Injured! Yay!

The Graveyard Shift

Callsign: Gearshift [Team Lead] (He/Him) (Bisexual Greyromantic) 5ft 7in 35 Years Old

Gearshift is the most mechanic mechanic you have ever laid eye on, steady hands, steady temper, and an utter workaholic despite forcing the rest of the team to clock out on the dot. He's certainly interested in things outside of work but good luck getting him to talk about it. After all, work is work, social life is social life. When you replace someone's friend can you ever be anything other than the spare tire?

(Gearshift will not get into a romantic relationship with the Mechanic but is willing to have a one night stand)

Callsign: Slab [Stabilizing Factor] (They/Whatever Works For The Joke) (Pansexual) 4ft 10in 27 Years Old

Slab is the master of internal workings in a frame, crawling inside a mech faster than most people can tie their shoes, the reckless abandon of them is only matched by the crass humor. Providing the emergency repairs needed to make sure the mech doesn't blow up once it's in the Hangar Slab has a odd view on everything with a timer, which includes themself Can you plan for a future in which someone is already dead?

(Slab has a poly route with Callsign: Screwball)

Callsign: Chiptune [Diagnostics] (He/Him) 5ft 9in 44 Years Old

Chiptune is a methodical presence on the team, while he might not be doing the hardest job his knack for technology certainly pays off on keeping mechs in perfect electronic shape. He's always got a story to keep the chatter going no matter the time, though the others will claim that he's bound to run out of tales eventually... right?

Callsign: Vanaema [Hull Work] (She/Her) 5ft 5in 68 Years Old

Crass, abrasive, downright hostile, irate. All terms that could describe the woman who has to pound titanium alloy back into shape. She'll be late to clock in, late to clock out, hostile to the pilots. But so help the gods if you mess with her those she see's as family you'll come to understand that she's been nice this entire time.

Callsign: Lightfingers [Designated Medic] (He/They) 5ft 9in 34 Years Old

Lightfingers or just Fingers for short is the doctor, calm to fault he won't pick a fight in the team even for a second. Yet for all of his composure something feels melancholic about him. At the end of the shift he's your rock, he's the lighthouse for the pilots of Zweihander, and a ghost when off the clock.

(Fingers will not allow you to be his rival. You can hate him all you want but he won't hate back)

B "Callsign: (Player Choice)" Chesterfield (Variable Pronouns) 5ft 3in Same Age As The Player Character

Barnes/Becky/Barry has been your best friend for as long as you can remember. Years of getting lost in places you shouldn't together, tighter than any knot. They couldn't protect you the night of the incident. But that doesn't matter anymore now that you're both free of it.

Zweihander Squadron

Callsign: Siren Piloting: Penelope (She/Her) (Lesbian: Siren will only date Nonbinary and Female Mechanics) 6ft 2in 32 Years Old

Siren is the perfect ideal of a pilot. A ferocious killing machine on the battlefield, the perfectly sociable friend off the battlefield, even willing to help take on the work of others. Her team loves her, the company adores her, and something about her still feels off to you deep in your gut. Can you love a knight who isn't as shining as she seems?

(Siren is the only R.O who the Mechanic can be in a Rivalry with and have a one night stand)

Callsign: Walkman Piloting: Miami Calling (They/Them) 5ft 5in Unspecified Age

The most uncanny member of Zweihander Squadron, Walkman is a bizarre case. Starting from the refusal to not wear a hardsuit helmet with the face of a smiling catfish stenciled on they already make an odd impression. Throw in the fact they only communicate via chopped up audio bites and you have an uncomfortable experience for most. Despite this Walkman seems the least standoffish to your introduction to the Graveyard Shift.

Callsign: Screwball Piloting: Sweet Summer Tea (He/Him) (Gay: Screwball will only date Nonbinary and Male Mechanics) 5ft 5in 29 Years Old

Screwball is... odd. Deeply in love with his mech, no matter who he's friends with they will always come third in his life. The mech, his dog, then everyone else. Screwball adores his frame, treat it with such care most spouses would be jealous and sleep in it. Letting someone as new as you near the frame is risk, but for some reason one he's willing to take even if tentatively. You'll always come third, is that a sacrifice you're willing to make?

(Screwball has a poly route with Callsign: Slab)

The Repairman (And Child)

Callsign: Vent Bait [Station Repair] (He/Him) (Bisexual) 6ft 3in 38 Years Old

Vent Bait is the flexible one getting into every nook and cranny to patch all the problems that could crop up. He's overworked, exhausted, in pain, oh and a single father taking care of a teenager. He's even tempered and a shoulder to lean on, but from the looks of it he needs a shoulder more than you. It's not a question of getting him to like you. It's if Constellation (his kid) is willing to let you stay close. This isn't just a date, it's a responsibility, can you handle it?

(Vent Bait will not date anyone younger than 35 Years Old. Vent Bait will also leave the story quickly if the Mechanic is hostile or attempts to instigate a rivalry with him)

Constellation ??? (They/It) 5ft 10in 15 Years Old Constellation would currently rather shiv you than let you anywhere near it's dad. They're not interested in any of the work their dad does and it's not clear where they're headed in the Company. What is clear is the lengths they will go to in order to protect their father.

(You CANNOT rival the child)

[bardic-inspo]

aeterna nostalgia

chapter five: taste test

Pairing: Ascended Astarion x Vampire Bride Tav

🩸Chapter Four |🩸 Chapter Six

🩸Full Chapter List |🩸BG3 Fic Masterlist

Series Summary:

Astarion’s carefully crafted empire is thrown into upheaval when his bride falls victim to a modify memory spell. Without any memory of her lover or her own vampirism, his dark consort is a threat to both herself and her sire. 

Astarion must win back her trust and affections, all while hunting down whoever sought to break the most powerful bond in Faerûn.

Chapter Summary: Naomi has words with her alleged ‘husband’.

Chapter CW: Chapter includes a brief discussion about fear of sexual assault having occurred. No sexual assault occurred.

Click here if you prefer to read on AO3

“When a vampire is created in the traditional manner…the new fledgeling instinctively understands much about the vampiric way of unlife, and about its own strengths, weaknesses, and needs. Not so the bride. Newly-created brides are generally ignorant of their own capabilities.”

-Van Richten’s Guide to Vampires

“You’ve forgotten yourself, sister.”

The voice chills her. 

Naomi’s legs dangle over the cliff’s sheer edge, clouded by the rising steam from the hot springs below. She’s spent her entire life down here in the thick heat of the Underdark, among the towering violet stalactites, in Eilistraeen temple nestled between them. 

There’s a razor thin slice of sunlight that cuts across the turquoise waters below, cast down from somewhere so high and far away, it might as well be a fantasy. Naomi’s never seen the surface, or the sun that boils above it. One day, she wants to.

She’s never felt the frost of winter, either. But she knows Calaerys. And with her brother always comes a cold dread that sinks into her bones and lingers. It always feels like she’s sitting on a precipice when they speak. It doesn’t help that, this time, she truly is.

“Then help me, brother,” she mutters numbly. “Lead me back into the light.”

His footsteps drag to a gritty stop behind her. Her shoulders stiffen as he looms, seething. Naomi’s fingers fret the neck of the fiddle poised within her grip. 

One of the priestesses had given it to Naomi after seeing her stare so longingly. Or, maybe, the woman was simply tired of seeing Naomi’s poor attempts at Sacred Flame. She’d never mastered even the simplest of cleric spells. But Eilistraee’s domain includes music, dance, and light. Not just bent knees, mumbled prayers, and blind devotion.

Today, she’s stolen away to solitude, hoping the nearby waterfall might drown out whatever mangled noise she can manage from the fiddle. She’s never played one before, and only has the faintest clue as to how. A pleasant tingle courses through her fingers as she strokes the strings aimlessly. It brings a thrumming sense of vitality that roots within her, resilient, defiant, even in the wake of her brother’s bitterness.

“I saw you with her,” Calaerys sneers. “You know she was once a Lolth-sworn.”

Naomi sighs, the seeds of a headache weighing heavy on her brow, and sets the fiddle aside. Gingerly, she inches back from the edge and stands.

“I know she was saved as a child, as we were,” Naomi answers brusquely. “I know she prays to Eilistraee every night as we do, and weaves her songs with the Dark Dancer’s praises. And I know it’s none of your concern who I choose to kiss.”

Her brother’s nostrils flare. She averts her eyes from his as she always does. As if that will protect her. Her gaze fixes, instead, to the trio of birds tattooed along his left cheek, keenly aware of the step forward he takes, and the lack of space for her to step back.

“Does our parents’ sacrifice mean nothing to you?!” He hisses. “And their parents before them? You and I are the product of generations of restraint, planning, resistance!”

Well, all that ‘resistance’ was futile, wasn’t it? Naomi grinds her teeth, keeping those words to herself. If not for this temple to Eilistraee and its followers, neither she nor her brother would be breathing at all. They would’ve died as children at the hands of the Lolth-sworn, the same way their parents did. The same way their entire sect did.

She and Calaerys are all that remains of the Reclaimants: the cult that thought they could pray their way back into Arvandor and the cycle of reincarnation denied to all drow. If only they could rid themselves of Lolth and any speck of her impure influence, daddy Corellon might decide to make them wood or high elves again in another, better life.

The pinch in Naomi’s gut is a guilty one. It’s accompanied by the twin sensation of relief she always feels when she thinks of her parents and their ilk. She wishes they didn’t have to die a bloody death for it, but she has no desire to follow in their footsteps. The temple to Eilistraee is far less exacting upon its followers.

The Reclaimants marked themselves so as to readily identify each other, and to pay tribute to the ascension they hoped to one day claim. Her brother’s bird tattoo is the same one that stained their father’s skin, or so Calaerys tells it. Their parents died when Naomi was still too young to remember them. Allegedly, the traditional marks were typically placed somewhere more easily hidden than one’s face. Calaerys’ pride wouldn’t abide such discretion.

“She isn’t for you!” Calaerys spits. “There are matches to be made here. Pure ones who have never fallen for Lolth’s tricks. You sully yourself with their filth! You stain our name!”

Suddenly, he jerks towards her. Naomi side-steps away from the edge only to be crowded against the rockface. It scrapes rough against her back, tearing the leather of her vest.

“What do you think you’re doing?!” She blurts, voice bounding off the stone. 

The thunder of the waterfall swallows the echo. No one at the temple will hear her. Naomi squirms, electric fear thrilling through her veins. Blunt force slams against her stomach, sending her back crashing against the ground. She’s too winded to fight the rope that binds her wrists.

“Get off of me!” She shrieks, twisting to no avail. 

By the time the stony ceiling above her stops spinning, it’s already too late.

The needle pierces the skin at the peak of her cheekbone. At once, it sears like hot coals. It quickly numbs into a dull, persistent poking. Naomi’s limbs grow heavy, and then limp.

Was father’s ink laced with a paralytic? Calaerys never said. She suspects her brother bent this tradition just to break her with it.

“You’ll never forget again,” Calaerys snarls in her ear when it’s done. She doesn’t need a mirror; she knows the marks he etched on her face match his own.

Naomi’s lips tremble. Sensation trickles back into her body in the form of scorching fire. The rage burns and builds in her belly, until it erupts in a broken, bloodcurdling shriek.

Calaerys seems to shudder before her eyes, the sound rippling across his skin and rushing through his ashen hair in a shockwave. For one sickening moment, his face shifts and thins. Naomi sees the polished white of his skull. His eyes are dark, vacant hollows. His skin pulls over it again like a mask. Her brother scrambles away from her, tripping in his haste to flee, pure terror painted on his face.

I’ll remember that look, she thinks, a savage smile peeling back her lips. Every time she sees her own image in the mirror, and the trio of birds tattooed on her cheek, she’ll remember all the ways Calaerys made her small. And how delicious it felt to finally see him cower because of her.

Naomi sits up abruptly, clutching the comforter to her chest. It’s so silky, it nearly slips through her white-knuckled grip. Her free hand flies to her left cheek, grazing over smooth skin. There’s no residual roughness, no lingering sting. 

Sheepishly, she lets her hand fall to her side. It was only a memory, after all. Her tattoo healed long ago, even though the ink of it endures. Calaerys can’t harm her from the grave. There’s no rocky roof above her head, only the delicate lace canopy of the massive four-poster she’s stranded in.

The luxuries surrounding her feel all at once foreign and familiar, as does the crimson stare of the vampire in the corner. He sits in a high-backed armchair with a festering frown. The sussur bloom thrums quietly on the side table next to him.

Her voyeur is displeased. 

“Was your trance unpleasant?” He asks, his voice decadently soft like the sheets she’s tangled in. He wears a deep crease in his brow and not one wrinkle on his dark brocade doublet. His silver curls rest perfectly coiffed atop his head, as if they haven’t moved at all since the last time she woke.

It’s more space than he granted her before. And still too close for comfort. She takes a brief scan of the room and finds it mostly as she remembers. The floor-length mirror is angled away from the bed, the brass frame gleaming with the silver leak of moonlight angling in from the vast, curved windows. The ornate rug, in the same shades of winey burgundy and bright turquoise as the bed, still blankets the smooth stone floor. And the far wall is still lined with dark polished shelves of leather-bound books.

There’s a subtle shimmer around a number of shelves she hadn’t noticed upon her first awakening. Dim light lines the closed door in the corner and the windowed one leading out onto the balcony. From here, she can just make out the faint banter of gulls. They must be near the Sea of Swords, though she can’t see anything in the darkness outside but a scattering of stars.

There’s nowhere far enough for her to run. Besides, his speed is uncanny. And even if it wasn’t, there’s the matter of his compulsion. The sussur bloom still stifles her magic. The only weapons at her disposal, then, are words.

“That’s a rather personal question,” Naomi says warily, “don’t you think?”

“Hm,” he hums with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Far be it from me to ask after my consort’s comfort.”

“Consort?”

Astarion’s eyes go round, like he’s just as startled by the word as she. It’s striking how the sharp angles of his face seem to soften with his shock. As if he’s someone else entirely. When she blinks, he seems to resettle again, a pitying smile lifting his lips, a knowing gleam entering his eye.

“Let’s start over, shall we? I’m Astarion. And I’m your--” 

--he breaks into an airy chuckle that sets her hairs on end--

“--husband, I suppose. It’s a rather quaint way of putting it, truth be told. A very mortal word. A bond between vampires is something far deeper. And ours is unique among them all.”

The v-word puts a frantic flare of nausea in her gut. But it’s another that tilts the room at an unsettling slant, dizziness swelling inside her skull.

Husband?!

He’s crazy. He must be. Unwittingly, her eyes flicker down to her left hand. Her brows shoot towards the ceiling.

The rose-gold band and its dainty laurel-leaf etchings are overwhelmed by the giant kite-cut amethyst at its center. The deep violet stone nestles into a vee of small diamonds that glitter around the thin circumference of a second band. If she squints, she can just see the engraving on it: aeterna amantes. It’s--

“Stunning, isn’t it?” He says smugly. “Of course, it could never eclipse or compare to your beauty, but I had to try to find something at least remotely suitable to symbolize our undying devotion.”

Naomi blinks rapidly, as if it will clear her head. As if it will make any of this make more sense. There’s a cruel humor in her alleged matrimony; Calaerys wouldn’t approve of this one, either. Reclaimants were meant to mate and procreate with other drow seeking ‘purification’. Or, if there was no unrelated, unwed member of the sect available, then with a drow deemed to be of ‘pure influence’. All in the hopes that if they failed in their dreams of entering Arvandor, then their children, or their children’s children, would be granted reincarnation. Every generation was intended to inch ever closer to reclaiming it.

But wedding a high elf? Oh no. That would be putting the cart before the horse.

Pain throbs through her gums. She grimaces at the panging reminder of her forgotten death, her fingertips coming to press against her aching jaw. Perhaps it isn’t so ludicrous that the man who apparently murdered her married her while he was at it. That if she forgot one such monumental occasion -- or wasn’t lucid for it -- she could certainly have forgotten the other.

“Yes, dearest,” he says, like he can hear her very thoughts. (Gods, can he?!) “You’re a vampire. But you needn’t grieve, nor fear the sun. You needn’t fear anything. You’ll see. Now, can we be civilized about this?”

She ogles him, flummoxed. It hadn’t even occurred to her to fear the sun, among the myriad of other terrors tugging at her. At least it explains, if only superficially, why they both can stand in it and be unharmed.

Be civilized, he says. Comply or be compelled is what he must mean. In the absence of alternatives, she reluctantly nods. 

“Good,” he purrs. A fresh ease relaxes his shoulders, his smile widening far enough, she gets a glimpse of his pointed fangs. The sight spurs an uneasy shiver down her spine. Instinctively, she shrinks back into the sheets as he stands. His smile falters.

“Join me, won’t you?” He asks, sauntering past her bedside with unsettling grace. The scent of his cologne carries past her nose, smooth as velvet, with the faint simmer of citrus. Something else cloys with it -- a faint, floral interjection that rouses a persistent itch in the back of her throat. She swallows, but she can’t seem to wet it again.

Naomi frowns as she tracks his path to the far wall, stacked top to bottom with books. As he approaches, he mutters something barely audible beneath his breath. The same shelves outlined in that ethereal blue glow reshape before her eyes, compressing their contents to form a rounded archway. Astarion steps through it into the room beyond, peering back at her expectantly.

It’s then, for the first time, she becomes fully aware of what she is -- and isn’t -- wearing.

It’s the same silver nightgown she remembers from the mirror, with the same dribbled, dark stain of her own blood along the draped neckline. Surely sleepwear has no need to sparkle so much. The billowy sleeves slouch off her bare shoulders, and the skirt’s long enough to come to her ankles. Sh hadn’t noticed how sheer it was before, when she was gawking at her reflection in terror. It’s like a veil of starlight coating her skin. Her freckles mingle with the glinting sheen of the fabric. It doesn’t so much cover her body as it illuminates it.

There’s nothing else beneath it but her.

Naomi’s eyes meet Astarion’s and narrow. She shifts, easing her legs over the side of the bed, gathering the comforter in her arms like some frouffy ball gown. She pulls it taut across her chest. The fabric practically melts against her, soft as butter. It must cost a fortune. It comes with her as she rises and crosses the room, dragging across the floor with a dull swish. She hesitates a few feet from the archway where Astarion still lingers, blocking her path.

With an exasperated sigh, he reaches into the chamber beyond and pulls out a decidedly opaque black robe. Hastily, she snatches it. At least he has the decency to turn away while she sheds the comforter and cinches the robe tight. It’s made of some sort of fur. Perhaps a bear. It’s dark as midnight, and brushes pleasantly against her neck.

“Come,” he says, stepping from the archway into a small but sumptuous vestibule. Hesitantly, Naomi follows. 

Initially, the brightness of the rooms burns. She shields her eyes with her hand, squinting against the light. It calls to mind her first expedition onto the sunlit surface. She’d relished the heat soaking her skin, until she woke flaking and freckled the following day. She regards her new surroundings with the same wariness, even after the ache from eyes fades.

It’s a stark contrast to the bedroom, where the only brightness was the occasional blue accent. The vestibule is white stone from floor to ceiling, and awash in shimmering moonlight. The same wide, curved windows line the exterior wall, with cushioned benches tucked against them. 

Ivory fur softens her bare steps, like a thick bed of snowfall. Another rug made from another exotic beast. There’s a candlelit hallway off the vestibule with a closed door on either side. Steam clouds her view of the wider chamber at the hall’s other end. She peels her attention away to her more immediate vicinity.

Instead of books on crowded shelves, two large canvases dominate the walls: a pair of twined skeletons on a bed of dark grass and pale flowers, and another of a seaside castle basking in a bloody sunrise. There’s a third space between them, where something else must’ve hung. Only a discolored, rectangular imprint remains there, now. Beneath the paintings are various pedestals with assorted treasures: a golden key, a jeweled goblet, and a silver amulet. The glint of it skewers her.

She knows that necklace. It used to live around her neck, and her mother’s before her. The icon of Eilistraee is cracked through the center, the Dark Dancer severed from the sword she holds above her head. 

Naomi stiffens, throat thickening around a raw, stinging dryness. These are trophies. Things he’s taken. Just like her.

“A-hem.”

Reluctantly, Naomi turns towards the vampire, who awaits her at a glass table set for two. There’s a porcelain pitcher and a pair of wine glasses atop it, filled red to the brim. The light-weight scent that wafts her way matches the floral notes that interrupted Astarion’s cologne before. The liquid is deep, dark, and viscous.

It isn’t wine. Her stomach sinks.

“You must be thirsty,” Astarion says with a sharp-edged smile. 

Her resounding silence outlives his patience. He shifts his feet, but it doesn’t quell the irritation in his voice. 

“Sit, my dear. Have a drink. You’ll feel better.”

Naomi raises her chin. “Aren’t you just going to make me?”

He tilts his head, his mouth forming a firm line. “We won’t be trying that again. It won’t do either of us any good. And deep down, I think a part of you knows that’s the only reason it happened at all.” He swallows, shaking his head as if to clear it. “For your own good.”

I don’t know that, or you, at all, she thinks helplessly.

Astarion circles to the table’s other side and pulls out the chair. Even with his spoken assurances,  she moves towards it sluggish and slow, drifting forward as if entranced. His knuckles brush her shoulders as he presses the chair in behind her. Naomi recoils from the touch. An anxious awareness lingers on her neck even after he takes his seat opposite of her.

The tabletop is small enough, they could easily clasp hands across it. Astarion’s wrists are half-way there, his elegant fingers folding around the stem of his wine glass, periodically twisting it. He nods pointedly towards the glass in front of her. Naomi tucks her hands deliberately beneath her arms.

“If you’re going to explain,” she says tersely, “start with how you forced me into trance.”

“I compelled you,” he says flatly. “Since I am your sire, and you are my bride, you obeyed to the best of your ability.”

Sire. Bride. Gods. Her skin starts to burn beneath her borrowed finery.

“What else has my so-called husband compelled me to do for him?”

His gaze goes sharp, and then round again. Lines sprout along his forehead and beneath his eyes. All at once, he looks aged a dozen years. His jaw slackens, lips parted around a low gasp of breath.

“That’s what you’ve been so scared of. Oh, darling. Any love we made before was entirely mutual. I’d never violate you.”

“Before..?!”

“Before you lost your memories.”

His face blurs into a smear of silver. She blinks fiercely, clearing the burn from her vision. Her stomach turns in a tumult of grief and relief. For the yawning gap in her recollection. For the harms that, according to him, haven’t befallen her. She believes him on that account, at least. Not merely because he looks appropriately horrified at the idea, but because even with all she’s forgotten, she remembers each of his other compulsions with crystal clarity.

The rest, she isn’t so sure of. 

She’s assumed, until now, Astarion had a hand in snatching pieces of her memory. That he tore them away with his teeth when he took her life. That she’d forgotten all the gorey details of their entanglement in the fog of trauma that obscured them.

Except the logic doesn’t quite latch.

Remember what you’ve forgotten, he implored when he first woke her. It was a compulsion, said with the same immutable force as the others before it. Except, it didn’t work. It didn’t take her will away. It didn’t return any memories like, it seems, he wanted it to.

If he wanted her to remember, he can’t have been the one to make her forget in the first place. But if he turned her…well, then he must’ve killed her, too. And, evidently, leashed her with the chain of compulsion that he can tug on every time he thinks it’s for her own good.

He continues, indignant now as he leans back in his chair. “You were attacked. Some vile wizard cast a spell and put you in this state. I never compelled you at all before. I never needed to. We are bonded, you and I.”

So he can’t be as powerful as he pledges to be, she thinks, if I came to harm the way he claims.

Her mind reels, but it catches on the growing sting on her throat. She winces at the sandpaper roughness of it. For a second, his gaze seems to soften with something like concern. It hardens in defiance when she speaks.

“Then I do have some things to fear, it seems,” she says coolly.

He bristles. “We’ve faced far worse and fared exceptionally well on every occasion. You’re perfectly safe here!”

She eyes him apprehensively. “What did you mean that we’re ‘bonded’?”

His mood shifts on a dime. He gestures widely with a proud smirk. “Look around you. This entire palace is ours. We share wealth, power, and so much more. My desires are yours, too. I know your needs as if they’re my own.”

Naomi stiffens, eyes skimming over all overwhelming opulence of her surroundings. Is this all she’s known while bound to this man? A few lavish rooms? Perhaps a few more? A gilded cage? His discretion and decisions about her wants and needs? The trappings might be more luxurious, but it doesn’t sound so different from the ‘brother knows best’ of her past.

No magic. No music. No life at all. The only sounds she hears are the grating hum of the sussur bloom and the steady thump of Astarion’s heartbeat reminding her that she no longer has one. Her fingernails bite into the beds of her palms.

She had her magic. She had music. Somehow, she had a glitzy little harmonica on hand in the throne room. It smashed to pretty pieces beneath the heel of Astarion’s boot. You’ll have another, he said, once you’ve come to your senses.

Is that what he expects? That she be on her best behavior, at his beck and call? That if she’s good enough, and plays her part perfectly, he’ll treat her? Like she’s some sort of--

“Drink, pet,” he purrs. “You’ll feel better if you do.”

A furious bravery thrills through her with righteous abandon. Naomi shoves the wineglass towards the table’s edge. A dark stain blooms in the snow white rug beneath their feet. Astarion watches her display with composed indifference. She goes rigid, pressing back in her chair, bracing for the burn of his ire and the compulsion sure to follow.

Instead, he merely utters a tired sigh. “So much for being civilized, eh?”

She grits her teeth. “You said you’d explain--”

“I have.”

“You haven’t! I don’t even know how we met! You say you didn’t kidnap me, but you certainly murdered me! And that’s about all I know of you!”

He inclines his head with an infuriating pout. The sultry dip in his voice doesn’t soothe; it’s a nuisance. “You may have forgotten me, my sweet, but I know you intimately.”

She scoffs. “Prove it!”

“As you wish,” he croons, eyes flickering with something unfathomable. “I know what it is you saw in reverie. You remembered your brother. How he hurt you. Didn’t you?”

A slow spill of dread sinks in her stomach, like sand collecting in the bottom of an hourglass. Unwittingly, she shakes her head.

“You told me how you danced and sang and drank the day he died. How you later came to the surface to sing in taverns and gradually made your way to the Gate. You said it was to start a new life, but truly, you had something specific in mind. You wanted to try your hand at theater.” He chuckles quietly, propping his chin against his palm. “You own one now, you know. My little starlet.”

Naomi’s eyelids flutter. “H-how did you--”

“Because you’ve told me before how you got your tattoo. I’ve lied beside you countless days and nights. I know what you’ve seen when you wake and touch your cheek. I know all your dreams, and your nightmares. All the threads that twine together to make my beloved bride.”

Such honeyed words for such a seductive fantasy. A happy one, maybe. He is breathtaking in more than one sense. Anyone with eyes would say as much about his straight, elegant nose, his high cheekbones, and the too-perfect curl of his hair. Even the velvet flex of his voice. His scent alone entices, every element of him beckoning like a crooked finger. Or coiling like a noose about to tighten.

But even this close to him, she’s devoid of any recognition, of any desire but to be somewhere far, far away. To leave Baldur’s Gate for (her own) good and never return, even after travelling so long to get here, and never seeing the stage she yearned for, or hardly any of the city itself.

He tells a pretty tale, but he doesn’t speak of the darkness that paid for it. Of the death -- her death -- that built it. And he doesn't say a thing about himself. Naomi’s throat bobs. She meets his smolder with a steely stare.

“All right,” Astarion sneers, with a melodramatic sweep of his arms. “Let’s play out this game you think you’re running. You’ve been kidnapped by the big, bad vampire. Do you think plucking his nerves like a petulant child is endearing? What exactly is this strategy?”

“Spite, mostly,” Naomi answers coldly. “Do you know what it’s like to be compelled?”

The glare he gives her is scalding. “Careful, dear.”

“How long have I been here?” She demands. “How long have I been a vampire?”

“You’ll be able to think far clearer if you drink, darling.”

Naomi’s eyes narrow. He’s so insistent on it. He could just compel her. He said he won’t. For now, at least, he seems intent on playing his part as the protective sire.

Or, maybe, he needs her to drink of her own volition. She knows little of vampires, aside from a few tawdry novels. But she recalls, vaguely, a myth warning against taking food and drink in a devil’s house. And something else about being stuck in the hells for six months each year, all because of a pomegranate.

Pomegranate. That’s the smell that’s been teasing her nose. Her eyes flit to the blood in his cup. Beneath the floral notes, the scent is tangy. Light. Luscious.

Her throat scrapes with a sudden heat. “If I do,” she rasps, “will you answer my questions?”

He purses his lips, falling quiet as he weighs her offer.

“You know,” she presses, “communication is typically key in most marriages. One would think you’d want your wife to know about her circumstances. For her own good.”

“A new vampire is a delicate thing,” he says evasively. “A bride even more so. You’ve forgotten three years in an instant. That makes you new all over again. You need time to--”

“Three years?!” She chokes.

“I think that counts as one answer, doesn’t it?” He grins darkly. “Hold up your end of the bargain, and you’ll have so much more.”

Naomi scowls. He pushes his glass across to her, gratingly slow. The blood within trembles.

“Go on, little love.”

The liquid ripples again as she reaches out hesitantly and takes the glass in hand. “What will happen if I don’t drink it?”

“I’ll give you that one for free,” he says tartly. “Vampires drink blood. If they don’t, they’ll be hungry. And agitated, and paranoid, and generally, bad company. Their mental faculties will become muddled. Eventually, they’ll fall ill, then feral, with pupils blown wide, and fangs aching something awful at the mere smell of blood. Does that sound relatable to you?”

Splat. Naomi flinches. Something wets her knuckles. She sees the moisture dangling there by a silver string and-- Gods, she’s…salivating. She wipes her mouth shakily with the back of her hand, scowling over the edge of the glass.

“I have the sense you’ve been trying to puzzle me out,” Astarion muses. “To outplay whatever villain you think you see. Let me help you, darling: having freshly fed wouldn’t have won you our little spat in the throne room, but you would have fared better. And you’ll fare better now if you stop starving yourself.”

Her gaze drops, heavy-lidded, back to the glass. If it will help, make her stronger, clear her head, then she’ll succumb to one sip. Just a taste. The scent of roses eases her eyes shut as she tilts the glass to her mouth.

It melts petal-soft against her lips with the tenderness of a lover. She gasps, long and lewd, like she’s writhing beneath one. The taste swells tantalizingly across her tongue. Soothing warmth trickles, syrupy sweet, down her throat, waking her nerves, rousing a tingle beneath her skin. The more she takes, the more taken she feels. She swears there’s fingers stroking through her hair. Good, she thinks, deliriously. It’s so very good.

The only thing better would be more. She feels the pull, as if whispered from the blood itself, coaxing her open. Take it. Take it all.

It’s then she manages to wrench away, slamming the glass down. A hairline crack sprouts in the tabletop. She pinches the stem in a vice-grip, mesmerized by the red trails dripping down the side of the glass to pool at the bottom. Only a few drops remain.

“Tell me how we met,” She pants, as if surfacing from vast depths.

For a moment, his eyes glisten. A mess of emotions plays across his face in an instant, each one vivid and fleeting. He flits through masks until he settles for a stony one. He blinks at her blankly once, twice, and then he jerks to stand, rattling the table as he goes.

“I’ll return later,” he says crisply, taking the pitcher with him, “with a meal more fitting for your palate.”

“What-- wait!” She scrambles from the chair, hurrying after him as he crosses the archway.

To her surprise, he freezes. She stops just short of barreling into his chest, a flurry of fear swarming in her stomach. 

He turns, peering down at her wistfully. “Why?”

“I-I thought we were getting somewhere,” she stammers. “I only want to know you, too. So you're not a stranger. So this all stops feeling so…strange.”

The arch of his brow is just as skeptical as she is. He searches her face while she wracks her brain for a more plausible answer. She has no idea what inspired her to rush after him when only moments before, she loathed his every word. All she knows is the sudden, overwhelming plea pressing on her mind: come back to me.

She hears it in her own voice, in her own head, but it feels starkly foreign. The yearning flares again, insistent, frantic, as he takes another step away from her. The noise that comes next puts her blood on ice. 

A deep, bestial snarl rips across the room. It didn’t come from Astarion; his mouth hasn’t moved at all. Naomi blinks feverishly, gaze dropping to see her hands clenched in a death grip around the pitcher he still holds. She gapes, aghast, but she doesn’t let go, even as she trembles like a leaf. 

Astarion merely tuts. “You’re never quite yourself when you’re hungry, love. But don’t you worry. We’ll fill you right up. Perhaps before you go for a stroll through the city streets, hm? We wouldn’t want you to make a mess out there.”

He lets go, and she staggers back, cradling the pitcher to her chest. Blood splashes over the sides, spattering at her feet, and soaking the front of her robe. It’s such a lush, vibrant color. Every drop, a precious gem. She’s so hypnotized by that ruby sheen, she hardly hears his parting words.

“There’s a bath for you, if you wish, and fresh clothes. Wear whatever pleases you. I’ll see you in the morning.”

She retreats to the far wall. Her back slides against the slick surface as she drops to the ground and lifts the pitcher to her lips. She gags in her haste to guzzle down its contents, red rivers running down her chin, tears streaming down her cheeks.

A/N: The unserious working title of this chapter was “Vampire’s First Juicebox”.

Now also feels like a good time to mention that while I may at some point continue Midnight Chimes, this fic is my primary focus, and I will be pulling in scenes/material/backstory for Naomi and her game timeline with Astarion as it makes sense to do so. This will effectively spoil what I had planned for MC, but after giving it a lot of thought, it feels important that these pieces are included in AN, as they are really vital to Astarion and Naomi’s journey in this story and I'm excited about working those elements (like the flashback included here) in.

Thank you so very much for reading! I hope life is being kind to you all. <3

[penheadie]

Can we get some Skippingstone headcanons?

Oh boy where to begin I may not be as confident about these ones like I am with the past ones so there's your warning there are skippingstone shippers before me that are better than me. 

For modern AU. Whenever fall rolls around Skipp always drags Stone to go shopping for fall decorations at a thrift store or arts and crafts store (by the time that they are done shopping the car will be overflowed with a sea of pumpkins on the drive back home) 

Whenever fall rolls around in Ramshackle however Skipp and Stone will always share a scarf together as they walk down by the lake at the park despite the weird and odd stares they get from the rich people even though it's public property.

Skipp and Stone do in fact go down to the lake and skip stones together. Sometimes they write their names on the stones before they throw them into the lake. There's no significance to it, maybe it's just something for them to leave behind when they eventually do pass so people know that they were there together.

Skipp and Stone still very much miss the time that the trio spent together taking care of Maggot. So instead they go around the streets adopting stray dogs and cats trying to take them in and take care of them. 

Skipp makes flower crowns for Stone.

Skipp is panromantic and Stone is demisexual.

Stone is very aware of the fact he is considered quite the looker in Ramshackle as oftentimes he will face unwanted attention from people on the streets, being able to tell people's intentions with him as people only ever see him as just a body instead of actually a person (Because yes guys can face harassment too it's a people problem) which lead him to have even more fear and anxiety towards dating people because he's scared that people are only ever concerned with getting in his pants and sexualizing him. He sometimes vents to Skipp about his frustration that people only ever see him as just a piece of meat, only for Skipp to reassure him that he doesn't look at him that way. It's one of the things that drew Stone closer to him.

Stone sometimes has doubts about his identity and he sometimes worries that Skipp may want more from him, Skipp always reassures him that they don't need to do anything physically intimate in order for him to feel loved and valued. Reassuring him that it's okay to just want to hug, kiss or hold hands with somebody and that he should never do anything that makes him uncomfortable. Love without intimacy exists for them and their love language is always spending quality time together and doing wholesome couple things together. Their relationship is very much founded on music and the power of listening to what the other has to say with how important words can be, being sweet and sentimental towards each other. 

Whenever Stone is being sweet and sentimental Skipp makes it sure to give him as much time as possible to get all of his words and feelings out as he know that he struggles a lot with opening up about his emotions. He always reassures him that it's okay to keep going and that he loves hearing what he has to say.

Skipp absolutely loves to listen to Stone whenever he rants about his problems even though he's probably heard them a thousand times it means that Stone is opening up to him and it's an opportunity that he never lets go to waste he always wants to be his shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen to it's part of their big dynamic that goes beyond just shipping.

Whenever Stone is sad and going through a tough time Skipp will usually help explain things by singing songs and love ballads just for him. 

Whenever Skipp and Stone are alone together Pebble definitely harasses them with the gay gay homosexual gay.

Stone and Skipp do NOT leave Vinnie behind. They make sure to never leave Vinnie behind or make her feel like she's being forgotten. Ever since they started dating it changed their dynamic so they always make sure to reassure Vinnie and keep her included in their activities. Reassuring her that she is just as important.

Even though Stone and Skipp are no way fit to be parents it's one of their dreams to adopt a child off of the streets so they can try and continue the legacy of their small family. They really want to give a child that was orphaned the same opportunity to find a happy family that they did. So when they do eventually adopt a child together it is a little girl that conveniently looks like a mix of both of them. 

[lines-in-limbo]

Lily is absolutely flirting in Snape’s Worst Memory - but I think this is one scene that has dated the series and is easily overlooked if the reader is not a Brit of a certain age. Lily and James are bantering in that scene in the way that Beatrice and Benedick do in Much Ado About Nothing or the way that Elizabeth and Darcy have crazy sexual tension while she’s telling him that she hates him and that he’s the last person on earth she’d ever marry.

People don’t see it now because James’ approach has so many red flags that are widely acknowledged as red flags in 2024 that they see Lily’s responses as genuine disgust and dislike, instead of her getting drawn into his game because she’s interested. But it was obvious in 2003 what JKR was going for here. The implication is that Snape lashes out at her *because* he sees her half smile and her flirtatiousness in this moment, and properly realises for the first time that his ‘best friend’ is totally into the guy tormenting him in front of half the school.

None of this is to say that Lily wasn’t a) completely right to terminate the friendship and b) wasn’t overall a very decent person. But she’s supposed to be a pretty shit friend here - put any one of the trio in Lily’s shoes and imagine their response to the same situation and it becomes clear that her half assed, rather impersonal defence was indeed intended to be half assed. Now of course this is directed by JKR needing to keep the connection between Snape and Lily secret until the very end, but she makes this work retrospectively from a characterisation perspective in the Prince’s Tale by depicting a Snape who is difficult to be friends with and who doesn’t recognise what true friendship *should* be because he’s never had it, and a humanised (not a saint) Lily who’s been quietly realigning herself away from her difficult friend for a very long time without making it crystal clear to him what she’s doing. It doesn’t make her bad, it makes her a very normal 15 year old pretty, popular girl with all the positive traits that entails (confidence, vivaciousness, fearlessness) as well as the negative (thoughtlessness, a lack of empathy towards those less socially adept).

Thank you for your message, anon. 

I understand where you’re coming from, and while some people interpret the scene as flirting or as "laying the groundwork for their eventual romance," especially when viewed through the lens of classical literature and 'enemies to lovers' tropes, I see it differently. For me, attraction doesn’t automatically equal flirting. I do recognize subtle cues in Lily’s behavior that suggest she might be physically attracted to James, and yes, there’s some tension, but I wouldn’t categorize that as flirting. To me, flirting is intentional—a deliberate way to say, "Hey, I’m interested in you; let’s date.” That’s not what’s happening here. While Lily may have had some attraction to James, her intention certainly wasn’t to express that to him, particularly because his bullying and arrogance were significant turn-offs. This is consistent with the fact that she only began dating James in their seventh year when he supposedly "deflated" his ego and stopped bullying others. She valued the growth she saw in him, which made him someone she could consider dating at that point. (Whether he genuinely matured is another discussion, but I won’t delve into that here.)

I don’t deny that Lily’s conflicting feelings toward James might have influenced her defense of Snape to some extent, but to call her defense completely “half-assed" because she was supposedly “flirting” with James seems like a stretch. (Honestly, I’m considering posting the whole scene because it feels like people may have forgotten what actually happened or have only skimmed it.)

From an external perspective, Lily’s defense might appear somewhat weak or insufficient, especially given the severity of the situation. However, it's crucial to understand that this perception does not fully capture the complexity of Lily’s internal experience. Lily’s primary goal was to stop the bullying by publicly insulting and embarrassing James. She’s clearly trying to de-escalate the situation by first shouting at them, and when that doesn’t work, she takes out her wand, ready to escalate things if necessary. While it may not have been the most forceful defense, it was still a defense, and it clearly demonstrated her disapproval of their behavior. Initially, it even seemed effective, as James did perform the countercurse to the full body-bind curse. However, after Snape called Lily a Mudblood, she left, and James and Sirius resumed bullying him.

From an internal perspective, in my view, the primary factor influencing Lily’s defense was the state of her deteriorating friendship with Snape. As I’ve mentioned in previous posts and reblogs, their friendship was strained, and she likely had conflicting feelings about him. As you pointed out, she was gradually distancing herself from him due to his behavior. After years of standing by Snape, excusing his actions, and pretending everything was fine, Lily likely felt frustrated and betrayed. She was torn between her past loyalty to him and her current disapproval, making it challenging for her to respond more forcefully. While I do wish she’d done more (and she certainly could have), her feelings are understandable given everything that had transpired between them.

Regarding the notion that Snape noticed any "flirting," I respectfully disagree. Snape didn’t lash out at Lily because he saw her "flirting" with James or noticed any subtle expression. His focus was on defending himself from Sirius and James. Additionally, he wouldn’t have seen her expression since his robes were hanging over his head while he was suspended upside down:

"James whirled about; a second flash of light later, Snape was hanging upside down in the air, his robes falling over his head to reveal skinny, pallid legs and a pair of graying underpants."

The more likely reason for his outburst was that he felt humiliated and emasculated by James, especially when James said, "Lucky Evans was here Snivellus —,” as he let Snape down. That likely exacerbated Snape’s embarrassment, leading him to lash out with, "I don’t need help from a filthy little Mudblood like her." It seems like he was trying to regain some dignity, and the slur slipped out in a moment of anger and shame.

All in all, you’re right—Lily isn’t a saint; no one is. And while I’m not eager to compliment JKR the TERF, I do think she did a good job of humanizing her characters. Lily isn’t as fleshed out compared to other minor characters like James, and I do wish we’d seen more of her flaws. That said, her response to the situation, while somewhat imperfect, reflects the complexities of her character, which makes her more relatable and human.

While we may not completely agree, I appreciate your interpretation and opinion, anon. Thank you for sharing your perspective. 💫

*As a side note, I want to clarify that I’m not trying to excuse Lily for not defending Snape more effectively; I’m simply trying to view the situation from her perspective, as I do with other characters when analyzing them. Additionally, I want to emphasize that I’m not hating on Snape. Some people have taken my posts and reblogs about Lily as an excuse to criticize Snape, but that’s not my intention at all. I clearly identify as a "Snape defender" in my bio. Just because I’m exploring Lily’s perspective in SWM doesn’t mean I don’t also understand Snape’s situation. I have other posts dedicated to him on my blog.

[ineffable-opinions]

Mumbai Police

Ok, this is going to be a quick and short one. My original intention was to do an appreciation post for Ardhanaari (2012). However, due to the release of Deva (which many have guessed to be a remake of 2013 Malayalam movie Mumbai Police, based on certain replica shots found in the trailer) I thought I should post about it instead. Update: I just learned that the main character in Deva is not presented as queer. I’ll make the post about Ardhanaari next month and Moothon the month after, inshallah.

Indian Queer Media: Little Hearts | Kaathal the Core | Gaami

Mumbai Police is available for streaming on Hotstar.

This one is a thriller with non-linear storytelling and multiple layers of twists and turns. So basic premise is of an amnesiac cop trying to find himself while trying to figure out who killed his buddy and why.

(CW: heterosexism; PSA: Hema Committee Report)

tagging: @starryalpacasstuff

Spoilers Ahead

Our main character Anthony Moses (played by Prithviraj) is a rascal or flawed hero – one who is super macho, easily resorts to violence but is endearing in his own way and is truly loyal to those close to him. This is a tried and tested, typical hero that is pretty much the staple of Indian movies that delve into some social or political issue. This archetypical portrayal may appear lazy, but it helps to easily build and establish the main character, so that the movies can move on to discuss what interests it - be it caste, feudalism and the rights of forest dwellers like in Kanthara, or a myriad of issues in many social movies from Tamil Nadu and many classics from Bollywood.

The seemingly mentor like superior and Anthony’s brother-in-law, Farhan (played by Rahman), is the second most important character. It is his machinations that drive the plot as we see it.

In three-wise-monkeys style, the third in the chaotic trio dubbed “Mumbai Police” (they all served Q1 in Mumbai before getting posted to Kochi [in Kerala, not be confused with Kochi in Japan]) is the loosu paiyan, silly and childish, the one who carries his heart on his sleeves, Aryan. Jayasurya (who played Aryan) and Prithviraj have several movies together with really interesting dynamics and underrated chemistry, probably spicier than Prithviraj’s combination with Prabhu Deva in Urumi or with Prabhas in Salaar.

Rascal hero carries some burden and its through his vulnerability and pain that the movie focuses on the issues it tackles. For Anthony, it his forgotten past and uncertain future. As his past is slowly revealed to us, we learn of his good-for-nothing father, a life he had to build with very little support, of his rowdy ways, his sexual orientation and associated vulnerabilities, helplessness, loss of innocence and guilt that would haunt him forever.

“Mumbai Police” bond over a hasty, hot-headed decision that drives Aryan into bit of a soup. Farhan employs Anthony’s rowdy ways to rescue Aryan. Aryan and Anthony grow really close (their theme and its variations marking various phases in their relationship is just amazing). Aryan end up winning a Gallantry award for taking down Maoists (a hot topic in 2013 with the Kerala Thunderbolts coming into existence and making their presence known) - an act Anthony committed but easily relinquished credit in hopes of coming in handy to appease Aryan’s ever-demanding dad.

Anthony is punished for his rowdy ways as he gets transferred out of Kochi. Friendship-starved Aryan is upset. To mourn Anthony’s impending departure, he visits Anthony in his flat. He is furious upon learning that Anthony has parts of his life – his boyfriend and his androphilia in general – hidden away (while Aryan had been an open-book). He lashes out and threatens Anthony in a manner that is very potent and debilitating in the age of section 377. In a tragedy of Romeo and Juliet or Layla and Majnun proportions or Kanchanamala and Moideen proportions, Anthony kills Aryan and misleads the investigation, only to later learn from Aryan’s to-be-betrothed that Aryan’s rage was short-lived, he meant not harm and instead yearned to be closer to Anthony and was planning to forgo the Gallantry award in hopes of retaining Anthony in Kochi.

Among other issues such as police hooliganism and misuse of power, compulsory heterosexuality is challenged through very subtle yet hard-hitting moments with Aryan detailing his success as a flirt and Farhan joining in the conversation while Anthony is merely listening and does not feel comfortable speaking about his boyfriend. While the boyfriend knows of Anthony’s sister, Annie herself has no idea about her brother’s boyfriend.

The movie also challenges the ultra-macho personas of rascal heroes and calls attention to the societal evils (unsupported childhood and heterosexism in this case) that force them to act out in ways that may run contrary to their core beliefs and better judgement. Rascal Anthony and amnesiac Anothny feel like two different people. On a lighter note, amnesiac Anothny openly checks out Farhan before he learns that he is married to his sister. He feels less burdened by expectations until he makes sense of his pre-amnesia self. Afterwards, he is overridden by guilt and helplessness.

Since the screen-play writers decided on the motive of the crime after establishing the crime and those involved, they could easily introduce the androphilic hero to a largely heterosexist audience with relative ease and thus create an opportunity for the exploration of queer personhood in the context of a hostile state, judgmental and social-cost-extracting public and the common place existence of lives that are invisible in plain sight.

-

Mentioning movies that goes deeper into other marginalized folk discussed in the movie:

Kammatti Paadam (2016) for an honest exploration of lives of folk like Roy, the gangster.

Pada (2022) and Raavanan (2010) for a deeper look at issue of adivasi people’s rights and struggles.

Piravi (1989) and Jai Bhim (2021) - Police brutality

[artficlly]

me & the devil (one-shot)

Wild West Marvel AU

outlaw!bucky x saloon girl!reader

The Diamondback Saloon and Hotel has always attracted bad men, and Bucky Barnes happens to be one of them.

Warnings: violence, death, wound descriptions, lots of blood and gore, mention of guns, swearing, sex worker reader, lots of talk of sex work, vague mentions of past non-con and abuse, lots of angst, sexual tension, breaking law, bank robbery, lmk if anything needs to be added.

Word Count: 11.2k (whoops)

A/N: hi! this is a pretty angsty/gorey fic I've been working on. i started this a month back while watching west world. i love westerns, rdr and all thinsg cowboy so this was so fun to write. i was thinking of maybe a part two just due to how long this got lol. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

It was still morning when trouble walked in. In the two months you had been working at The Diamondback Saloon and Hotel, it had taken you only days to figure out who was trouble and who wasn’t. There was an energy to them, something more clinging to their bodies than the grime and grit of the wilds. The saloon would fall into a hush, an unspoken knowing between all within. It wasn't just the guns on their person, but the way they held themselves. A swagger and a smirk, bruises on their knuckles, a twisted nose from a fight long forgotten An essence of something deeper, a whisper that hissed in warning. 

That intensity screamed danger, and all those inside knew to obey it or face its wrath. 

“Them boys look like trouble.” Charlotte hummed, echoing your thoughts entirely. The two of you stood leaning back against the bar, examining your new patrons. There were three of them, young and deadly. They had that energy and that intensity. With just a flick of your eyes, you could read it – fatality written into the dirt under their nails to the subtle splatter of blood along the cuff of a shirt. 

“Maybe that’s reason to steer clear for once.” You muttered back to the woman, your fan fluttering as you eyed her with a frown. “The last lot didn’t even pay you.”

Danger didn’t often walk into Silverton, but when it did, it always stopped by The Diamondback for one final drink and fuck before facing the open wilds. Danger had different faces; some returned, some didn’t. The three men who now took up a table in the back were certainly new to you. 

“The ride was payment enough.” Charlotte giggled as she batted her lashes. “Them boys always have a lot packing.”

You rolled your eyes with a huff. "Yeah, and half of em’ don’t even know how to use it.” 

“I’ll take my chances.” Charlotte announced with one of her coy smiles you had grown to know so well. She strutted off in the direction of the group of men, hand dragging across shoulders and cleavage pronounced in her posture. The men looked at her up and down like a meal – predators and prey. You often couldn’t tell the difference between the two – who was prey and who was predator. Considering how much coin Charlotte would often fish from her corset after a day’s work, maybe she was the predator. You had learned a lot from her in your short time at The Diamondback. 

After a moment of consideration, you turned to face the bar. The barkeep, Crowley, had his eyes fixed on the trio. With a tut, he returned to cleaning the glasses lined along the bar. You were barely able to hear his low voice over the piano. “I swear that girl ain’t got no fear.”

“I guess that’s what comes from workin’ in a job like this long enough.” You replied simply, abandoning your fan on the bar as you snatched up one of the clean glasses. 

“I swear I seen them boys' faces on a poster up north in Rustler’s Grove.” Crowley muttered, eyeing you disapprovingly as you slid the glass in his direction. “You drinkin’ this early already?”

“Be a gentleman, won’t you?” You replied with a beam, elbows propped onto the bar. “Whiskey. The stuff from the back, not that watered-down shit for the guests.” 

“Sure thing, sweetheart.” Crowley grumbled, abandoning his post to rummage around for your request. You took the brief moment to cast a glance back across the room. 

Charlotte was now perched on one of the men’s laps; he had a darker complexion, and curls of dark hair were escaping from under his hat. You noted how one of his hands gripped Charlotte’s upper thigh, squeezing the exposed flesh. Her hand explored his chest as he whispered in her ear. Across the table, his two companions seemed deep in a hushed conversation, completely oblivious to the table of men eyeing them suspiciously nearby. 

You ripped your eyes away, instead putting your focus on your hands, which you had clasped tightly together. You never wanted this life; you assumed no whore truly wanted this life. Instead, you all stumbled into it one way or another. A broken family, a dead husband, a lost soul – each of you had a story that led you down this path. All you could do was put on a smile and tell yourself that you liked it, pretending that you had some kind of freedom or power over your situation. 

Your eyes fluttered upwards, watching Crowley through your lashes as he returned and poured the liquor into the glass. “You’re thinking too much again; all you’re gonna end up in is a whole world of pain.”

You considered his words, turning them over in your mind before speaking. “That’s what the drinks for.” You hummed with a weak smile. “No thinking if the whiskey drowns it all out.”

Crowley offered you a hollow smile, more of a grimace, as his weathered skin pulled tightly at the corners. “Damn right.” 

You shot the whiskey back in one swallow, with a moment of silence following as you allowed yourself to feel the burn in your chest. It was a familiar sensation, one you had relied heavily on to get through the past two months. 

“Whiskey this early? A woman after my own heart.” A deep, husky voice spoke from beside you. Trouble. There he stood. It seemed one of the trio had escaped Charlotte’s clutches; if it had been to talk to you or simply drink at the bar, you could not know. You couldn't help but notice the intensity of his gaze as it bore into you. He was taller than the other two and broader, with large shoulders and a chest that seemed to fill out his shirt in all the right places.

Your eyes quickly swept back across the room, seeing Charlotte still occupied. A few of the other girls circled nearby like vultures, searching for the coin they knew was just under their nose. 

“Buy me another one, then we can talk.” You replied easily, plastering on a sickly-sweet smile. You wondered if he saw through it and whether he knew how much you hated yourself. You knew it was foolish to think so.

The man silently motioned two fingers at Crowley, and your glass was quickly refilled. You swirled the amber liquid, eyeing the man as he examined you in return. He seemed to live a rough lifestyle, with skin weathered from the sun, sand and dirt clinging to flesh and clothes alike. His knuckles were bruised and swollen, and there was a scar above his left eyebrow. Strings of brunet hair poked out from beneath his hat, paired with piercing blue eyes that seemed to penetrate your soul. The muscles in his chiseled jawline flexed as he swallowed back the liquor with a stoic look. Your tongue ran over your bottom lip as you watched his adam’s apple bob. He had a rough, handsome charm to him, despite everything telling you to run. It always seemed to be that way with troublemakers. 

“How’d a girl like you end up in a place like this?” He hummed, placing his glass back on the bar. You smile at him from behind your own glass, keeping eye contact as you finish the liquor with ease. Whiskey made you comfortable, and whiskey made you fun. Most of all, it made you forget. 

“How do you think most girls end up in this place, hm?” You reply boldly, watching as Charlotte ascends the stairs with her new client in tow. “Sad stories, bad stories. Every whore has a sob story; do ya really want to hear a sob story?”

“You’re new here; ‘least you weren’t around when I was last in these parts,” he chuckled in response. Another round of liquor was poured into your glass with a quick flick of the man's callused fingers. 

“New…” You hum, your fingers tracing along the sticky, dark wood of the bar. The man’s attention was fixed on your every movement. “How new do you consider... new?”  

“I was ‘round here about a year ago now.” His gravelly voice replied, and another shot of liquor was swallowed. Your eyes briefly danced back across the room, a table of patrons shouting over a game of poker stirring your attention. The man next to you didn’t even flinch as a glass was shattered and chairs screeched as they tumbled to the ground. 

“I guess I am new.” You finally spoke, sending another perfectly empty smile in his direction. He ran his tongue over his teeth with a chuckle. “What’s your name?” You ask.

“James. But most people just call me Bucky.”

“Bucky.” You hum in thought, drinking yet another shot of the amber liquor. 

“You wanna head upstairs, sweetheart?” He asks, watching as Crowley abandons his post behind the bar to clear out the poker table, the group having resorted to whipping out their guns. You ignore the chaos, shrugging with a simple smile.

“Sure thing, cowboy.” You say as you hook your arm around the back of the bar, stealing the bottle of whiskey while Crowley was distracted. Bucky followed your movements with a grin, following you up the stairs wordlessly. 

—

Finding an empty room was easy; most of the girls had unspokenly claimed a room they reused throughout the day. The rooms in the Diamondback were modest, as expected for a small town. A double bed with fresh sheets, a chair next to an unused fireplace, and a dresser near the door with a bowl and pitcher of water placed atop it. 

Your back was turned to Bucky, and you could hear the creak of the bed as he sat down. You dared to look up through your lashes, meeting his eye through the mirror that sat atop the dresser. Bottle of whiskey forgotten, you turn to face the rugged man. You can't help but feel a little weak in the knees under his intense gaze. A hand runs over his stubbled chin briefly before removing the worn leather hat from his head. His hair, a rich, dark brown, emerges from beneath, his hand running through the messy strands.

You step forward, carefully taking the hat from his large hands. The remnants of sand and dirt prickle your fingers as you brush the pads over the fabric. You had come to learn how much the men who frequented the Diamondback valued their hats; there was an unspoken lore or story attached to each one. With his hat delicately placed on the bedside table, you return to Bucky’s side. 

With the whiskey doing its work, you smooth your hands over the dark fabric of his shirt. Your hands looked so small, delicate, and clean next to him. You found him handsome; if you were younger, you probably would’ve been intrigued or charmed by his looks as well. You knew to avoid trouble like him, but under different circumstances, at a different time?

The thoughts bubble in your mind as you seat yourself close next to him, breath fanning across his skin as you lean in. Your movements are slow and deliberate. You test his response with a quick peck of your soft lips against his before quickly closing the distance. He was so rough in comparison to you; his body was sturdy as a rock. His lips were chapped from days spent in the sun, and his stubble was coarse against your smooth skin. 

His hands gripped your waist tightly, pulling you closer as you licked into his mouth. A breathless chuckle rumbled in his chest, his lips hungrily consuming yours. Your hands explored lower, feeling the defined muscles beneath the dark fabric. Your hands wrapped around his suspenders and guided them over his broad shoulders. 

Bucky pulled away, his mouth instead traveling towards your neck. You tilted your head, feeling his hot breath across your skin. Squirming in his hold, your eyes fluttered shut as his lips met your ear.

“As much as I appreciate it, sweetheart, I’m just lookin’ to chat.” He breathed. You were so concentrated on his hot breath and his squeezing hands that you could not understand what he had said. You opened your eyes, heavy lidded as you gazed at him in confusion. 

“To chat?” You question, your faces still pulled closely together. 

“Maybe I do wanna hear your sob story, darlin’.” He hummed through a smirk. You felt heat rise in your cheeks, embarrassment flooding your system as you realized he was laughing at you. With one strong push, you wrenched yourself from his grasp with a huff.

“Don’t waste my time.” You hiss at him with a scowl, shooting to your feet. 

“I’ll pay you for your time; don’t worry. I ain’t lookin’ to put you out of business.” Bucky defended himself, raising his hands in the air as if in surrender. You hesitate near the dresser.

“You want to pay to talk to me?” You question him, your skepticism clear in your tone. There were always men trying to get out of paying what they fucked; you’d seen all the different types of scams. Some would run, some would get violent, and some would promise to ‘save’ the girl from this place. You could imagine trouble like Bucky running that type of scheme, saying it was just a chat to get out of payment. 

“I ain’t got many other people to talk to; why not a pretty lady?” He hummed, leaning back onto his muscled arms to view you properly. 

“If you’re messin’ with me–” You began to grumble.

“I ain’t, darling. Just wanna talk.” 

You stared at him for a beat, weighing your choices. Go downstairs and let another grubby man get his hands on you, or stay up here and chat with a handsome troublemaker who may or may not pay you. With a sharp exhale, you retrieve the bottle of whiskey and take a swig from it. “Fine. Alright then.”

Bucky watched your actions with an amused expression, his body language cool and collected against your outward annoyance. He reached over to his leather coat, which he had abandoned next to him on the bed, retrieving a box of cigarettes and matches. 

“You have a real sad look to you.” He commented as he placed a cigarette between his lips. “Standing down by that bar like you don’t wanna be here, I bet it attracts a certain type.”

“What do you mean?” You question him as he strikes the match, taking a long drag once the cigarette is lit. 

“The type of men you attract,” he begins to explain. “Type’a of men who want a girl who don’t want it. Cruel bastards, you know.”

You pause at his words, recounting all of the men you had serviced. Charlotte usually attracted the young ones, the boys who wanted a story to brag about to their friends. The men you attracted were older and quiet. They came to you, drawn in by your melancholy. The whiskey burned your chest as you took yet another swig. Memories best left buried. “And are you a cruel man?” 

“No, well, some might say, but not in that way. I ain’t a mean bastard with a fantasy of being with a girl who don’t want it.” 

“What type of man are you?” Your voice is low, a sense of unease crawls under your skin at his words. 

“What do you think?” He asks, his body growing still. Predator and prey. A part of you enjoyed the thrill of watching him assess your every move. Another part of you was terrified, screaming that you knew trouble and should know better than to get tangled up in it. 

“A dangerous one. An outlaw.” When you say those things, you mentally brace yourself for him to take offense and respond badly. Instead, to your surprise, he chuckles, eyebrows raising in delight as if you had hit the bullseye. 

A gleam tugs at his lips, the chuckle catching in his chest as he takes another drag. “An outlaw, eh? What do you know about outlaws?”

“I know the type.”

“Hah. I suppose you do, workin’ in a place like this.” He comments, hands gesturing to the room around you, the cheap linen and scratched wooden floors. Somewhere down the hall, you could hear Charlotte putting on one of her shows, the paper-thin walls barely covering the moans. “Places like this breed evil; I suppose that’s why I frequent them so often.”

Your back met the dresser as Bucky stood, his frame towering above you even from a few steps away. It only took a couple strides for him to be in front of you, plucking the cigarette from his lips as he took the whiskey from your hand. Smoke engulfed your senses, and the sense of danger grew with his closeness. 

Whoring was a risky line of work; like he said, saloons often bred evil. You weren’t a stranger to a man who got too aggressive, leaving bruises and blood in his wake. Bucky didn’t seem angry; he seemed amused by you, if anything. But you had to remind yourself that he was an outlaw, and most outlaws weren’t strangers to bloodshed. 

“Are you… Are you gonna hurt me?” You asked, your voice weak as you pressed yourself harder into the dresser. He gave you a look and coughed a little, as if bothered by your assumption, as he downed the whiskey. 

“What? No. I just wanna talk. I might be a bad man, but I ain’t the type to hurt a defenseless girl.” 

You visibility deflated as he backed off a few paces, placing the whiskey next to his hat as he ran a hand through his hair with a tense expression. You exhaled a sharp breath, watching the conflict cross his face. Maybe he didn’t mean to scare you; maybe he just needed someone to talk to. You’d heard of big, bad men who couldn’t be vulnerable to anyone. They were so afraid of betrayal that they ended up isolated in a room full of people. 

You could imagine Bucky like that; you almost felt sorry for the handsome man. He just wanted to talk; that couldn’t hurt, right? Your skirts swept across the creaky wood floors as you strode beside him, seating yourself between him and the bottle of whiskey. His azure eyes assessed you with a look of mild surprise.

“What… What do you want to talk about?” You finally cut into the silence. 

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? How you ended up in a place like this?” He questioned, taking a seat beside you. Your thighs bumped together through the fabric, yet you didn’t lean away. “I always see girls like you in these places – gentle women who fell off at some point. Most of the time, it ain’t even their fault. I guess that’s what happened to you, sweetheart.”

You contemplate his words, plucking the still-smoking cigarette from his lips. He doesn’t protest as you inhale the smoke, tilting your head in thought. “It ain’t a happy story.” You confess.

“Don’t need to be. Sometimes I just need a reminder that whatever god is watching over us is just as cruel as us men can be.” His arms brushed yours as he leant over, retrieving the whiskey from beside you. Careful not to exhale smoke directly in his face, you turn your head to watch out the window as you wonder where to start. The sky was so blue outside, just as blue as Bucky’s eyes. It was alluring in a deceptive way; the summer heat beat down on Silverton relentlessly. Sometimes you were glad to work inside instead of out in that brutality. 

“My momma died when I was young. Cholera.” You begin, “Broke my daddy’s heart. He was a doctor, good one before momma died. I guess not being able to save her broke him. He fell into drink, gamblin', and whorin’. Barely made his appointments, so I had to help him run the office, cleanin’ up and sometimes stitchin’ up the fools that came in when he was too drunk to do it himself. Eventually he couldn’t afford to feed me no more; he could barely care for himself, let alone a child.” You pause to extinguish the last of the cigarette on the bedside table, the scorch mark joining a collection of older ones. Ghosts and memories of the place you sat in.

“So, my daddy, he sent me away to live with my uncle and aunt. They had a homestead not too far from here; my uncle and cousin were ranchers and moved cattle mostly. I liked it out there in the open; I would go ridin’ and watch the sun rise and set. My aunt would worry I would get robbed or worse, ridin’ alone out there. I was still a girl, really. I didn’t care nor really know how evil this place could be.” Bucky hummed in acknowledgement as you spoke, fingers brushing off some ash that had fallen onto your skirt. 

“I would help out on the ranch too; I liked that work. It felt like real work. Good, rewarding work. I liked the animals, playing with the dogs and ridin’ the horses to move the cattle.” Your gaze pulled away from the window, instead turning your head to watch as Bucky took another long drink from the whiskey.

“Then, my uncle died. Gored by his own bull one morning, I tried to save him, but he lost too much blood. It was all so sudden, weren’t nothing we could do. My aunt, she couldn’t bear to live there no more, decided to sell the place. She said she couldn’t take me wherever she was going with my cousin. They were using the money to buy a new ranch back east and couldn’t afford to keep me on no more. She said to write to my daddy and continue working as his assistant until I found a man to marry.” 

“What happened to your pa?” Bucky asked, the liquid sloshing in the bottle as he swirled it in his hands. You took a moment to shamelessly stare at the way the veins bulge over the muscles and tendons. 

“Don’t know.” You finally admit with a sigh. “Never replied to my letter. Either didn’t want me back or is buried somewhere and no one thought to tell me. So I went to the nearest town to find a job; ain’t no one want to hire a woman ‘cept for in this place. I decided whorin’ was better than starvin’.”

“Real shame. I bet a sweet girl like you could’ve made it in one of those cities back east. Married some big shot, lived life comfortably in one of those fancy city manors.” Bucky hummed. You knew the type of places he was talking about – massive manors filled with staff and shiny, expensive things. Hell, you could imagine Bucky having robbed a place like that while the inhabitants were out at social evenings with the rest of the upper class. 

“Maybe. I don’t think I could ever live in a city.” You confess with a shrug. “I like the open air, the emptiness of it all. I don’t get to see it much in this place, but I remember what it was like when I used to go ridin’ all those years ago.”

Bucky’s eyes trailed across your face. “I understand what you mean. I don’t stay in places long, get cold feet. I live in the open; I like traveling without being stuck in one spot.” 

“How did you end up livin’ the way you do?” You ask hesitantly, watching his thoughtful expression flicker into a more somber one. 

“It ain’t much of a clear story like yours. Absent pa, my momma had it rough raising us kids by herself. I got caught up in bad business, thievin’, killin’ and such. Once I got into it, I didn’t know how to get out. I made friends with similar stories; we all wanted to stay doing what we do so we could look out for each other. All of us just wanna stay out in that open; just keep headin’ west, knowin’ we’ll be buried in a place civilization has yet to meet.” His words were brief, and it was obvious to you that he had more of a connection to the outlaws he surrounded himself with than he did with his own blood. 

“Don’t you ever want to settle down some day?” You ask.

“Nah. Once you got the west in your bones, you’re lost to that life.”

You consider his words in silence, drowning out the sounds of other girls working in the surrounding rooms. You understood what he meant; it felt like you hadn’t left those open plains since you first discovered them. You missed riding without a care, the wind tangling your hair as you navigated the emptiness of it all. 

“Well. When you’re out there ridin’ in the empty, you’ll think of me? Some sad saloon girl who just wanted to ride out in the open?” You ask, eyes dipping behind your lashes as Bucky flashes you a genuine smile. 

“‘Course, sweetheart.”

—

Bucky and his friends hung around longer than both you and the other girls expected. Men like them usually only hung around for a few days or less. From Crowley’s muttering, it seemed the law didn’t show interest in them. Either that or the boys were keeping their heads down. 

Most mornings Bucky would come visit you, his two friends switching between drinking and sampling the other girls. Bucky’s eyes never seemed to stray from you, always finding you at the bar with a ‘hey sweetheart’ muttered with the scent of whiskey and leather. You started to enjoy his company, the stories and thoughts the both of you shared. 

Every time he visited, he would pay, neatly stacking the coins on the dresser. He always gave double your rate, a rugged smirk and wink sent your way as he slipped out the door. You found yourself waiting and looking for him each day, lingering near the bar until he and his friends sauntered in. 

Today was no different than any of your other meetings. Half a bottle of whiskey down, the two of you were talking about thoughts and worries you’d never thought to voice. The summer heat was worse than usual, and the saloon was crowded with working men slick with sweat and tempers to match the scorch outside. 

You sat now perched on the windowsill; the window cracked open despite the lack of wind. With your skirts and petticoat bunched up to your thighs to fight the heat, you dangled your legs through the air nonchalantly. A cigarette hanging from your lips as you carelessly stared out at the stretch of blue skies beyond. Bucky had carefully placed his hat on the dresser; his coat peeled off as he watched you from across the room. 

“Do you know what time the law go on their lunch break?” Bucky asked into the silence. Often, when a lull presented itself, the outlaw would break the quiet by questioning you about your clients or the townspeople of Sliverton.

“One o’clock, sometimes two if they’re dealin’ with trouble.” You respond easily, exhaling smoke out the window. It took you a beat to think about his question, your eyebrows drawing together. “Why?” You question.

It was an obvious conclusion to be suspicious: why was an outlaw asking about the law’s schedule? You’d noticed how Bucky’s interest often peaked at the mention of the law, the bank tellers, and sometimes even the gunsmith. You had mentioned how the manager of the bank was a cruel man, often leaving the girls with bruises. The group of you would draw lots when he came in, that or hope he would get too drunk to perform. 

As for the law, they often mixed business with pleasure. During their lunch break, they would often call down the girls to the sheriff’s office to work while they drank over a game of poker. You had been invited a couple times and mentioned it to Bucky off-hand a few days ago. 

“I heard some rumors about a bounty in this area, wanted to stop by when they weren’t… busy.” Bucky replied, a small amount of guilt growing in your chest at your unspoken accusation. The two of you had been open with each other these past weeks. 

“A bounty?” You question. “What are you doing gettin’ involved in that business?” You look over at him. The outlaw chuckles under his breath, his callused hand sweeping through his hair as he leans back further in his seat. 

“Takes an outlaw to catch an outlaw sometimes, sweetheart.” 

You chew on his words for a moment, shrugging with acceptance after not much thought. You could see what he meant; only outlaws were generally cocky enough to risk their lives for coin. That, and they would probably know where another might hide, having lived in their shoes. 

“You do that work often?” 

“Sometimes,” he hums in reply. “Only when we’re tight for coin.”

You swing your feet down to the wooden floors, your bare skin sticky against the warm wood. Once more, heat envelops your figure as your skirts descend to your shins. Bucky watches with interest as you put out your cigarette, stalking towards where he sits. 

“If you’re short, why are you out here spendin’ double on me?” You ask softly, pausing in front of him. His eyes dart upwards, examining your face with a gentle look.

“Sometimes you gotta make sacrifices for a pretty lady.”

You feel your cheeks flush at his words. Normally compliments made your skin crawl and your mouth turn sour, but Bucky had grown on you. Your hand moves towards him before you can think, resting gently on his shoulder. 

“I might regret sayin’ this but… I ain’t worried about the money. I do like our chats for other reasons than the coin.” You stumble over your words, a smug smirk growing on Bucky’s face. 

“Now, sweetheart, I don’t wanna be putin’ ya out of business talking to a fool like me–” Bucky doesn’t get to finish his words, much to your disappointment. Instead, you jerk back in surprise as the door is thrown open. 

In the doorway stands one of Bucky’s friends; you recognized him from his time in the saloon. His face was pink from the heat, and messy blond hair poked out from under his hat. A boyish grin spread across his cracked lips. You noted how large his stature was, nearly taking up the entire door frame. His chest must have been muscled beneath his dirt-stained shirt, his forearms bulging where the fabric had been pulled back to his elbows to combat the heat. 

“I see why you spend so much time here, Buck. She’s a pretty little thing, ain’t she?” Steve comments. You swallow thickly, glancing at Bucky, who sighs through his nose in annoyance. Any tenderness has left his expression, replaced with cold annoyance. 

“This is Steve.” The outlaw explains to you, getting to his feet. “What is it?” 

You recognized that name; Bucky had mentioned Steve over the past weeks. Steve had been one of his childhood friends who had followed him down the path of an outlaw. Bucky had told you how the two would pickpocket so they would have enough to eat. They had robbed and shot their way west; they fucked their way too, apparently. Bucky had mentioned how the two of them enjoyed their ladies, sometimes taking them at the same time in the same room. 

You couldn’t help but let your mind linger on that thought as you studied the blond man. His eyes were looking you up and down eagerly, lingering on your pronounced breasts due to your corset.

“Sam… er, Sam needs to talk.” Steve finally responds, hesitant and careful with his words, as if he didn’t want you to know the true meaning behind his interruption. As you look back over at Bucky, who has crossed over to the dresser, he nods at Steve in silent understanding. 

You bite your tongue as the two outlaws share an unspoken conversation, Bucky returning his precious hat to his head. As usual, you watch as he stacks double your rate on the end of the dresser, a secret, cocky smirk sent in your direction as he slips into the hallway.

“Why is he payin’ you that much? You got gold between your legs or somethin’?” Steve questions, having glanced at the pile left behind. You simply huff at him, slamming the door shut in his face. Through the door, you can hear him bellow out a laugh. 

—

It was a lazy Thursday afternoon when the first shots were heard. Silverton was not unfamiliar with a bit of violence; the occasional exchange of bullets was easy to grow accustomed to. That Thursday was no different, you’d thought, that was until the bullets grew more frequent. Shots rang through the town, sending people scattering into nearby buildings or braving the streets with revolvers in hand. 

That increase in sound blasting through the swelteringly hot afternoon was what made you pause. You were upstairs fixing your updo after a client. Placing the last pin between your strands, you moved to walk cautiously into the hallway. Glancing over the staircase railing, you look into the main bar area. Silence had fallen over the saloon, with chairs and tables empty as if the last patrons had fled. 

Your eyes land on Charlotte, who stood next to the bar, exchanging a worried conversation with Crowley. Quickly, you glance back down the hallway, noting the girls and guests who peeked their heads from their rooms in similar morbid curiosity. 

It felt wrong to linger upstairs listening to the massacre below; instead, you found yourself opting to join Charlotte and Crowley. As you descend the stairs, carefully lifting your skirts so as not to trip on them, Charlotte peaks up at you. 

“Somebody’s robbin’ the bank.” She quickly explains, catching your nervous expression. A bit of relief floods your veins. As loud and violent as that could be, the robbers weren’t likely to hang around for a drink. 

“Sounds like a slaughter out there.” You grumble in reply, finding your usual spot by the bar. Crowley looked mostly unphased, shining his glasses with a faint shake of his head. “You think they’re gonna get away with it?”

“Old man Billy ran by and said they ambushed the sheriff's office before they headed to the bank.” Crowley cuts in, placing the now-clean glass down. “Guessin’ there's still a few of them alive if they’re still shootin’. Pretty smart of them robbers to get them while they were on lunch break.”

A pit of dread grows in your stomach, your eyes glancing to the clock above the bar. Quarter past one. 

“Were any of our girls down that way?” Charlotte asks with worry, but your focus was instead turned to the dusty road outside. You hoped, if not prayed, that if you caught a glimpse of those robbers, it would not be Bucky and his friends. You couldn’t help but feel a crawling guilt, the possibility that maybe you had been duped into giving an outlaw information. You could not handle the deaths of so many on your shoulders. You knew if your careless words had caused it, it would be squarely your fault. 

“No, thank God. Law sent word they didn’t want girls today. Maybe they knew somethin’ was up.” Crowley replies, but you are hardly present in the conversation, instead shifting closer towards the window. You knew it was dangerous, but the pit of worry and guilt was growing in your stomach; you just needed confirmation.

Charlotte let out a sudden and piercing scream as one of the saloon’s windows shattered, a stray bullet richoeing and landing in one of the tables with a thud. “Get away from the windows!” she shrieks at you. 

Only as your brain recognizes the danger do you move away, rigidly walking to Charlotte’s side once more. The woman grabs at your arm, beginning to tug you behind the bar as you cast one last glance out the windows. 

Nausea crawls in your stomach, and bile rises in your throat as Charlotte tugs you to the floor behind the bar. Amongst the gunshots and dead bodies, you saw the group of masked figures emerge from the bank onto the streets. Just a brief moment, a glance, and your world was left spiraling as your breathing grew faster and ragged. Any other person may have looked at those figures and been oblivious, but you had spent weeks tucked away in the upstairs room with Bucky. You could recognize him even with a mask on, with his muscled form and leather hat. Bucky was out there, standing over dead bodies with a shotgun in hand. And it was all your fault. 

Conversations long past swirl in your mind; how many times had Bucky shifted the topic to be about the law, the bank tellers, or the townsfolk of Silverton? How many times had he tricked you into revealing information that wasn’t supposed to go beyond your ears? So many times clients had confided in you, and you had just passed on the information like it were some inside joke between the two of you. 

Charlotte flinched and trembled beside you as the gunshots and shouting grew louder. You could only stare at the clock above and spiral. Crowley remained in place, cleaning glasses with a cold expression as if he alone could ward off any evil. 

Outside, the voices grew louder and angrier. 

“Well, it ain’t me who shot the doctor!”

“He can’t ride like this!”

“You better be fuckin’ right about this Barnes or we’re all dead!” 

Charlotte's hands dug into your arms, pulling you closer as the wooden planks of the boardwalk outside grew alive with the sound of stomping boots. Crowley’s glass cleaning paused as the saloon doors were slammed open in a hurry. Crowley’s mouth opened, meaning to speak to the men who had just stormed in. No words came out; instead, the spray of blood, chunks of flesh, and skull decorated the surrounding area as a bullet was fired directly into his skull.

Beside you, Charlotte shrieks once more as Crowley's body slumped to the floor with a hollow thud. You clamp your hand over her mouth, shushing her as you pull her closer. Your body is trembling, and bile is still stuck in your throat. You try not to focus on the way that Crowley’s brain matter had sprayed across your skin, dewy drops of crimson like a mist. You could feel the moisture, smell and taste the copper in the air. All you could do was try to keep as quiet as possible as the armed outlaws prowled only feet away. 

The next thing to catch your attention is the sound of groaning and hissing, the unmistakable sound of someone in pain. Chairs and tables screech as if they are being pulled together while bullets still rain outside. You try to blindly piece the scene together in your mind, trying to understand why the outlaws had gathered here with lawmen so closely on their tail.

“They can’t hold them off for long out there. One of the law got away; we reckon he’s headed up Deadwood way to get back up.” A woman's voice shouts over the chaos. 

“Where’s your girl then, Barnes? Better be worth it.” A male voice snaps. Through Charlotte's panting and the gunshots, you can hear the thunder of boots storming up the stairs. 

“Someone get me some fuckin’ whiskey.” The injured man speaks through gritted teeth. Your heart beats wildly in your chest, hoping whoever goes to retrieve the liquor doesn’t spot both you and Charlotte quivering in the corner. You press your back harder against the bar, pulling Charlotte closer into your side as she lays her head across your chest while silent sobs shake her body. 

“Barnes! Hurry up!” The woman shouts up the stairs in annoyance, only to be met with no reply. The gunshots outside began to slow, the law seemed to be losing this shootout. 

Heavy boots fall closer, a large figure rounds the corner of the bar. To your horror, he spots the two of you immediately, and even worse, it’s Steve. You recognize him quickly, with his sunburnt cheeks and blond hair and a mask still tied around his neck. His expression was one of relief but also of worry. When you last saw him, he was all smirks and flirting. You imagined it was probably a sight to see both you and Charlotte trembling behind the bar, covered in the contents of Crowley’s skull. 

“She’s here, Buck.” Steve called out, your blood turning to ice. 

A few days ago, you wouldn’t have been afraid of Steve or Bucky. Foolish, you now realize. It was foolish to get so close to danger and not feel her power. You didn’t know what these outlaws wanted from you, but you weren’t going to give it easily.

Steve stepped over Crowley’s body, and you shake your head. Beside you, Charlotte began to sob loudly, her nails digging into your skin. Between her panicked breathing, you could’ve sworn she was chanting, ‘Please God, I don’t want to die.’ under her breath. The woman you had once known was gone, in complete submission to fear. No more coy smiles and soft touches; no more fearlessness in the face of dangerous men. Charlotte was terrified, and so were you. 

“Don’t touch me.” You warn Steve, but he ignores your request. His large hands wrap around Charlotte’s waist, tugging her away. She let out a terrified scream, grabbing and scratching at your arms in an attempt to hold on. Steve’s arms proved stronger, finally wrenching Charlotte away and ushering her away. 

Steve’s attention now turned to you, a gruff sigh leaving his nose as he noticed your defiant look. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be, pretty girl.” 

You shove his hands away, the two of you briefly struggling before Steve finally finds a grip around your waist and hoists you to your feet. 

“I said don’t fuckin’ touch me!” You shout at the blond, shoving and hitting at his chest. He grumbles in annoyance, trying to grasp your arms to stop the movement. Behind you, Charlotte is making a noise somewhere behind a sob and a scream as one of the unfamiliar men drags her out from behind the bar. 

You back away further from Steve, still shoving and pushing him away. Only when your back meets something warm and solid does he stop his advance. Spinning around, you stand face-to-face with Bucky. His scent is the same: leather, but this time with a dash of gunpowder. Small blood splatters decorate his skin and clothing. As he grasps your wrists to stop your struggle, you unconsciously note how his knuckles are bruised and split. 

“No...” is all you manage to utter, Bucky tilting his head with a frown as tears begin to streak down your face. You had been foolish enough to trust him and his rugged, handsome looks. You had blindly answered his questions without a care for the consequences because he had been kind and mysterious. He had told you himself he was an outlaw, a bad man. Now how many lives weighed on you too? Even Crowley’s blood was on your hands, literally and metaphorically. 

Bucky’s hand reached up tenderly to wipe the tears from your cheek, his frown only deepening as you flinched away from his touch. 

“As touchin’ as this is, we don’t have the time for this, Barnes.” The woman’s voice from earlier spoke up. Now that you are standing, you could look over to see her. She had a wicked look, messy red hair, and a cut across her cheek. A rifle slung across her shoulder, a revolver, and a knife at her hip. She assessed you with a look of annoyance, a scowl painted across her sharp lips. 

With an annoyed grunt, Bucky obliged the woman’s request. His hand wrapped around your wrist as he tugged you back onto the main floor. You tried to ignore the hole in Crowley’s face as you were forced to step over his body, your shoes slipping in the pool of slick blood gathering on the wood floors. 

“What do you want? You comin’ in here to kill us all too?” You ask, your voice raspy from the tears. Charlotte lingered near the staircase, still sobbing, as a younger man growled in annoyance at the sound. 

“You think I’m here to kill you after everythin’, sweetheart? No. I need your help with somethin’.” Bucky questions, sounding a bit dismayed at your sudden fear. You swallow hard, trying to contain the tears that continue to freely stream down your face. 

“Crowley is dead.”

“Yeah, well, that was unfortunate.” He grumbles, displeased. 

“You’re a bastard, you know that?” You snap at him.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I need ya to stitch up my friend here.” Bucky shrugs off your insult, instead tilting his head in the direction of a bloody sight. Your body shakes with each step, and you feel as if you are only held upright by Bucky’s firm grip, guiding you to a set of tables that have been pulled together. On top lies a man, older and with greasy black hair. Blood stains his shirt, and there is an obvious bullet wound in his lower abdomen. Sweat beads line his brow, his eyebrows drawn together as he battles the pain. You stare at him speechless, watching as Steve returns from behind the bar with a bottle of whiskey. 

“Here ya are, Stark.” The blond mutters, shaking his head, as the injured man eagerly chugs the liquor down. For the pain, you think. He’s drinking it for the pain. You try to attach yourself to thoughts and knowledge you recognize, distracting the noise in your brain in the hopes that your hands and legs will stop trembling. You can barely think, and Bucky wants you to stitch him up?

Charlotte’s wailing doesn’t help your case, nor does it seem to quell the tempers rising in the room. Stark speaks up between gulps of whiskey. “Someone, for the love of God, stop her wailing or shoot the damn woman!” 

The younger, twitchy man makes a loud noise of agreement, revolver in hand, as he points it directly at Charlotte’s forehead. Charlotte’s sobbing becomes uncontrollable, curling in on herself as she wraps her arms around her middle in defense. Your breath comes short, and your shaking hands grip Bucky’s bicep for comfort as you watch in horror.

“Her daddy was shot–” You suddenly blurt out, capturing the attention of the younger man. “He was shot in front of her; this type’a stuff upsets her. You understand?” Your tone was desperate, near begging. You don’t know why you said it, but you hoped maybe the man would have sympathy for her. Charlotte had confided in you about nightmares once; you didn’t know who else knew about the darkness in her life. The young man stares at you for a moment, his hand running over the non-existent stubble with an irritated sigh. 

“You women are so fragile.” He mutters, raising the gun and striking the metal across Charlotte’s face. You gasp involuntarily, ducking your head so your cheek is pressed against Bucky’s chest. Charlotte’s wailing finally comes to a stop; instead, she only sniffles quietly as she holds a hand to her face in shock. 

“Leave it, Parker.” Steve growls, prowling across the room, placing himself between Parker and Charlotte. Parker throws his hands up in surrender, instead stalking across the room to where some of the other nameless outlaws had gathered to keep watch. 

Stark growls in annoyance from the tables once more, the mixture of pain and whiskey elevating his rage. “Trust pretty boy Rogers to be a fuckin’ gentleman. I’ll shoot the bitch myself even with this bullet in me.”

“Barnes.” The red-headed woman warns, sensing the rising tension and passing time.

“What do you need to stitch him up?” Bucky pressed with questions more urgently; it was clear time was running out and stalling would end in bloodshed. 

“I can’t–” You mutter over your panicked breathing. 

“Your pa was a doctor.” Bucky interrupts. “You told me yourself that you used to stitch fools up when he was too drunk to do it himself.”

“It’s been years–”

“What do you need?” Bucky’s voice was more firm, demanding even. You note how the other outlaws lingered nearby, twitchy and ready to pull the trigger at any moment. If you continued to stall, you would surely die. So would Charlotte. You would just have to stitch Stark up as quickly as possible, and then danger would finally leave your home. 

“Clean water, cloth, and a sewing kit too.” You gasp out. “They’re upstairs in my room; the sewing kit is in the dresser.”

“Good girl.” Mumbles to you lowly, your stomach twisting as the gravelly sound. Bucky’s gaze raises to meet Steve, who quickly bounds up the stairs to retrieve the objects. 

“Must be the end of times if we’re trustin’ a whore to stitch me up.” Stark grumbles from below, you sigh heavily through your nose, trying to calm your shaking hands. Beside you, Bucky tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, as if trying to comfort you. Somehow, it gives you the courage to breathe again.

“You’re gonna want to lay off that whiskey.” You instruct Stark with a small sniff, fishing the bottle from his grip and wiping your tear-stained face. “You don’t wanna be chuckin’ that back up with a bullet in your gut, trust me.” 

Stark barks out a pained, drunken laugh in response. “Alright, little lady.” His eyes swept over to Bucky. “She always this commandin’? This why you like her in bed, Barnes?” 

Bucky lets out a sound resembling a snarl, but Steve's arrival bearing the requested items muffles any retaliation. You willed your hands to stay steady as you approached Stark, who was still writhing in pain on the table. Your father had called it ‘the calm’ or even ‘God's will’ when a doctor could quieten his worries to have a steady hand while stitching. You’d never believed in his spoutings until that moment, burying the anxiety of the situation as you instead focused your attention on the injury before you. 

With the bloodied shirt pulled up, you turned him slightly to inspect his back. No exit wound. A sharp sigh left your nose as you realized you’d have to dig around and find the bullet yourself and pray it hadn’t burst into more than one piece. Wetting some of the clean cloth, you use it to wipe away the blood from the skin, giving yourself a better view of the entry. Stark tenses and squirms involuntarily beneath your touch, hissing through clenched teeth. 

Your eyes flicker upward toward Bucky and Steve, catching their attention. “I need help holdin’ him down; he’s not gonna stay still even if he wants to.”

Stark seems irritated by your assumptions but keeps his mouth shut. The men are quick to assist you, with two men holding down his legs while Bucky and Steve take his arms and chest. You keep your eyes downcast as you easily unlatch Stark’s belt. 

“Bite.” You guide the injured man, placing the leather belt between his teeth. You’d heard stories of men biting through their own tongues, even shattering their teeth in the height of pain. Best not to take the risk. 

You take the bottle of whiskey, splashing the liquor over your hands before pausing before the wound. You glance over at Stark’s face; there is a look of determination in his eye as he nods for you to proceed. 

Stark’s body reacts instantly to the liquor, jerking against the hands that held him in place. His groans and screams are muffled through the belt as he bites down, his face growing red. Your hands are steady, and your fingers are nimble and quick as you blindly dig through the wound. Muscle constricts around your fingers, hot and sticky against your skin. 

Your heartbeat is in your ears as you search, drowning out the muffled screaming and the puffing of the men as they use all their might to restrain Stark’s squirming and jolts. Your fingers dig deeper, and a small worry grows in your gut that maybe you might not be able to locate the bullet. Blood spills from the wound, slippery copper sliding down his side and splashing onto the tables below. Your heart is in your mouth, the screams growing worse–

Your finger brushes something solid and hard; the object is slippery and small in comparison to the muscle and organ. It takes a few tries to grasp it between your fingers, with the sleek metal proving difficult to grip. 

A sharp sigh of relief leaves your body as you successfully fish it from the wound, the metal clattering to the table. Thankfully, you note that the bullet is also whole. Blood paints your skin; all you can do is wash it away with the water while Stark pants in relief. 

“How much longer?” The redhead woman asks; she has moved to linger near the doors. Outside, a few men hover with guns, as if expecting more law to turn up at any moment. 

“It is small; it won’t take long to stitch.” You explain, your hands remaining steady as you begin to thread one of the larger needles. 

The woman nods. “Make it quick.”

You follow her demands, quickly dousing the wound once more with whiskey. Stark groans, his head lulling from the mixture of drunkenness and exhaustion. If he were one of your father’s patients, maybe you would’ve comforted him and told him it was nearly over. But you were reminded of Charlotte still sniveling by the stairs, Crowley’s head blown open, and his body still slumped behind the bar. 

Empathy evades you as you dig the needle into his flesh, your mouth set into a line as you easily pull the skin together with each stitch. Stark continues to jerk and shake, his body still held steady by the outlaws who watch your movements with interest. 

Within minutes, you have tied off the thread, successfully putting Stark back together again. The outlaws seem silently relieved, if not surprised, by your efficiency as you wrap one of the clean strips of cloth around his middle like a bandage. 

“He will be able to ride?” Bucky asks as you turn back to the bowl of water, cleaning your bloodied hands. 

“The stitches will hold as long as you don’t ride too hard.” You respond, not quite meeting his eye. “If the wound keeps bleedin’ or starts festerin’ don’t give him whiskey. You can find yarrow and greasewood herbs out in the wild; they’ll help him best.”

The redhead woman makes a sound at your words, swinging around to face you. “What does a whore know about herbs? Your doctor daddy taught you that, or ya tryna poison us?”  

You pause your movements, biting your tongue at her harsh tone. “I read it in a book.” You admit sheepishly. 

The room is silent before Stark surprisingly roars with laughter, clutching his wound as he wheezes with pain at the sudden movement. “A whore that can read? Now that is a treat. What’s next? You can do arithmetic?” 

You ignore his quip, instead drying your hands on the remaining cloth. Your father had made sure you could read, though that was before he spiraled into an early grave. Your cousin had helped you as well, the older boy providing you with stories and adventures to consume. You missed the simplicity of those days, riding the horse and moving the cattle without a care for the real world. 

You were pulled away from your thoughts as Bucky gently touched your arm, seemingly having forgotten your new-found distaste for him. You flinch away from his touch like a skittish animal, sidestepping as you quickly depart his side in favor of Charlotte’s. The woman was still crouched near the staircase, shivering, with a large bruise developing across her cheek and her lip split and bloody. 

You can feel Steve hovering nearby, his expression cold as he watched you usher Charlotte to her feet. You knew his irritation wasn’t with you or Charlotte but rather with Parker, who had struck the woman. 

“Is she going to be–” Steve begins to question as you guide Charlotte up the first few steps. You look back, scowling over your shoulder at the outlaw. 

“Don’t.” You hiss at him, watching as he nods in meek surrender. 

Charlotte is slow to walk; her footsteps are clumsy as she shivers and whimpers in your arms. The redhead woman watches the both of you with an expression of distaste. Below the men gather their wits and guns, Stark teeters in place as he gets to his feet with a cocky expression. His gaze follows the woman's, dark eyes landing on the both of you, lingering a few steps up. 

“Hold on there, little lady!” Stark booms up, his words still slightly slurred from the liquor and exhaustion. Charlotte freezes in place, hands clasped rigidly on your arms. You glance back at Stark, hoping he means to just announce their departure instead of demanding your skills once more. 

“There ain't no doctors out in the wild; what am I supposed to do if this wound splits open? Get one of these fools to stitch it up?” He asks, his mouth curled into a cruel smile. The outlaws shift their weight, as if they are also unsure as to where this is going. 

“Find another town to terrorize?” You suggest tugging Charlotte so she is positioned behind you, hidden from their view. 

“Nah…” Stark drawls, staggering a few steps, a revolver swinging on his finger. “I think… it would be easier if you just came along with us.” 

“What?” Bucky and the redhead woman bark in unison before you can react. Your grip on Charlotte tightens, blocking out the bickering between the outlaws below as you tilt your head to whisper to her. 

“Run.” You mutter, dragging Charlotte up the stairs behind you. You had no plan other than to escape. There was no point in fighting out the front door, instead you would have to risk climbing out one of the upstairs windows–

A shot rings out behind you, and Charlotte's body suddenly becomes a dead weight. You can feel the spray of moisture across the back of your neck, but don’t dare turn to see the sight. 

“Did you really need to do that?” Steve shouts from somewhere below, the sound of unfamiliar, wicked laughter carrying up the stairs. Your heartbeat is so loud you can’t hear anything else, only the distorted voices of the outlaws below. Your mouth tastes like blood as you top the stairs, gripping the railing as you turn to race down the hallway.

A pair of hands grasp around your middle, tugging you backward. A scream, louder and more violent than any of Charlotte's, leaves your throat as you thrash in the grip, scratching and kicking as the chuckling man carries you down the stairs. 

“You sure you want her, Stark? She seems like a handful.” The unfamiliar outlaw carrying you asks. 

“Don’t look so pressed, Barnes. My aim’s good enough not to shoot your girl. You got a real thing for her, haven’t ya?” Parker remarks with a grin. 

Sobs escape you as you struggle in the crushing grip of the outlaw, any sense of your father’s mythical ‘calm’ or ‘Gods will’ leaving your body. Animal instinct takes over; Charlotte was dead. Crowley was dead. In a blind panic, you bite down on the arm of your captor, the man yelping in pain and dropping you instantly. 

Your knees bite with pain as you slam into the hard, wooden floors. After stumbling to your feet, you turn to resume your escape. Your attempt is short-lived, as you are stopped by a familiar body. Leather and gunpowder. You bury your head into his chest, exhaustion and fear taking over as you silently beg Bucky to protect you.

“See! She’s got the spirit. We’ll make an outlaw out of you yet.” Stark remarks with another cruel laugh. “And if your stitching proves useless, you can always prove your worth with what's between your legs.” 

The redhead woman lets out an annoyed grumble at that, and over the cackling of the men, you hear her march out of the saloon to ready the horses. 

“Come on,” Bucky mutters to you, guiding you towards the door. You dig in your feet, nausea rising as you watch the men mount their horses through the windows. 

“I don’t want to.” You sobbed quietly. The brunet outlaw sighs, his movements hesitating as if he were conflicted. 

“I can’t do anything to change Stark’s mind–”

“And when you deem me useless? Are you going to shoot me like Crowley, like… like Charlotte?” Your voice quivers and shakes; your vision blurred from the tears streaming down your face. You had hated this place; you had felt its evilness and oppression. But it was your home; it held your friends. You weren’t ready to leap into the unknown or trust these men who had hurt you. To trust Bucky, who had tricked and betrayed you.

“This is not how this was supposed to go.” Bucky mutters under his breath, then, without asking, scoops you over his shoulder to forcefully carry you from the building. Through sobs, you squirm, his shoulder digging into your stomach as you watch the saloon slowly be ripped away from you with each step. 

“Put me down.” You gasp at him as he finally exits the building. “Bucky– Bucky please just put me down–” 

The outlaw obliges, dumping you on your feet next to a horse. “Get on.” He instructs. 

You shake your head, pushing at his chest. “No.”

“Get on the horse.” He demands once more, guiding you towards the horse’s side. 

You begin to push him away harder, with the other outlaws watching as you sob between hitting and struggling as Bucky tries to persuade you to get on the horse. His patience seems to quickly grow thin, and the watchful eyes of his peers grow equally impatient with hateful sneers. 

His hands move quickly, grasping your wrists and tugging you closer to his chest. You freeze as he lowers his head, his hat brushing your hair as he whispers in your ear. 

“If you don’t get on, these boys are gonna tie you up and drag you behind. We don’t want that, do we now? So what is it, all tied up or sitting pretty, sweetheart?” His gravelly, low voice sends a shudder down your spine, your eyelids fluttering shut briefly. 

“I’ll get on.” You mutter back quietly, pulling back. Bucky nods, pleased, his thumb brushing away the tears on your cheek. 

“Good choice.” 

With a shuddering breath, you grip the horn of the saddle, swinging your legs over to mount the horse. It had been months since you last rode, but the muscle memory remained embedded deep in your mind. Bucky was quick to mount up too, his body sliding in behind you while one of his hands lazily wrapped around your waist, reins in the other. 

The band of outlaws were quick to move once everyone was situated, with fearful townsfolk peering out their windows as the herd moved past in a cloud of dust. You tried to ignore the dead bodies that lined the street, their blood staining the loose dirt. You couldn’t let your brain slip into a dark place, thinking of Crowley and Charlotte still warm in the saloon. A nauseous feeling of dread consumed your being as you noted the blood still splattering up your arms and dress, the rocking motion of the cantering horse beneath you not helping. 

You found yourself leaning back into Bucky, the only sturdy thing nearby. Your head lay back against his shoulder as you looked up at the blue skies above, the heat beating down on your exposed skin. 

The pace only slowed as the outlaws felt they had traveled far enough to evade any lawmen acting as backup. The heat had grown unbearable the further you drew from civilization; these wilds were not the ones you had frequented as a teen. There were no rivers, forests, or grass. There was only dirt, sand, and heat. These were what men meant when they spoke of the west, pure, untamed country. 

Bucky had hardly spoken, leaving you alone in your grief and sickness. He held you steady as you silently cried. Even when you could cry no more and your eyes rolled back from the heat, he continued to hold you steady, ensuring his horse kept an even gait. 

The silence was finally broken as Steve slowed his horse, falling in step with the two of you at the back of the party. 

“She ain’t looking too great, Buck.” The blond commented, leaning in his saddle to inspect you closer. You shied away from his eyes, pressing closer to Bucky. 

“It’s the heat.” Bucky murmured in response, his gaze fixed ahead. The redhead woman had slowed her own horse, glancing back at the interaction with interest. 

“Here.” Steve says, retrieving a waterskin from the pack on his saddle. Unscrewing the top, he passes it to Bucky, who in turn offers it to you. You groan, pushing the offer away. At that moment, you’d have rather become one with the bleached bones of the desert. 

Bucky huffs sharply, lifting the waterskin to your lips. 

“Drink,” he commands. “You lost too much energy crying and wailing back there.”

As soon as the earthy, warm water graces your lips, a survival instinct kicks in, and you greedily take a few gulps before finding the strength to push the waterskin away. Bucky seems happy enough with the amount you have taken, passing it back to Steve. 

The blond man shakes his head while screwing the top back on. “I don’t know what Stark was thinkin’ Buck; I don’t think she’s gonna make it out here.” 

Bucky seems to sigh at that, giving Steve a sidelong look. “She’ll be fine.”

Steve shrugs, nudging his horse forward to catch up with the redhead woman. Through your squinted eyes, you make out the two of them exchanging some hushed words. 

“Don’t worry, sweetheart. Steve don’t know what he’s talking about.” Bucky reassures you, one of his large hands patting your thigh. 

“What if he’s right?” You question, your voice cracked and raspy. 

“There’s no need to worry.” He says it with a hum, accompanied by a small squeeze of your thigh. “I’ll look after you, pretty lady.”

[ashensgrotto]

The Sea's Sacrifice (Part 4-NSFW)

Characters: Azul Ashengrotto / Jade Leech / Floyd Leech x F!Reader

Total Word Count: 14.7k+

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 (You Are Here) Part 5

Synopsis: A potential job as a marine biologist’s assistant leaves (Y/N) feeling something fishy going on behind the scene…

Author's Notes: Original Idea came from @merakiui 's annonymous ask with a short story / headcannon -> https://www.tumblr.com/merakiui/684490143936167936/ooohhh-i-love-those-writing-ideas-you-had-for-sea?source=share

and I absolutely love this concept and wanted to take it a step further. I don't write yandere nor fanfiction as much as I did a few years ago. However, I do hope I do this piece justice.

Final Part - Contains Sexual themes including rape/non-consent.

I'm not the best when it comes to writing smut so please be easy on me. Please be mindful that this is a work of fiction. I disagree with anyone that justifies these behaviors.

You have been warned.

Wild and strong you can't be contained

Never bound nor ever chained

Wounds you caused will never mend

And you will never end

***

As the final week approached slowly, you felt an uneasy heaviness fill your heart. Yes, the contract for working with the aquatic trio was only for three months and if you were deemed worthy, you would be able to stay with the company - meaning you could still technically see the trio, but it would be after business hours and either Trein or Crewel or one of the other scientists would have to grant you access to the enclosure so you could see the trio. 

But what if you weren’t deemed suitable for the company?

The thought pulled at your heart strings. You had learned so much about the trio and had gotten to know them very well - heck, you even got along great with Professor Crewel and Professor Trein! You loved Floyd’s energetic nature and playfulness and would miss his cheeky smiles. You loved Jade’s intellect and soft voice, knowing you would miss his broken sentences. And you enjoyed Azul’s shyness and gentleness and would miss his touches. You often thought about what would happen if you left Twisted Wonders and came back years later - would they remember you when they were on display? Would you be allowed to press your hand against the glass of their enclosure and would they reach out, if only to wish to feel the warmth of your hand again? Or would they ignore you - having forgotten about your existence like so many others whose paths you crossed once upon a time?

“There are many walks of life, (Y/N),” you heave a sigh out, “Some roads are well paved, others are rocky beds - we just have to take the good with the bad and repair what we can when the time comes.”

You often remind yourself of this during rough patches in your life leading up to this point. You always believed that life was a game of give and take - even though there were those who took and took without giving anything in return and those that gave and gave until they could give no more. 

It was the harsh reality check that you often needed.

In no time at all, you were entering the last week of your contracted three-month period to work with Azul, Jade, and Floyd. The memories you shared with the strange otherworldly creatures soaked into your mind, allowing you to think back on your first meetings, your conversations, and the fun you had as the time passed by far too quickly. The trio had sensed your melancholy during the first two weeks of the last month and had clung to you in a comforting manner - clicking and cooing as a way to cheer you up, all wrapped tightly around your figure.

As you prepared to leave that Friday, you had been thinking about what to do the following week on your last day. You considered asking Crewel and Trein to get something special for the trio as a "goodbye" gift from you, but had also considered bringing something in yourself for them - hiding it in your lunch bag until the time was right to present it to them. The trio had been more clingy than usual, tentacles and claws pulling at your form to keep you close every time you moved or stood to leave. Azul had actually snarled when you told him you had to leave for the day - making you jump out of your skin and surprising even Jade and Floyd with the noise that emanated from his throat. However, it seemed to work in their favor as you agreed to spend a little more time with them.

As seven-thirty in the evening came around, you pulled yourself from their grasp.

"Guys, I would stay longer, but I have to go home now," you sigh, grabbing your bag and keeping a safe distance away from the edge of the pool and the mers’ clutches, "I promise I'll be back tomorrow."

Floyd and Jade glower at you from their spot, puffing up like usual and blowing bubbles into the water. Azul on the other hand cries out, attempting to pull himself from the water and leans against the edge of the pool - black and purple blocking out the vision of the twins from their spot. You sigh and turn away, only to feel a shudder run up your spine as an unfamiliar voice - soft, soothing, and sweet - echoes in your head: 

"Don’t leave, angelfish. Stay here with me… with us."

You turn your head to see Azul practically draped over the edge, high pitch clicks echoing in the room as his ebony tentacles sway above his form, making him appear larger than you initially thought he was. His eyes glowed in the dimmed room, a pull like the current tugging at your soul and threatening to drown you in its grasp. You shook your head, heading towards the door and pulling on it.

The glass door wouldn't budge.

You pulled a little harder.

Still nothing.

"The door does get stuck on occasion; you may need to knock on the door a few times and one of us or our staff will get you out," Professor Trein's voice echoed in your mind as you knocked on the glass.

"Hello? Professor Trein? Professor Crewel?!"

The laboratory on the other side of the glass was dark with few lights illuminating over desks, equipment, and notes. It looked like everyone had left for the night - leaving you trapped within the enclosure with three larger than life mers.

'This can't be happening!' you think, your heart racing in your chest as fear took over, 'It's a dream! It's got to be! There's no way that they'd leave me behind!'

"No, not behind, Angelfish," the soothing voice from earlier spoke as something slick crept up your legs, "They've only wanted to use you. But don't worry - we won't abandon you or use you like they will."

"Who are you?!" you shout, cowering by the door as Azul’s tentacles crept closer and closer to you, "Azul! Stop it! It's not time for games!"

"Angelfish - do not fight me anymore," the soothing voice speaks as Azul wraps two large appendages around your ankles and another around your waist, pulling you towards him - towards the pool, "I am much bigger and stronger than you. Besides, I don't want them watching a… private interaction between us."

"Private?! What do you-"

Before you could get another word out, Azul tugs you harshly into the water with a loud splash. 

You gasp and sputter like a fish out of water as the salty liquid fills your nose, throat, and lungs as you struggle to stay afloat and swim towards the edge of the pool to pull yourself out. However, Azul’s grip has now tightened around your body completely as he pulls you to the center of the pool - soft cooing filling your ears as his face buries itself in the crook of your neck near your shoulder.

“Azul! LET. ME. GO!” You thrash wildly in the octomer’s arms as his tentacles grip your form tighter, the water around the two of you bubbling and shifting beneath your floundering and struggles against the octomer.

“Why angelfish? I have waited far too long for this,” tentacles wrap around your body completely, holding your arms behind your back and trapping your legs together as Azul’s hands reach for you; one hand wrapped around your neck to lift your chin upward to face him and the other to pry your mouth open, “And now… now that I’ve found you, my soul match - our other piece - I will never let you go. You belong to us… to the sea.”

His lips come crashing down on yours as the crushing feeling of water surrounds you, forcing you to close your eyes to prevent the stinging sensation of salted water in them from happening. You feel it soak into your clothing, caressing your skin and hair like a lovers’ touch, and pressing against your ears and lungs - making you hear your own heartbeat thrum wildly in your chest. You attempt to struggle against Azul’s hold, that is until you feel a sharp prick against the heel of your foot.

Your eyes pop open to see both Floyd and Jade hovering around you and Azul - the younger twin licking his lips as the faint traces of blood dissipate into the salted water. Jade rubs himself along your back, the tip edge of his tail hitting the back of your head in a caress as a different voice speaks - this one much calmer and had more of a business air, “It’s time.”

“Yaaay! Time for shrimpy to be with us forever!” a more energetic voice fills your mind as Azul lifts his mouth away from yours and presses his fingers into your open crevice, a strange liquid substance flowing down your throat along with more sea water.

“Swallow now, angelfish,” the soothing voice speaks again as Azul shuts your mouth, preventing you from regurgitating, “Once it’s down, you’ll feel better…”

As soon as you swallow, something burning begins to pool in your stomach, making your cheeks flush and a humming from your throat fills the enclosure as you feel a pressure building within you. You close your eyes again as you feel yourself slump in Azul’s grip - now too tired to fight against the strange sensations your body is feeling.

Azul hums softly as you feel claws rank from the front of your throat to the back of your neck. A gasp breaks free of your mouth as Azul presses his mouth to yours again, his tentacles twisting and twirling about your body, shifting your clothing and sliding under the soaked material. You register more claws tug and tear at the material as ripping sounds, soft and steady, surround you as piece by piece the clothing that you once wore is removed. Twin sets of lips press against the back of your neck and lower back as you feel your legs part - held steadfast by Azul’s multiple appendages - as something long and thin prods at your lower half. You instinctively try to close your thighs, only for Azul to growl low as his appendage disappears into your body, twirling about your insides and causing you to arch your body - a cry bubbling from you at the sensation of feeling something larger and longer than the average toy curling about inside you.   

“Ohhh angelfish… look how pretty you are in my arms,” the voice speaks again as Azul nuzzles at the base of your throat, teeth scraping the skin gently not wanting to break it, “So soft… so warm… so perfect…”

The tentacle shifts again, forcing another gasp to escape you before another tentacle slips inside your open mouth, caressing your tongue as the suckers press against it, tasting and marking all at the same time. 

Azul can only take so much before he starts moving both of the tentacles inside you. 

He releases his hold on your arms and pulls you into his chest, your arms clinging to his shoulders as he begins to pound mercilessly into your core, pressing every inch he can against your soft walls that are now weeping for him. Your soft moans around his tentacles follow his grunts as he grips you tighter, two more tentacles caressing against your back and bottom, pushing you onward toward release. He pulls the tentacle from your mouth in favor of crashing his lips against yours - the kisses turning to bruising bites as he nips at your bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth. Tongues tangle together as you feel something long shimmy inside you, twisting and twirling nearly into your belly as you whimper and gasp against the octomer’s hold.

“Ha… Ha… want to feel you… feel you come… let me lay you, my precious pearl… my angelfish…”

You give a cry as your walls tighten around Azul’s hectocotylus, feeling a large sphere run from between your legs to your inner walls - held safe and captive within your womb. Hands stroke your back in gentle circles while ebony appendages rub among your twitching body. You hardly register Azul’s release of you as two sets of arms capture you in another embrace - the slippery feeling of the moray twins keep you contained within their grasp. 

"Come on, shrimpy," the energetic voice whispers in your head as Floyd clicks in your ear, "You still have us to take care of!"

"Gently, Floyd," the calmer voice speaks as you feel his twin nuzzle the back of your neck, "Azul took a lot out of her… and so will we."

You want to fight, to scream for help and push them away - but your body is still thrusting with the strange heat and pressure, only relaxing with each caress and kiss from the mers around you. You shudder as you feel something touch between your legs before a set of fingers stroke your center, your legs shaking in anticipation.

"Mmmm… shrimpy's still so wet and warm," the energetic voice giggles in your head before a sharp pain pierces your shoulder, causing you to gasp, "Do you want our eggs as well?"

'Eggs?' your mind short circuits before something larger than Azul's hectocotylus enters you - both below and from behind.

You let out a scream as two sets of lips nibble and suck at the skin of your neck, hands trailing from your sides to your waist and another set traveling to squeeze and pull on your chest - sharp nails scraping against your sensitive skin as your nipples perk again along with goose pimples rising along your arms and legs.

"Heh… mmm, shimpyyy - you're so soft an' warm…" the energetic voice now coos as Floyd nibbles at your ear, his lower body thrusting against yours, "So sweet… wanna stay here with you forever…"

"As do I," a hand pulls your face to look at the mer behind you, lips pressing against yours softly before a thrust from behind nearly kicks the wind out of you, "Our little sea treasure… our precious pearl. Keep us with you so we remain at your side until the end of time…"

The thrusting becomes more of a fight for dominance - as one twin pulls back, the other presses closer. They continually hit the most sensitive spots that leave you gasping and moaning - it nearly makes you wonder how you are still able to breathe even though you are floating underwater. Teeth scrape against flesh before digging in and drawing blood, making your body hum with life at the feeling of the pleasure with the pain.

"Oh? Are you… hah… close, pearl?" The calm voice, now gasping for breath, whispers in your ear.

At your nodding, the energetic voice speaks, "Come, shrimpy… urg… show us what good little… hah… morays we are."

The twins bite down hard on either side of your neck - Floyd on the right, Jade on the left - as you shriek, your body shaking as it clamps on both of them, several pulses pushing into your body as you feel two large sacks make their home in your cores. You gasp and shudder against Floyd’s chest before being harshly twisted around so Jade is now in front and Floyd behind.

"Come on, Shrimpy," the energetic voice - though now slightly out of breath - snickers, "Time to give Jade a fair chance."

You gasp as the twins enter you again, repeating the process of pulling and pushing. When they are finished, you can barely keep your eyes open. You can't remember if they kept passing you in between them or not, but soon the familiar gentleness of tentacles envelopes your body as you're laid against something hard and smooth.

"One last time with me, my angelfish," the soothing voice speaks, "Then you can rest."

You whimper as the familiar long tentacle slips inside, shifting something within you as you gasp with an arch. Hands fold over your fingers twisting together as pounding ensues with your core. Your walls are sore and tired from continuous use, but still cries - covering the intruder with juices that allow them to slip within you easily.

"Angelfish… Angelfish…" the pet name is repeated over and over as a gasp fills your mind, Azul pressing close to your neck as his body shudders against you. You cannot echo his call as your body clamps around him, your voice has died on your tongue and you are slowly fading into unconsciousness.

Before you pass out, you feel Azul pull you into his arms bridal style as his voice whispers in your mind, “Rest, little pearl, you’re safe now… safe within the sea…”

***

Darkness surrounds you as you slowly awake the following morning. You feel strangely tired still and your body whimpers in protest every time you move it. You shiver, feeling strangely cold, and you think that maybe you forgot to turn the air conditioning down the night before you went to bed. You curl into yourself before something long and viscous falls across your waist - unfamiliar and yet not.

“Are you awake, angelfish?” a familiar soothing voice asks softly, as if it’s afraid to startle you.

Your eyes pop open at the sight of the octomer beside you, tentacles caressing your waist and arms while one of his hands toys with a strand of your hair, curling it around his fingertips before pressing a kiss to it.

“Azul?”

The octomer smiles, eyes gentle as he nods, “Yes, it’s me (Y/N).”

“Azul, how… what happened?” you blink a minute, your mind snapping for a moment, ‘Hold on, how am I able to understand him? Secondly, where in the world am I? And thirdly…’

It all came back.

The locked doors of the enclosure, then the pulling of you into the water before Azul pulled you beneath the waves, the strange liquid… the caresses.

You make a move to stand only to fall over, Azul practically launching from the bed to grab you, pulling you into his arms, “Shh, it’s okay… you’re alright, (Y/N).”

“No, I-I can’t-”

Something bright and colorful flashes in front of you. Your eyes lock on where your legs once were as a long beautifully ornate fish tail sways before you. 

Gold in color, it reflects the dimmed lights off of the cavern floor you are perched upon while fins of sea blue glow in the darkness. The tail twitches and jerks every time you think of flicking your toes, the tail following the movement. You lift it, seeing two more fins underneath - also blue in color. The scales of the tail are smooth to the touch and cool, but covered in a slimy coating that makes you feel a bit sick to your stomach. You reach up to touch your ears, and feel fins as well - no doubt similar to Jade’s and Floyd’s - before your fingers are tracing down your neck to feel a set of gills fluttering behind your ears where you were certain one of the twins scratched at you last night. You drop your hands, discovering them to be long and webbed - nails now claws that would allow you to hunt in the dark waters of the enclosure.

“It is quite a shock,” Azul’s voice pulls you back as you look up at him with fear, “For a moment there, I thought we had lost you - but that was merely the transformation taking your human form and switching it out with this one. Personally, I thought you would look lovely with a set of tentacles - but I think I like this outcome more.”

“What… What HAVE YOU done to ME?!” you launch at him, anger racing through your veins like molten fire as you attempt to attack your captor.

However, Azul is much quicker - his appendages securing your wrists together and wrapping around your waist and tail to keep you still - tsking softly, “Angelfish, calm yourself - this was the only way to secure your safety.”

“Secure my SAFETY?! YOU TURNED ME INTO A FLIPPIN’ MERMAID!!” you shout, “You expect me to be grateful for this?! You took me away from my life!”

“(Y/N), please try to understand - I did this for you, for all of us,” Azul reaches out to press a hand against your cheek, which you flinch away from, "Had we not acted when we did - you would've had something far worse happen to you. We were all in agreement that keeping you with us is much better than having you fed to the other monsters that live in these walls."

You stop moving, heart racing as you look at the octomer in the eyes, "W-what do you mean?"

"What he means is that you could’ve been another monster's prey," a calm voice spoke.

You turn to see Jade and Floyd enter into the room, the older of the twins speaking.

"You may think this is merely a place for fun and entertainment," Jade’s voice, calm and sharp at the same time, "but the harsh reality is that this place is a breeding ground. Those monsters that you worked alongside within the world above would've done the same thing to any person who waltzed in, searching for a job that paid well."

"What do you think happened to the last 'keeper,' Shrimpy?" Floyd’s smile was cunning, all teeth with no pleasantries behind it.

You swallow hard, looking down at the dirt floor and the tail you've been given. 

It couldn't be true, could it? You thought there was something weird and strange going on behind the scenes - but Dire Crowley couldn't be that perverted or twisted himself to allow such a painful thing to happen to you, could he? And what about Professor Trein? Professor Crewel? Surely they would see how wrong it was, right?

"Angelfish," Azul's tentacle slowly stroked your tail, making you shudder slightly, before his hand wrapped around your wrist, "I know that your heart is heavy and your mind is confused, but know that I am a mer of my word. They've only wanted to use you, but we won't abandon you or use you like they would. This is only temporary until we find a means of escape."

"Escape?"

"Our home - your home - is in the Coral Sea," Jade answered, "Azul has been working on perfecting a potion that would allow one of us to turn human for a time after we free ourselves from here. This place is no longer your home - you will come with us when the time is right."

"Humans are so disgusting," Floyd grumbled, before perking up, "The only good thing they did… was bring you to us."

You shudder as their gazes fall upon you; twisted, perverse… and hungry. 

***

Crowley looked out into the enclosure as another attempt to pull the woman out failed miserably. They hadn’t seen any of the mers nor the test subject in question for days now, making several of the researchers worried.

Two weeks had passed since the successful mating ritual between the three mers as well as the test subject - however, no one had suspected the mers to pull 03182020 into the water nor for them to use magick on her. Several of the researchers - including Crewel and Trein - believed that the mers had transformed 03182020 in order for her body to accommodate the needs of the mers’ bodies, the process taking several hours before completion during the time when they were in the process of mating with her. To many, they were also surprised to see the twins swimming about the following morning - their heterochromia eyes searching both the surface and the waters; when anyone came close to the water, however, they were quickly attacked by the two - one of the researchers nearly drowning in the process. Hence, they tried another tactic to see if they could locate their missing test subject. That, too, proved to be a fatal mistake when the octomer appeared - pale sea blues glowing with anger as he physically launched the divers that had gotten past the twins out of the water and - in one person’s case - through the glass doors. 

Grimsley appeared before him, pulling his scuba gear off and approaching Crowley with a heavy shake of his head, “There’s no way passed the trio - they’ve been guarding the makeshift cave within their enclosure for days now. It does seem like there’s always two traveling about and they never stray too far.”

“You think (Y/N) is in there?” Crewel asked from his position behind the broken door.

“Very likely,” Grimsley answered, “and if anything, they might still be going through the breeding process right now.”

“Still? How can that be?”

“It wouldn’t be surprising,” Trein answered with a nod at Grimsley’s suggestion, “Perhaps humans and merfolk are more alike in more ways than one. We may have forced them into the mating ritual - but that doesn’t mean that (Y/N) could’ve gotten pregnant from the encounter. They are probably checking to see if she has eggs in her body if she’s still alive - and if she does, they are using this time to begin the fertilization process.”

“I do hope she is still alive, poor puppy,” Crewel answered.

“A dead body won’t be of any use to us anyway,” Crowley answered, “Keep trying to get her out. I want a report on my desk by the end of the week. If we fail to get her out - there’s going to be the villain’s price to pay.”

As the owner turned on his heel and vanished from the lab, Crewel turned to Grimsley, “Do you think (Y/N) has a chance?”

The young man could only shrug his shoulders, unable to provide an answer.

***

Cruel and cold like winds on the seas

Will you ever return to me

Hear my voice sing with the tide

Our love will never die

[dracomort]

hello! what would you say is the best draco characterisation you’ve ever read in a fic? and what have you read recently that you really liked and would read again?

also, i love everything you write :) thanks in advance!

I once saw this fanart that depicted the three main forms of Draco in Drarry and I have to say it's the most accurate thing I've ever seen lmao. My personal preference is somewhere between 'nutcase' and 'fake it till you make it' Draco. For light-hearted fics, I like those that capture the meanness of Draco's humour and his difficult personality; for serious fics I enjoy those where he truly wavers on the line of moral ambiguity.

Away Childish Things by lettered

Harry gets de-aged. Malfoy has to help him.

A great exploration of all the parts that make up the whole of Draco Malfoy.

any day now by oknowkiss

Draco Malfoy considers the circle.

I like this Draco for his moral greyness, self-preservation, internal conflict and risk aversion

Temptation on the Warfront by alizarincrims0n

Draco Malfoy is forced into hiding with the Golden Trio and dragged into their search for horcruxes. What ensues is a journey of redemption, unexpected friendships and an unwanted, turbulent romance with Harry Potter. Warnings for swearing, sexual content, and dark themes.

This is probably one of the most plausible DH-era Draco's I've ever read. The way he speaks to Hermione alone is enough to put it on this list. It's rare to find contemporary Drarry fics that are willing to commit to his nastiness and bigotry.

Such Great Heights by aideomai

Draco Malfoy, wide-eyed and pale and in a decidedly ragged shirt, was crouched next to the pile of whatever the dragon had been eating. Harry threw himself to a halt and yelled, “Merlin, how many times do I have to save your life?”

Draco's crabbiness and difficult personality here is so good. This Draco has always been a major influence for me. This line in particular is iconic:

“Due respect, sir,” Draco said, because apparently even weird romantic feelings or whatever they were weren’t enough to keep Draco from throwing Harry under the bus the moment an authority figure appeared, “I haven’t done anything. I’ve been working nearly non-stop the past few weeks - you can ask Mr Borgin—”

Lorelei in the Menagerie by BelladonnaLee

"I think my dead son is haunting the manor," says Draco when Harry runs into him in an antique book shop. Driven by yearning and suspicion, Harry offers his help and is drawn into a web of secrets and half-forgotten nightmare.

I think anything I say about this fic would be a spoiler but I really enjoy Draco's twisted grieving here. Also considering my usual character preferences, I think you'll see why I like this one so much if you read it.

Heal Thyself by astolat

"Are you going for the course?" Lovegood asked. "You have the NEWTs.”

“What course?” Draco said, then, “No, don’t be ridiculous,” when he realized she meant the notice pinned up on the board he’d been staring at: Applicants To The Introductory Mediwizard Course For The Coming Term Shall Present Themselves In The Chief Mediwizard’s Office By August 24th.

“Oh, I thought you might,” she said. “Well, goodbye.” And off she wandered again in her addled way.

Amoral, ambitious character accidentally becomes a good person in their pursuit of status/money/power is one of my favourite tropes. It's also why I like Tom Riddle Snr in In the Bleak Midwinter so much. Astolat in general writes a great Draco.

What We Pretend We Can't See by gyzym

Seven years out from the war, Harry learns the hard truth of old history: it’s never quite as far behind you as you thought.

Despite the heavy sounded summary, this is actually a crackish humour fic. Certainly an excellent example of nutcase Draco. The villain reveal at the end is 100% my favourite part I stg.

[pupcarisi]

t4t4t barba, carisi & rollins threesome. how would that happen?

how would that happen or what would happen during the threesome? 🧐 (ok this got WAY OUT OF HAND AND LONG so i'm just talking about the build up)

if we take their onscreen relationship dynamics at face value (even if i think that rafael and amanda SHOULD have been close friends at the very least because of their similarities), then sonny would be the one who initiates their first trio 'hang out' for drinks at his place. i see this happening during the events of sonny's law school or just after he passes the bar. sonny has already established friendships with both of them (ok more assumptious on barisi end, but i think it's reasonable considering they spent time alone together—bringing up a deleted barisi scene here—there's no way sonny wouldn't have had tried having random non-law related conversations with rafael).

anyway, as the three of them have appeared working together alone on cases, sonny would just one day drop the invite to the both of them. although rafael and amanda have known each other for awhile now, they aren't close. but fuck it, they like sonny enough and know how much their friendship means to him, and well. they did like the energy and sass the other person gave. eventually, this routine becomes a thing for them, unwinding together, playing card and board games (because i think sonny would also have those). and through all these conversations with each other, i think there's no way the three of them wouldn't have slipped some tidbit of themselves that imply the fact they're not cis (e.g. sonny telling a long story, but in one small unrelated line reveals that he was in his school's basketball team. but he has forgotten that in another occasion, he had mentioned there was ONLY a girls basketball team in his school). these small details are unmissable, considering the nature of their jobs requiring them to pick these small things up, and well, when you're trans you just have this sense ANYWAY.... but they won't mention it to each other. it's just something they think and speculate in their heads alone.

ok so... how do things get spicy? sexual tension build up. come on, the way rafael looked at amanda and sonny when he first met them in their respective first meetings... i'm sure the three find each other attractive. and like tbh, not sure if you do these with your friends, but i know me and my friends love to have active discussions about our sex lives and preferences... LMFAO. so i think they just start yapping about this while being tipsy and learn WAYYY too much info about each other, which then turns them on and feel even more attracted to each other. they artistically talk about it without revealing their transgenderism ofc. idk i just personally feel like these three would be stealth out of safety reasons in their jobs, you know. i think the threesome starts off as a joke. like they have kissed each other for the shits and giggles, because what homies don't kiss.... *eye twitching*

ok so the idea is that they were discussing about what they WANT to try in bed but haven't had the chance to. coincidentally, rafael and sonny mention about wanting to try a threesome IN GENERAL, as a concept. amanda, being the goddess she is, of course had one before. they egg amanda to share more about how it went and this only intrigues rafael and sonny EVEN more.

i like to think that amanda is the one who suggests it, saying something teasing like 'hmm i wonder what it would be like with two hot men instead...' while looking at them suggestively—because her prior threesome experience was with two women. in which rafael and sonny have their each internal panic, because shit.... now what. sure, they had their '🤨🏳️‍⚧️❓' moments towards each other, but unfortunately, you can never be certain on how someone would react to you coming out. so alas, it has to be finally addressed. feel like sonny would be the one who blurts out nervously like FUCKIHAVESOMETHINGTOTELLYOUGUYS .... and then finally drops the bomb and they're like oh.... so..... and then they finally come out to each other and there's an awkward moment of silence. until someone finally chimes: 'so... are we still doing this or nah?' and the subsequent 'fuck yes i'm down if you two are' '....into it even more than previously, i have to admit...'

and then they fuck and have the messiest freakiest sexiest hottest threesome. happily ever after 😍🙏

[jeweled-blue-eyes]

What would happen if Duke Eckart discovered that Derrick was sexually abusing Penelope? I know that this man is tremendously negligent and careless. What kind of father allows his older son to regularly punish his younger sister instead of simply informing him and letting him as a father decide to act? Also, how the hell did you not notice that your daughter has not eaten anything during the entire dinner because her cutlery is very small or that all of her servants are constantly abusing her? Yet of the Eckart trio he is the only one who shows real repentance and is able to understand Penelope. Unlike Reynold, Derrick will not be able to manipulate him and a redemption arc would be interesting where the Duke realizes how he has given too much authority to his eldest son with Penelope.

I imagine what leads up to the discovery are innuendos she makes, clues little Penelope leaves in hope that someone will decipher her riddles and save her. Penelope would never tell her father the truth outright. The thought that if she told him what had occured and he did not care would break her. I think when she is guarding Derrick's dirty secret she is almost unconsciously protecting her father and in doing so she is protecting herself. It's the only way she can preserve the remnant pieces of the shattered image she used to have of her father. He isn't a bad person for not putting an end to her abuse, because he doesn't even know there is abuse. But if he became aware there was abuse and the side he took was once again her brother's and not hers, what would that mean for her? That there was no one who cared to keep her safe? No hope for a rescue? Her life will never get better no matter how long she waits for a miracle. The hope she held onto, the reason to continue living, smashed to little pieces. If her own father has forsaken her then god must have too. No one will ever promise to love her and mean it.

I headcanon the Duke as a weak man who closes his eyes to anything unpleasant in order to be able to continue living in the upper class of an immoral world. Ivonne is kidnapped and he retreats into his shell, forcing his children to raise themselves and run the duchy in his place. Adopting a girl who resembles the daughter he lost can be seen as further evidence that he prefers to deceive himself with a beautiful lie rather than facing the ugly truth. The stolen necklace incident happens, Penelope is accused as a thief and instead of talking with her in private and interrogating the servants one by one, he leaves it to fester, hoping that time will heal wounds and the incident will be soon forgotten. He prefers to wait it out until the problem solves itself. His immaturaty forced Derrick to mature faster, the roles of guardian and child reversed. This might have caused Derrick to develop a loathing for this kind of childishness in og Penelope and the urge to destroy it. Any given clue that could indicate his eldest son is raping his youngest child, he is unable to pick up on. He's too busy wallowing in his own misery to notice hers.

For the Duke to notice there is abuse happening in his own home he has to witness something shocking that Derrick will never be able explain away. Maybe Reynold knocks on his office, he looks visibly shaken as if wanting to confess a grave sin but being either weightened by too much shame or fear to put it into words, suddenly he storms outside his office and the Duke is left to draw his own conclusions. He cannot fall asleep, so he roams around the mansion, finally resolving to look after Reynold and ask him what he meant. On his way to Reynolds room which is located near Penelope's he hears strange noises in the hallway and walks straight into...well something very sexually explicit.

What would follow afterwards are scream, accusations, justifications. The Duke has never risen his hand against his own children but this is the first and only time he takes a swing and hits Derrick, hard, across his face. The Duke hugs Penelope and it feels like a dam is broken as she breaks out in sobs.

I don't think the Duke would want to make it public or take Derrick to court. Even if he did it would likely lead to nothing and harm the victim more than the criminal.

In a patriarchy a woman was seen as inferior to a man in all ways except the unique one that counted most:  her feminity. Victorian men expected women to possess feminine qualities as well as innocence; otherwise, they would not be of marriage potential. In an age when sexual innocence was highly valued and sex for a respectable woman was deemed appropriate only within marriage, the loss of chastity for an unwed woman - regardless of the circumstances - meant a social death.

Suppose Penelope fell from this state of innocence, then she lost the only thing that gave a girl like her a value. Derrick burned her bridge that could have been a way to escape this rotten family and shackled her to the Eckarts. No respectable man would want her. Had she been raised in a poor family, her only future would have been to go into prostitution. If the truth ever came out it'd be dragged into the light by someone who would want to stain Penelope's reputation and ruin her bright future. I can imagine that a very desperate Derrick would eventually trigger the reveal after his father's death (though the name of the man who dishonored Penelope would be omitted). A maid with loose lips who has lost her employment in the Eckart duchy, starts working in the rumor mill of the city, the household of Lady Kellen, and together they spread the gossip.

Jackson suggests that adults came to view children both as innocent victims and as potential threats to society. Children who experienced sexual abuse were sympathetic because of their childhood innocence, yet the very unchildlike experience of abuse caused child victims to be viewed as "fallen," corrupt, potentially criminal, and thus needful of reform in specialized homes that tended to be segregated from other child welfare institutions.

I am in no way an expert in the Victorian era but I know that institutions such as a psychatry was often fertile ground for more abuse and can imagine that those specialized homes operated similarly. Ending up in such an institution would have been just another bad end disguised as a happy ending. Theorethically I could see Penelope ending up there if the Duke loses hope and decides she's "too broken", he doesn't trust himself with her. He doesn't have a right to her. The universe has proven again and again he's a failure as a father and handing Penelope over to professionals would be the least he can do for her. He believes she hates him and would limit his visits thinking he was respecting her bounderies. Frankly I hate that idea so *hand motion* we are waving that one away.

I said the Duke wouldn't be keen on anyone else meddling in his family affairs and making it public, not unless it was the only option to disinherit Derrick and prevent him from becoming Penelope's guardian once the Duke has died. (I feel like it's too generous of me to think he has this level of foresight tbh.) It is extremely hard to disinherit your first son, dare I say almost impossible.

Peerages can only be granted along the line of succession and, once granted, can only be removed by an act of Parliament. This virtually never happens, and only for things like treason, which tend to come with other (terminal) consequences. Once the title is formally granted, that's it. (x)

Let's remind ourselves the story is set in a fantasy world. So perhaps it is possible to disinherit after a throughout examination of the crime by the authorities. I do like things to have a realistic touch that's why I cannot imagine the Duke being able to kick out his eldest son and making his youngest son future Duke without any explanation offered to the royals. Which means a trial has to be held.

In the Victorian Era only about one third of the child sexual abuse cases made it to court and penalties for those convicted were at times shockingly lenient.

However, as Davidoff et.al. remind us, incest was one of the family secrets most silenced in family life narratives during this period making it “almost impossible to uncover historically because its existence has been denied within most families and communities.”

[...], reports of incestuous behaviour are inevitably rare or disguised in the reportage, not only because the press were constrained by public sensibilities, but primarily because incest was not yet a crime ; fathers who sexually abused their daughters were either charged with rape or attempted rape, provided there was sufficient evidence of non-consent, carnal knowledge under the age of consent where the girl was below marriageable age, or sexual assault.

1800-1845 However, the majority of fathers were acquitted, either on the grounds that the girl failed to show physical resistance or because she had ‘permitted’ her father to have sexual intercourse on a regular basis implying that it must have been with her consent. (x)

Derrick would be able to fabricate consent. He's the best at devising warped justifications for doing whatever he wants. The version of og Penelope that exists in my head can be a very affectionate person when she isn't feeling like a cornered animal that is about to be attacked from all sides. Without thinking anything bad she would climb onto his lap, she would give hugs, initiate kisses. She shows love like commoners love. Her behaviour would look transgressive in the eyes of the nobility that expects their children to behave like miniature adults. She's the type of victim that didn't say no, that was asking for it because she was wearing revealing clothes or behaving in a certain provocative way. After the inital shock of the news wears off the aristocracy would try to find the fault in Penelope. Either she must have been seducing him or she's lying about the assault for attention. They'd rather believe that pigs can learn how to fly than that a respected nobleman is capable of this kind of crime. It would force them to realize that evil doesn't always lurk in the dirty backyard of the slums but has made home in their own houses, under the eyes of god, and had found a way to exert a form of violence that could go undetected for years.

Derrick would manage to get away with a slap on his wrist by the judge but not his own family. His father would recognize that Penelope cannot grow up healthily in an environment that would continue to shame her for her own abuse. He'd pack his suitcase and take Penelope away to one of their vocation homes on the country, devoting himself entirely to her recovery. He might leave Reynold in the care of Derrick. Though the Duke now knows about Derrick's unnatural predilection, the thought that if his sister is not availible to him, Derrick might turn to his brother doesn't even cross his mind. In his eyes Reynold who knew about Derrick molesting Penelope and stayed silent, was just as guilty as Derrick and ought to be punished. Just the sight of his sons makes him sick.

The Duke and Penelope would move from one of their villas to another with the change of seasons and then after the war had ended they would travel around the world. Penelope is someone adventurous. She'd enjoy swimming in the ocean, catching iridiscent coloured fishes, climbing mountains, riding on camels, running with the horses, she'd love this sort of livestyle that reminds her of her time with her nomadic parents. I think this period of her life would be the happiest she's ever felt. The Duke would try his damnest to redeem himself and at the end of his life he earns himself the title of a father.

Here's the downer: I imagine that the Duke is not good with money. He's used to throw money at problems until they go away (like gifting away an entire diamond mine to buy Lady Kellen's forgiveness) combine that with Penelope who is used to an extravagant lifestyle and her unlucky streak that always causes troubles, and then combine that with the intense guilt the Duke feels and his poor attempts to comfort her in the only way he knows. He cannot say no to any of Penelope's wishes how outrageous they may be. I expect that at the end of his life the Duke has accumulated huge debts. His untimely death after catching an unknown illness during their travels would force Penelope to return to the Eckart duchy like a beggar, if she does not want to die in proverty. Her travels barred her from forming deep long lasting relationship. She has no one else to turn to except for her brothers, which would make it possible for Derrick to play her benefactor and "save" Penelope from the state of misery he put her in, trapping her once again in her own home.