#viewing experience may burn your eyes

[mockerycrow]

Frozen Fingertips [2/2] (Ghost x GN!Reader)

ghost masterlist - part one

Summary: Ghost struggles to keep you alive through these harsh times.

A/N: I’m so glad you guys enjoyed part one!! i did not shrink the font of this one because i realized that it may strain some peoples’ eyes. this is not as angsty as i wished it to be, and it isn’t as long as i hoped. i apologize. tbh i don’t like this, but i hope y’all enjoy

[WARNINGS: Descriptions of developing hypothermia and frost bite, delirium, near-death experience(s), angst to fluff.]

THE BLIZZARD WAS not stopping and it didn’t show signs of stopping any time soon, which honestly terrifies Ghost because of your awful condition. Despite his previous efforts, you quickly slipped back into a delirious state of developing hypothermia—a state you weren’t completely aware of, but you knew something was wrong. You could vaguely acknowledge the way that you were fading in and out wasn’t normal, but it wasn’t like you could do anything about it. What you hated was the painful tingling and the weird.. harsh cold entering your lungs every time you took a deep breath. You’re so warm, yet your lungs burn cold.

You only saw times in glimpses—what you thought was likely a matter of hours, expanded across a matter of a few days. The harsh blizzard was unwavering, it’s snow falling from the sky harshly messing with the radio signals. Ghost would sit by the window with his personal radio on his vest, along with the emergency signal radio he had stowed in his pack. He would get small glimpses of other peoples voices—Price’s would come through occasionally, luckily long enough for Ghost to update him about their situation and their whereabouts, your condition; but Ghost was never able to provide an update about an exact location. The windows were frosted over and even when they weren’t, all Ghost saw was endless snow and pine trees far as the eye can see, until they eventually faded from view due to the snow coverage. Every time Ghost suddenly becomes aware of his breath, he can’t help but glance over at you; wrapped up in two sleeping bags, sitting way too close to the fireplace—sometimes shuddering, and sometimes.. not moving at all. His heart drops to his stomach when he doesn’t see your breath in the air. He calls your name loudly, firm and demanding and when you don’t answer, he scrambles from his position by the window. “Fuck,” He utters. “Fuck!”

Ghost ignores the pain in his knees when they harshly bash against the ground as he kneels next to you. He grabs your face by your cheeks, startled by the hue of blue on your lips. “Bloody bell—wake up!” Ghost snarls, somehow managing to keep his voice steady. He holds his breath until he sees your chest slowly yet shakily rise—and then you exhale very slowly, and clearly with amounts of trouble. Relief floods Ghost’s veins, but it’s quickly replaced by frustration and panic. You gasp quietly before you begin to shiver uncontrollably again, and taking Ghost completely by surprise; you open your eyes. Your eyes are glazed over, your eyelids puffy. “[Name]?” Ghost questions, his eyes staring hard into yours, silently noting your dialed pupils. “[Name], can you hear me?” If you do, you don’t make coherent indication. Your tongue darts out and wets your lips before you croak out, “I gotta pee.” Ghost huffs and shakes his head, his hand shooting up and laying on your chest—which is covered by many thicker layers, so disregarding Ghost’s hand, it’s not very likely you could’ve gotten up without help, anyway. “You went an hour ago, yeah? You need to stay layin’ down.” You groan and despite your arms being tucked into your multiple covers, something moves against the fabric as if to swat Ghost’s hand away. Ghost can’t help but swallow nervously; he isn’t stupid, he’s aware you’re in one of the stages of hypothermia, he told Price as much. He’s been able to keep the frostbite at bay, but he’s running out of firewood. It’s snowing way too damn hard for him to even pick up stray logs and sticks laying around. Your slowed heartrate, increased urge to urinate, slow cognitive functions, slurred speech, cold skin—blue lips..

It’s not looking good and Ghost doesn’t want to think about that, but that’s all he can see of you right now, so how could he not? And it’s hard both mentally and physically to stay in this cabin, seeing you deteriorate while he himself is getting absolutely fucking freezing. Ghost has had to shed a layer or two just to keep you alive. He can’t deny the way the cold air is scratching at his skin, seeping through his balaclava and into his jaw, nearly making his bones hurt. Ghost clenches his teeth as he shudders for a moment, eyes fluttering closed just long enough to gain his composure. Fuck. Ghost doesn’t want to die here. He doesn’t want you to die here, not like this. Not in a run-down abandoned cabin with shitty insulation, where frostbite is nipping at your fingers and where the cold is finally getting to Ghost’s head. He grits his teeth and sits back on his ass normally with a gloved hand to his head, his vision absolutely swimming. “Stop it,” He grunts quietly. “Hafta stay up.” Ghost takes a deep breath and grunts as he pushes himself to his feet, his boots booming against the wooden floor as he walks over to the area where the firewood is kept. He grabs a few of the pre-cut logs and he makes his way over to you and the fireplace, tossing the logs into the ashes, slowly refueling the dying embers. Ghost sniffles a little under his mask as he grabs a piece of paper and takes out a lighter, lighting it on fire before quickly tossing it into the fireplace to make a better fuel source. He crouches near the growing fire, taking his spot by your feet. Ghost sucks in a shuddering breath and rubs his upper arms, and he can’t help but take another glance at you. You stopped trying to get out of your warm enclosure of blankets, but your eyes were darting around the room slowly, unfocused and hazy.

Ghost’s chest clenches for a moment and he walks back over to your shivering form, and he already did it, but he presses his fingers against your lukewarm skin—nearly cold. Your eyes flutter again and then they vaguely glance in the direction that you think he’s in; which you’re almost right, but a few inches off. You try to speak but a quiet choked noise leaves you, your breathing shaky—finally from fear this time. Ghost puts his finger to his mask in a shushing motion, trying his best to keep you calm. “You’ll be alright, yeah? Gotta wait until the storm’s done brewing out there.” He attempts to reassure your delirious brain, but you can only make another “out of it” noise before your eyes flutter shut once again, you losing consciousness. Ghost feels an ugly and dreadful feeling deep in his gut, scratching at his veins, climbing them until his fingertips are cold both due to the temperature and panic. Ghost has always insisted he doesn’t panic, and he hasn’t—until now. Not until he fears the storm won’t pass over and help won’t arrive until you’re frozen and stiff under your fear, despite his desperate attempts to keep you warm—and alive. Ghost doesn’t want to admit it, but fuck, he’s terrified to fall asleep because out of the two of you, what if he’s the only one who wakes up?

Ghost’s eyelids flutter for a moment before he inhales in a sharp manner and his spine straightens up, his hands clenching together for a moment. “M���not going to fall asleep.” He mutters to himself as he takes his place next to you on the floor and holy hell, the floor is cold—so he silently scoots closer to you and wraps an arm around your body, and Ghost uses his other arm as a pillow. Your chest very slowly rises and falls, and he finds comfort in the sight of a sign of you being alive—you’re still here with him, and that’s all he needs.

Ghost is awoken from a banging on the cabin door. He jolts ever so slightly, but he’s immediately hit with chills, his limbs trembling. Fuck, he fell asleep. His eyelids feel like sandbags and and he can’t stop fucking shaking—and he feels so heavy.. so tired. “Ghost!” A familiar voice yells outside of the cabin. His arm wraps around your form tighter when he doesn’t immediately recognize the British accent behind the door, he grunts as he clumsily sits up and pulls you closer, his trembling hand grasping as his hip, taking out his service pistol. The door opens as he attempts to aim it, his weak and low voice hissing out, “I’ll blow your fuckin’ brains out—“

“Ghost, it’s Price. We found you. Put the gun down.”

Ghost blinks slowly as he looks at the figure who slowly approaches, two others trailing behind—and it is Price—with Gaz and Soap. Ghost sharply inhaled and his arm lowers, the pistol slipping out of his grip. Gaz rushes over to him and your limp form, taking off his gloves. “We got you, Ghost. We got you.” Price assures, but his lips are pressed together as he watches Gaz. Ghost’s head rolls back for a moment, blacking out for a few seconds—Soap’s hands catching his head before it hits the floor. “They’re alive,” Gaz grunts out, leaning down to pick you up bridal style while keeping all of the layers around your body. “Barely, but we gotta get ‘em both to warmth. Now.”

When Ghost finally comes to, the first thing he notices is the smell—it doesn’t smell like rotting and burning wood; his lungs don’t burn with every breath and he can keep his fingers. The second thing he notices is the ache within his throat and his limbs, and the third thing he notices is that he is not wearing his mask. He still feels heavy, but it’s not the kind of heavy where you want to sleep forever heavy. It’s a.. comforting heavy. Someone laying on top of him heavy. It takes him a hot second to open his eyes, and another second to adjust to the harsh lights of the hospital room—oh, wait, they’re not that bad, his head just hurts. Ghost notices someone laying their head on the bed on top of Ghost, their arms under their head as a cushion. He blinks blearily as he doesn’t register it at first; the hospital gown, two IV drips for two separate patients, and the bandages covering your fingers—it’s you. His eyes widen and he lets out a quiet noise, causing you to lift your head up immediately and look at him with the most vulnerable look you could ever have, your eyes wide and bulging like when a child doesn’t know whether to believe the adult in front of them. “Ghost?” You ask, and fuck, your throat croaks. Your vocal cords sound like they’ve been torn apart and reattached, croaking with relief and pain. He swallows thickly and he nods for a moment, unable to find his voice. Your eyes soften for a moment before you whisper to him. “Hurts to talk, huh? Me too.”

Then don’t, said his silent gaze. Yet, somehow, you manage to catch on his memo. Wordlessly, you reach up to one of his hands—covered in scars and calluses, but you don’t mind. Your hands are similar as you nervously glance at him, grabbing his wrist and turning it over so his palm faces up. Ghost eyes your movements, but makes no move to stop you. You take one of your pointer fingers—the one that isn’t bandaged—and you trace letters into his hand slowly.

T H A N K Y O U

Ghost meets your gaze, and you have tears in your eyes. His hand is grossly limp as he grabs the hand you were moving away, and he instead pulls your hand closer to his face for a closer inspection. The bandages concern him, so he looks at you again. You reach for the clipboard you left by his feet and you place it in his lap, pointing to the part of the medical report about your frostbite blisters. Ghost inhales deeply for a moment before his fingers tap against your hand—rhythmically? Oh, it’s morse code.

Ghost is tapping SAFE over and over while looking at you, to reassure himself—and you. You nod in response and offer him the smile he’s been waiting to see and you tap back to him, SAFE.

[ewanmitchellcrumbs]

Go in Shadows

Pairing: modern!Aemond Targaryen x f!reader Warnings: Alcohol use, drunken behaviour, angst, eventual smut. Word count: tbc

Summary: Summers spent with her best friend, Helaena, are the highlight of her year. However, a week-long stay at her place does not go as she expects it to when surrounded by one Targaryen brother that she pines for unrequitedly, and another that can't seem to stand her.

Author's note: Happy birthday @lauraneedstochill! You may remember a little while ago I sent you an ask that was prodding you for info on your favourite fan fiction tropes - I had an agenda! I remember you saying you don't look forward to your birthday, so I wanted to do something special for you. I didn't get the chance to finish this before I went on holiday, but wanted to show you a teaser of what's to come! Hope you enjoy your day, birthday twinnie <3

The grass tickles delicately at the backs of her bare thighs, causing her to squirm and change position, pulling the hem of her floral summer dress lower as she crosses her legs. It’s a hot and sunny Friday afternoon in July, and she’s making the most of her four day working week by spending her day off in the park with her best friend, Helaena.

Summer has always been her favourite time of year, from the six week long holidays of secondary school to the three month university breaks, and now the stolen afternoons and all too brief weekends of the working week. Helaena has been at her side for all of them. Summer is their time, a season in which their friendship has always thrived, fortified beneath a sun that never sets.

Helaena pauses, keeping the daisy chain she’s making in her hands still as she leans forward ever so slightly, watching intently at the wasp that buzzes around the open bottle neck of Koppaberg Cider that rests beside her, the heat of the day causing droplets of moisture to sweat from the glass.

“That’s going to drown in your cider, if you aren’t careful,” she warns her.

“Mmm,” Helaena muses dreamily, her eyes never leaving the wasp. “It wants the sugar.”

She watches for a few more moments, before it flies away, and then her attention turns back to her daisy chain, her numb nail piercing through the stem of the flower, before threading another through.

“Did your annual leave get approved for next week?” Helaena asks, blue eyes lifting from the floral chain in her hands to look at her hopefully.

“Yeah, I’m all set,” she says excitedly, before taking a swig of her own cider, relishing the way the sweet, berry flavour fizzes against her tongue. “So, what’s the plan?”

It’s not a question she really even needs to ask. It’s the same every year; Alicent takes a week-long trip to Oldtown to visit her father, Otto, and ever since Helaena was considered old enough to no longer accompany her, she stays behind, and the kids are left with a free house. She stays for the entire week, the house large enough that it feels like a holiday without needing to leave King’s Landing. They enjoy seven unsupervised days of swimming in the pool, raiding the fridge, and the inevitable rowdy and out of control parties that Helaena’s older brother, Aegon, insists upon throwing.

And therein lies the real reason she’s asking; to check which of the brothers will be in attendance. She has fancied Aegon for as long as she can remember, though he has never given her a second look beyond viewing her as his younger sister’s best friend. She exists in his shadow, laughing at all of his jokes, living for every thousand watt smile he casts her way, overlooking his often drunken, reckless behaviour, and pretending she doesn’t feel a burning sense of envy at the seemingly never ending rotation of girls he goes out with. His shadow seems to be where she is destined to remain forever, desperate to experience the warmth of his attention turned to her even once. The unrequited feelings weigh heavy upon her heart, tormenting her with soaring hope and devastating reality in equal measure.

As if able to read her mind, Helaena sighs. “Aegon’s going to be there…and Aemond too.”

She groans at this. Helaena’s younger brother, another bane of her existence, though for a completely different reason to Aegon. Aemond genuinely seems to loathe her, actively going out of his way to avoid her, refusing to even look at her if they’re in the same room. His responses are curt, bordering upon rudeness when she has tried previously to engage him in conversation, and so she has given up, taking to ignoring him just as he does to her, though it does not come as naturally to her as it does him. She feels her skin prickle in his presence, fidgeting uncomfortably at the shift in energy in the room whenever he enters. Back in secondary school, she had made an attempt to forge a bond with him, by approaching him with the history essay she was due to hand in, and asking for him to take a look at it in case there were any improvements he thought she could make.

Aemond had scoffed as he’d looked it over, sliding the papers back across the table towards her with a harsh flick of his wrist. “Derivative,” he’d commented dismissively. “The point you’re trying to make is too diffuse for you to adequately summarise it. If you were to improve it, you’d simply have to rewrite it.”

She had walked away holding back tears, bitterly regretting her decision to attempt to extend an olive branch. When the essay had been given back to her she had been awarded an A grade, which made Aemond’s comments even more baffling to her.

“Great,” she says with a roll of her eyes, “assuming he’ll have Alys to keep him busy?”

Helaena gives a solemn shake of her head. “They aren’t together anymore, so please try to be nice to him.”

She looks at Helaena incredulously. “Be nice to him?! Hel, Aemond hates me!”

“He doesn’t,” she replies with a gentle certainty.

“You don’t know that,” she huffs, swigging from her cider bottle once more.

“I do, actually,” Helaena utters, before turning her attention back to her daisy chain.

She feels that Helaena infuriates her almost as much as her brothers do sometimes. Bloody Targaryens.

A week later, her out of office is on and her bags are packed.

Helaena takes her bags, depositing them into an entryway closet to deal with later, the moment she steps through the door of the house, ushering her into the kitchen.

“Want to chop some stuff for me?” She asks. “I’m going to make a jug of Pimm’s for us all to drink by the pool.”

“Us all?” She asks, moving towards the chopping board on the kitchen side, where an assortment of strawberries, mint and cucumber has been set out, ready to be cut up.

“Yeah,” Helaena says, opening a cupboard and rummaging inside of it. “Me, you…Aemond, and Aegon…Aegon’s friend…”

Helaena’s voice tapers off as she pulls a glass jug from a shelf, her gaze turning towards the kitchen doorway.

She looks up from where she has been quartering a strawberry, her grip around the knife handle tightening subconsciously as she takes in the sight of Aegon standing there. But it’s not Aegon that is the issue, it’s the pretty brunette that’s standing next to him.

“Just wondering what’s taking so bloody long with the Pimm’s?” He asks, glancing between her and Helaena. “Are you fermenting the gin from scratch?”

“Hel was waiting for me to arrive,” she offers as a meek explanation, feeling her skin grow warm as he looks at her. “Hi, by the way.”

He fires off a mock salute at her, the casual gesture making her insides wither with disappointment. She was a fool to have expected anything more.

“I’m Cassandra,” the girl standing next to him pipes up with a cheerful smile, “nice to meet you.”

Aegon startles, as if suddenly realising she’s there, turning to look at Cassandra quickly before facing back towards her and Helaena.

“Oh yeah, Cass is gonna be staying for the week. Her brother’s brewery is supplying us with the kegs for Saturday.”

Cassandra nods enthusiastically, her eyes bright. “Royce owns Storm’s End brewery, he’s gonna sort us out with the beer for the party.”

“Lovely,” she says with a tight smile, lowering her eyes back to the chopping board and slicing into a cucumber with more aggression than is necessary. 

“Why don’t you go and get comfy by the pool, Cass,” Aegon says, ushering her away with a smack on the bottom. “I’ll make sure these two hurry the fuck up with the drinks.”

Helaena’s eyes narrow once Cassandra is out of earshot, looking at Aegon as she empties a full bottle of Pimm’s into the glass jug. “You’re sleeping with one of the Baratheon sisters to get free beer? That’s low even for you.”

Aegon shrugs with a smirk. “I’m not above schmoozing for booze, Hel.”

“You’re a pig,” she retorts softly, moving to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of lemonade. “What about what happened with Floris and Aemond?”

Aegon snorts derisively, leaning against the doorframe. “They only kissed.”

“And then she stalked him afterwards…”

“The week of a thousand texts!”

“Fifty seven to be precise. You remember, right?” She asks, turning to her friend for back up.

“Yeah, didn’t Aemond ghost her because she used the incorrect version of ‘your’ in a message?”

Helaena nods. “Yes, that was mean, and she didn’t deserve that. But sending someone so many texts when they clearly aren’t going to reply is a bit…” She wrinkles her nose. “...overbearing.”

“And she left him a five minute long voicemail,” Aegon titters.

“Yeah, you’re a pig,” Helaena insists, sloshing lemonade into the Pimm’s.

“Oh well. Hurry up!” Aegon demands with a clap of his hands, before walking away.

She hands Helaena the chopping board, now laden with chopped up garnishes and watches as she scrapes it into the jug, before stirring it.

Looking up, Helaena takes in the pained expression of her friend, her face softening. “Trust me, as Aegon’s sister, he’s not worth it.”

“I’m fine,” she quips unconvincingly, moving away to fetch glasses from another cupboard. “He’s just messing around.”

“I just think if you’re looking for someone who genuinely cares about you, then you’re looking in the wrong place.”

“What does that mean?” She asks, taking down five glass tumblers from the shelf.

“Just…don’t close yourself off to other possibilities.”

Helaena takes the jug and heads outside to the pool, before she has a chance to respond.

Always so cryptic. It’s infuriating.

To her horror, as she heads out into the garden, glasses gripped between her fingers, Helaena has set herself up on the sun lounger on the furthest end, leaving the only one free between her and Aemond.

She sets the glasses down on the patio table, next to the Pimm’s jug and takes a moment to steel herself, before heading over. Wordlessly, she lays down on the sun lounger, trying to suppress the unease that ripples beneath her skin at the imposing figure of Aemond next to her. His sun lounger has its back propped up, and he sits bolt upright, long silver hair pulled up into a bun and a pair of black Ray Bans perched upon the bridge of his aquiline nose as he reads a philosophy book.

Pretentious twat.

“Aemond, pour us all some Pimm’s,” Helaena says lazily, leaning back on her lounger and propping an arm above her head.

His brow furrows momentarily before he responds. “Why do I have to do it?”

“Because you haven’t done anything to help out with our gathering yet.”

“It’s your gathering,” he retorts, “I just happen to live here. I’m not an active participant.”

She sighs, not wanting to listen to any more of their bickering. “It’s fine, I’ll do it.”

“No, I will,” Aemond snaps, standing abruptly and setting his book down, before storming over to the table.

“Christ, what a prick,” she mutters to herself as she watches him go.

Full fic coming Monday. No tag list. Follow @fics-by-ewanmitchellcrumbs and turn on post notifications.

[vanessaedp]

141 + König reacting to you taking off your mask.

taking off ur bally 😜😜✌️✌️😗😗🫶🫶

warnings: fluff, british slang 😛

FLASHING GIF WARNING

___

Price

He had known the reason why you wore a balaclava and if he's honest. He hadn't ever expected you to take it off.

That was until today.

It was a simple mission really, do some fancy dress up party and poison the target.

However, to get into the party you need to have a partner

So, you and Price partnered up and went to the party as a fake couple. You wore a simple red dress and he wore a tuxedo.

The day before the mission he approached you. "Planning to paint your mask to match the dress, Sergeant?" He joked.

"No sir." You shake your head. "Actually, I wasn't going to wear it at all but now that you say that I might have another idea." You scoff at Price's dissapointed expression.

On the day of the mission you and Price are sat in a vehicle, he's running through the mission with you and take your mask off.

His look alone sent shivers down your spine. You expected him to look at you with horror or disgust but to your suprise he looked at you with admiration.

"Bloody hell, your beautiful, sarge." He said, his voice raspy and his throat dry.

"Don't get too excited, captain." You laugh.

Ghost

You and Ghost had some things in common.

You both were traumatised at a young age and you both wore masks.

He cared for you somewhat. Like how he cared for Soap

Except he liked you more.

During this mission it hadn't gone well. You had a bullet graze the side of your head and now you were splayed across the concrete floor with Ghost surrounded by mangled metal.

"Wheres the bleeding?" Ghost checked everywhere.

"My head." You mutter, turning your head to show a dark patch on your mask.

"May I?" Ghost's fingers hooked under your mask as if he was going to rip it off anyway.

You furrow your brows and roll your eyes. "It's not like I have a bloody choice, i'm bleeding to death you tosser."

Ghost grumbles something under his breath before peeling the mask off and placing it beside your head.

You swear you see his eyes widen the teeny tiniest bit. His eyes trail down your face for a split second before setting on your bleeding skull. "Right.." He says with a sigh, his voice hoarse.

"Enjoying the view?" You scoff, wincing when he starts treating your wound.

"You wish." He mumbles, his gaze flickering down to your face and lingering there for a few seconds.

Soap

You and Soap had been dating for 3 years. Not once have you taken your mask off.

He doesn't mind but all he wants is for you to trust him.

Soap allowed to stay off while you were recovering from a near-death experience. His left arm was hanging on by a thread after being abushed in a mission. He survived and is now on drugs so he can handle the pain.

You visited after his deployment to see how he was. He acted like a drunk man when he saw you, probably from the drugs.

"Who the feck are you..?" He slurred, his head lolling to one side. "My girlfriend won't be happy to see this.." He mutters.

You giggle and take a seat beside his bed. "I am your girlfriend, Johnny." You look down at his leg. It's stitched neatly. You grimace for a moment. You can handle all the gore in the world but your boyfriends? Now thats a different story.

You hear his heartbeat monitor pick up. "You wha?" He asks, his voice higher pitched and his brows raised.

"I'm your girlfriend." You slowly place a hand on his face.

"Fucking hell." He mutters, his eyes wide. "Are you sure? I'm abit of a twat." He shuffles, trying to sit up however you place a hand on his chest and push him back down.

"If I wasn't your girlfriend would I do this?" You hesitantly lift your mask up and lean close, kissing his cheek. You do this because he'll probably forget about it but its precious to see his reaction anyway.

"Fuck me sideways." He says under his breath, looking at you with admiration. His eyes stare at your eyes then the little scar on your left eyebrow. Then the burn scar shaped like a cross. Presumably from a branding iron. He then stared at your lips. He licked his then spoke.

"Can you do that again? But on my lips this time."

Gaz

"Listen i'm so sorry.. I don't even know how this happened I swear i'll fix it." Gaz protested. He accidentally ripped your mask while in a sparring match, thankfully you covered your face before anyone else saw.

"Gaz, it's fine." You say a little sarcastically. Sure, you were pissed he had ripped your only mask but he offered to fix it so there wasn't much point in being annoyed with him. "I want it fixed by tomorrow."

"Of course. I promise it'll be fixed." He even pinky swore on it.

After a long 12 hours of being in your room without letting anyone in with fear that they will see you without your mask you hear a knock at the door. "Gaz?"

"I've got your mask. Can I come in." He asks, twisting the door knob.

"Alright.." You mumble and sit up. Watching the door open and Gaz step in, he shuts it behind him and stops dead in his tracks when he sees you.

"Christ." He swallows hard. "You don't really need this mask, do you? It's only a silly balaclava." He waves it around.

"Kyle give it here." You hold your hand out and Gaz sighs, walking up to you and handing it over. He visibly tenses up when your hand brushes against his.

"So does that mean you'll wear it less around me?" He sounds excited, his eyes fixed on your face as you slipped the mask back on.

"Don't get your hopes up, mate. Thanks for fixing it though." You stand up and give him a wink, hitting his shoulder playfully.

König

"Jesus christ how do you wear your hood for so long." You sigh, blowing raspberries through your lips and lifting the bottom of your mask up to let some air through.

It was a heatwave at the base and you were MELTING

"Mine's baggy. More airflow." König stared down at you, his arms folded across his chest. "Why don't you take it off?"

"Fuck off you manky wank-stain." You laugh, shaking your head. "Bloody hell." You whine, the heat irritating you.

"I have a spare hood if you want it, liebe." He offered. "Come." He gestures for you to follow him and you do. He takes you to his room and he rumages through his drawer, tossing you a shirt with two holes in it.

"The bloody hell is this?" You giggle, looking at the massive shirt. "Your a size.. XXL?" You look at the tag.

"Just put the shirt on, selbstgefällig." He rolls his eyes which widen when he sees you take your mask off. It was truly a beautiful sight. Your cheeks pink and flushed from the heat, some strands of hair stick to your forehead. It was all interrupted when you slipped the shirt over your head.

"Schatz.." He mumbles. "Your very pretty, you know. You don't need it." He holds his head low.

"Thank you, König thats very kind of you." You smile under the shirt and adjust it. "Thanks for the hood aswell." You step forward and cup where you think his face is from under the mask. "I'll wear this more often."

You leave the room, leaving König flustered, flabbergasted and head over heels in love.

___

here u go pookies come here and kiss me

[celestialtarot11]

Why people can’t get enough of you 🪽🤍

Hi friends! We’ll be looking at your astrology chart more in depth to decipher why people can’t get enough of you! This doesn’t just relate to physical aspects—but more so how you carry yourself. Feel free to like reblog & comment to spread love

Leo—The way your eyes burn with passion and sparkle with enthusiasm for the things you love enamors people. People feel like they could listen to you talk about your path, your journey to creating who you are. You’re inspirational. Your words inspire others to become a better version of themselves and when people are with you, you help them to unconsciously alchemize any wounds related to their inner child. You help them feel safe unconsciously, which is why they view you as authentic and genuine—thus making them irresistibly attracted to you. You awaken something primal in people so they can make an active change in their lives. A shot of espresso truly. You’re like a flurry of soft energy yet its powerful enough to leave people scrambling behind you—all puppy like and following your lead. You have then on the tip of their toes and they don’t even realize it until its too late.

Cancer—the knowledge you harbor about your emotional world is so attractive. The way you understand duality, logic vs intuition, trauma vs healing, and the way you articulate your healing experiences is what draws people in. You may already participate in some form of manifestation in your life, and people can feel that luminary charm you carry. You’re like a siren on a dark night, sharp and all seeing yet graceful. People feel when they’re with you, you soothe yet awaken something so deep in them. It scares people, because most of them don’t understand what is changing within them unconsciously when they’re with you. It’s because you inspire them to think deeply beyond surface level awareness. People may find it easy to talk to you, opening up or sharing something deep within the first meeting, because your energy is inviting them to alchemize their wounds.

Scorpio—Your energy is infectious. I’ve noticed scorpios with this placement are pretty open and have a sarcastic kind of humor. People are attracted to the way you banter and how you do it effortlessly. It’s easy—laughter, joy, and yet they feel like they don’t completely know you when they’re with you. They feel as though you’re like fog, hard to grab yet it’s right there. Always dissipating. But that makes it even more exciting, right? People like to think they know you—until you do something that doesn’t fit in their narrative. They may find you even more complex, and driven by the things they don’t understand about you, they fall into your charm. Easy. You have them in your grasp just by remaining a mystery.

Capricorn—Your dedication, hard work and ability to remain steady in what you do is attractive. If placed in the first house you take care of yourself with a sense of dedication and respect. There is something luxurious to your energy. Like you’re the best, top up there is. And people feel as though they miss out on your rich valuables experiences you give only to those you trust. Your inner circle is small which is why people on the outside want in. They want to be apart of your circle and secret garden. But you know your worth and people know you have a sharp eye. This is something people admire yet find themselves crumbling at—because they know if they want to talk to you they better have their shit together. They can’t come to you playing games. God/goddess energy. You bring them to their knees and people fantasize about you taking control.

Sagittarius—There is something heavier about your energy that people feel drawn to. Although ruled by Jupiter, your influence is felt heavily. So is your presence. There is something uncanny about the way you carry yourself, and I mean more so eerie. The way you talk as if you know more yet choose to not say it, the looks you give when you know there is more to it yet you remain private about it. People catch on and form an interest towards you. What’s your intentions? Goals? Ambitions? People may see you working random hours or doing something they didn’t think you’d be doing—which only garners their interest. People just want to know what’s going on in that head of yours. You’re driven by your intuition and instincts, yet you remain razor sharp logically. Your mind works like a piston and people are attracted to your ability to analyze situations with ease.

Virgo—You’re here to have a good time, a lot of people know this. Your open energy is what makes it easy to talk to you and get to know you. The thing is, people find themselves leaving your conversations confused. Confused because they felt they were getting to know you yet only end up with more questions. This is because you’re multi-dimensional. You’re multi-faceted. You’re quick with banter and teasing, and suddenly you’re looking out the window with a somber expression explaining your theories of life (lol love you virgos) and yet people are captivated by both your sides. Your airy, loopy and sweet side, and this grounded, analytical presence you have. This part of you that becomes sentimental to understand life is so precious and pure, and yet it’s there due to working through years of trauma. It’s like you’ve alchemized your bitterness into molasses and people want more. More of your authentic pureness, your somberness. They feel as though they’re in a movie with you.

Pisces—When people thought they knew you they were completely incorrect. People usually deem you as quiet, meek, or complacent. But then they get into your little world and they are met with surprise. Either you’re really great at a certain skill, and they’ve clearly underestimated you because of your ability to hide and scurry—and now when they see you. In all your glory, it’s as if people are dumbstruck. This is what pulls them in. They begin to understand all these different parts of you, and the thing is you may end up confused by yourself, surprised even. Because when you’re with people they bring different parts of you out. So every time you’re with someone it’s never the same experience. It’s always unique. They will never find you in anyone else. It’s hard to replicate the moments and memories with you, which is why people cling to you and stay in your energy. People appreciate your multi faceted nature and realize they can’t take you for granted, it would be a huge mistake. A huge error on their part because there is nothing else comparable to your energy.

Aquarius—People, when they look at you they know something is different. Something is unique. You’ve figured out, or you’re experimenting with a style. A way of speaking, a way of coordinating yourself. Maybe it’s your cultural background. There is something unmistakably “put together,” about you, even if you understand nothing in your life is necessarily that way. The thing is you may understand you’re a mere human being yet when others look at you there’s a sense of otherworldliness. I think it’s because you’ve seen many dimensions and eras in your life. The deepest parts of your hurt and shame, to the parts that have healed. You carry all of that in you like a moving picture, that changes over time. And in every frame you change subtly. So when people look at you—they see painting in progress yet complete and whole. When people are talking to you, they find themselves gaping, star struck at your wisdom and your thoughts. People think, before I met you, I always used to do this thing one way until I met you. I used to think this way until I met you. You are like a star in the dark night.

Gemini—You are like a fairy tale come alive. Quizzical, in character and buoyant with this joy to see the world. Even though it’s just the day apart from yesterday. People may look at you and admire your thirst for understanding the world. Yet you know there is something so much deeper than what meets the eyes. So you like to observe, analyze, all whilst hiding your trump card up your sleeve. Because you’re smart. And I think people underestimate this completely—your deep black hole of a mind. Until you decide to show that side. To see their reaction, to test the waters. People feel scrutinized under you, yet can’t help but enjoy it. The way you look at them, the way you analyze them like they’re prey. They like your attention to detail. They are drawn to you because there’s this sense of authority around you. And they know it’s because you’re smart and intelligent, and they feel like a fool for underestimating you. They’re attracted and want to know more, and it humbles them. People feel humbled when they’re around you. Its the way you communicate effectively and precisely yet throw in a joke or two. Easy. And people admire your fluid sense of communication. And the cadence of your voice, your expressive eyes. All of it.

Aries—People are attracted to you because of your ability to sit back and enjoy, yet get to work and grind. You’re not afraid of getting your hands dirty, and people find this liberating. They find it liberating to be around you because they don’t feel judged in doing the same. There is a sense of wearing your heart on your sleeve even if it’s been hurt. Your resilience in accepting what was—and honoring your imperfections is what inspires others. Your sense of accomplishment, purpose, and freedom is what inspires others too. Your authority and need to be on-top is also what instills fear in others, because they know stepping on your toes won’t end pretty. People are attracted to your efficiency, your energy. It’s like fireworks. Sparkling yet looming and ominously beautiful. It comes with a thunder too. So people are attracted to the way you take up space without an apology. Authentically being yourself. Thriving in your communities.

Taurus—Ever so slow and calculating. Yet undeniably beautiful and effortless. Your charm is what sways others first, they are called in by your presence. There is a sense of boldness yet undeniable gentleness in the way you handle your heart. And people are attracted to both sides of you. The grounded, stern and reasoning side. And the side that nurtures and holds space, and allows for growth. You’re like spring. Sewing in the seeds for a better future, laying down beds of soil. Letting the sun shine. Letting yourself rain when ready. People admire your process of growth and healing, and find themselves also feeling safe to experience their growth around you too. Your words of wisdom are strong and hold a sense of firmness. It feels unshakeable. This comforts others because it sounds less of a question, and more of a statement. You’re affirming what people like to hear. And it’s smart. Because it works. People are attracted to you like moths to a flame. I think apart of you is very good with your word, you say it when you mean it, and only say it when necessary. So people find themselves wanting to know more of your thoughts. What is your view on xyz, because there is something poetic about how you speak too.

Libra—Your sense of freedom is what draws people in. Your ability to let loose and bring down peoples walls is powerful. When people are around you they feel as though you are a social butterfly. You’re always engaged in something even if it’s small. You’re apart of some community and people view you as intelligent, loyal to your work, and yet sweet and funny. People find themselves gravitating to your open energy because when they are with you, they feel they can put their cards on the table. And sometimes you think it’s their mistake of being so open, because now you can read them. Now you can understand them deeper. And although you radiate an open energy, there is still something undeniably unbridled and unsettling about you. Maybe it’s the look you give people when you realized you caught onto something they said, whereas others ignore it. Maybe it’s in the way you discreetly make a joke about your life, and people find themselves asking for clarification. Only for you to hide it. People are drawn to the personas you play at work, and in social settings. They feel as though there is something more to you yet can’t put their tongue on it.

Thanks sm for reading yall! Very poetic post 👀 in the meantime I’ve rested up pretty well during the weekend indulging in leon kennedy edits lmao. My man. Enjoy yall.

Extra

Paid readings 🤍

[slushycoookie]

Kinktober Day 22 ~ Pain Kink

Logan Howlett x Fem! Reader

Summary: Logan likes a little pain every now and then.

A/N: Hope you all enjoy!

Prev *✧･ﾟ: Next Kinktober '24 Masterlist

“Oh yeah, right there baby.”

Logan grunts, the grip on your hip gets tighter while you're bouncing on his cock. His hips meet yours with each thrust.

It's supposed to be a quickie before you two start teaching, hence why everything is fast. Your wet pussy feels like a slip-and-slide. Logan’s head back, his stomach twisting while you didn't stop. The desperate raise of your hips is addictive. Your whimper and sobs show him that you are close too.

“You can do it, sweetheart.”

For added stability, you reach out to hold on his shoulders. Due to the fast pace, you end up scratching your boyfriend. Hard. Blood pooling down from the fresh wound. It creates a nice burn, cum leaking out of his tip.

“Fuck, do that again.” His hips sharply met with yours, getting you to cry out. You don't ask questions before scratching him again. Logan’s hold tightens, feeling his climax build up. A guttural growl escapes him, his eyes on yours for you to do it again.

So you do and he cums. Unleashing his seed inside you. The grip on your hips is sure to cause bruises.

Logan checks the time, hearing everyone out and about for class. He knows you want to ask him what that was about, but it'll have to wait.

“I'll see you?”

“Yeah, see ya.”

The entire day of classes felt longer than they should be.

Logan wasn't looking forward to explaining what happened this morning. He's a person who experiences pain every day. When he heals, there's a slight tingle involved. One that's comparable to the feelings he gets during sex. But the pain before it is addicting. That prickling feeling lingers for a few seconds right before his body repairs itself. He didn't know if you would understand.

Sure, being mutants connects you two to each other. But your abilities are different. You may view him differently.

It's why he tries to avoid looking at you in the kitchen when you two prepare for monthly movie night in the mansion. Logan notices your face twisting while you're waiting for the popcorn to pop, wanting to ask.

“Just spit it out.”

“Spit out what?”

Logan harshly opens the microwave, not wanting to deal with the popping popcorn. “You're trying to figure out how to ask me about what happened this morning.”

“I…well...” You purse your lips, closing the microwave. “I'm not bothered by it. I didn’t know you were into that.”

“It's not exactly a good conversation topic.”

“It is if two people are being intimate with one another.” Logan sucks his teeth and you double down, “I'm serious. If you're into…pain, then you should tell me. I can make that work.”

He shifts, replaying what you said in his head. “Really?”

“Yep. I started doing research about it during our breaks too.”

That ‘L’ word is hovering over the tip of his tongue.

“Don’t be embarrassed.” You give him a quick kiss on his cheek.

“I'm not.” Logan’s palm ghosts over your kiss before helping you carry drinks.

After a much-needed conversation, you start to experiment. ‘Accidentally’ stepping on Logan's foot while getting a mission briefing from Scott. The room being used was a little cramped, causing people to get close to one another. Your wonderful body brushes against his, your sweat mingling with a sweet scent. Logan has plenty of self-control, or else he'd be groaning right then and there.

Other times when you sit on Logan's lap while he smokes, you snatch the cigar away from him, replacing it with your lips. The remnants of smoke imprint on you. You hold up the cigar, asking for permission. He allows you and presses the burning tip against his bicep. Logan groans into your mouth, a bulge forming in his pants. The cigar leaves a nice sting before he heals the wound. You're rolling your hips along his erection and he decides to continue this in his bedroom.

When he's tasting your delicious cunt, your delicate fingers running through his thick brown hair, you roughly pull on the strands. It makes him groan, hips bucking into the mattress. You do it again, urging him to keep going. A stain will form in his boxers if you keep doing that. So you do and Logan can't hold back in cumming in his jeans, panting into your soaked pussy.

You don't make fun of him. Tell him he's being weird about whatever he's into. You stroke his head, soothing the pain as if his healing factor didn't do it for him already. All while you tell him you love him.

Tags:

@fandomfics @freythecrazyfae @maddyperezzzsstuff

@mynamesstevenwithav @eyes-ofhell @maxad99

@howlingco @cherrypieyourface @snails-doodles22

@siren-141 @nega-omega @sweetimpurity

@hehekittyhawk @spencerswh0r3 @saintdiior

@maliaofthevalley @wolverigrl @pigeonmama

@shybluebirdninja @tomie-it-girl @antishadow2021

@honey-and-olives @yxtkiwiyxt @wtfhasmy-lifecometo

@ripleyswife @davidboqie @angelic-sturniolos111

@golden-ebony @ethanhoewke @marit332

@smokeywhalee

[with-my-calamitous-love]

STARRY EYES SPARKIN’ UP MY DARKEST NIGHT

touya todoroki x reader

you and touya find solace together, dancing barefoot in the kitchen.

separate from my other touya x reader series. i missed writing short little tidbits for him 🤍 i can write a part two if you guys want! slight nsfw themes

inspired by call it what you want (and all too well)

honestly, he though it was stupid.

after a 2 hour long session of touya being knee deep between your thighs, taking you to heaven and back on the couch, he allows you to pull him towards the kitchen. here, he’s wearing nothing but jeans that he can’t even be bothered to zip up. not that you’re complaining- he’s sculpted like a masterpiece.

touya’s enjoying the view as well, watching you in a big t-shirt and not much else. if he can’t dance, he’ll at least admire the way the fabric clings to you in the glow of the fridge lightbulbs.

some american singer plays in the background, singing about her reputation. shes not the only noise going on, however. the quiet domesticity of your shitty apartment is loud and clear to the two of you. and somehow, its more romantic than grand gestures or fancy, expressions of love.

for a man who never knew the love of home, he sure cherished the fact that his and your laundry were both thrown into the same cycle. he loves the smell of rice cooking in the fridge, and handily fixing that leak in the sink you didn’t know was there. he chuckles when you join him in the shower, not being able to withstand the cold temperatures he prefers to bathe in. he loves the sound of running water when he washes the dishes after you cook, and your soft breathing when he hushes you to sleep.

its so mundane. so simple. so familiar.

nobody’s heard from him in months. his scarred hands make their way to your waist, holding you as you sway back and forth. you fit in his arms like a daydream, his head hanging low as he decides this is the place he wants to be.

your forehead presses against his, searching those burning blue eyes for any signs he may not really love you the way he says. any doubts or any lies.

you find none.

you step on his toes accidentally and he teases you, because of course he does- “thought you were the expert on this, doll.” he smirks, flashing that same shit-eating grin you came to love.

you roll your eyes, hushing him up by moving in closer. “i told you, i am. you’re horrible at this.” you chuckle. he loves that laugh of yours.

“i’m a stone-cold villain, not some ballroom dancer.” he reminds you, though the way he suddenly twirls you around says otherwise. maybe he just wanted to see the way your hair dances around your body, your simple beauty captivating him enormously.

touya loves you like you’re brand new. the way he looks at you, taking in every detail silently. to him, you make dancing barefoot in the kitchen look like a sky full of stars.

suddenly, all the judgement from your past disappears. the heartbreak, jokers taking swings at you and liars calling you one fade to nothing when you look at him. you crumble his castles, the walls he builds up just with your gentle touch. he doesn’t understand how you do it, or even why he loves it so much.

for all his life, he’s made the same mistakes. bridges burn, people hurt and baring scars- he almost never learns. but when he looks at you, god- he knows he’s done one thing right. he finds it in him to laugh with you, to feel the happiness he never knew he was allowed to experience. yeah, you’re definitely the 1 thing he’s done right.

“you know you can’t save me, right?” he asks in a whisper, head dipping down to your ear. and he’s right. he’s someone who, no matter how much you love him, you can’t burn stronger than his flames. he wants to be sure. he wants to know you’re here, dancing with him in the kitchen of your apartment, willing to get your heartbroken. he’s steeling himself for the pain he’s about to cause you.

if love could save us, we’d live forever.

but right now, he’ll keep dancing with you.

“…i know.” you whisper, silent resignation in your voice. at the very least, you two have right now.

if you could, you’d wear TT around your neck. not because he owns you- touya could never own or even deserve someone as kind and light as you. but he can say that he knows you, and loves you harder than anyone you have ever known. his tortured heart burns the brightest for you.

its more than anyone else could say. they could berate you, call you two criminals and lash out in violence. but the two of you challenged them- let them call it what they want. they don’t know what it really is, anyway.

for @crushmeeren whose kind words on a vent post i made earlier this week inspired me to write🤍🫧

[extremely-judgemental]

I hated Cassian long before Nesta came into the picture. With SF, since it’s his narration, I hoped it would make me like him. Boy, was I wrong. Here are my reasons.

Cassian has a terrible childhood. He grows up in a camp where the adults are abusive and children are pitted against one another. He has to fight, bet and win supplies from other kids to survive. Until Rhysand’s mother takes him in. His life then takes a drastic turn and becomes far more bearable. Cassian’s basic needs such as shelter, clothing and food are taken care by Rhysand and his mother who live in a magical house that caters to them, while the other kids are scavenging for the same at the end of the day.

If you can’t confer this from the little we know about Cassian’s early life, I don’t think you will understand the rest below.

This is a huge privilege Cassian enjoys but never realises. No one else in the camp is ever subjected to this mercy. Cassian’s behaviour or view doesn’t change after experiencing the shift first hand and still carries the victim mentality after five centuries.

This is shown from the way he and Rhysand treat Azriel. He’s older than the two. He has no experience flying or fighting which is a common knowledge and everyone in the camp considers an ‘embarrassment’. Also, he has scar marks on his hands which are very obvious indication of his prior life. He chooses to learn to fly on his own, away from everyone because of the humiliation. Cassian admits, without remorse to the point of boasting about it, to seeking him out, beating Azriel up, and mocking him. This doesn’t happen in a training pit where they have no choice but to fight. Cassian then offers to help him learn, which is very similar to the ‘reach your hand’ tactic he uses with Nesta later.

He is clearly abusive to Azriel, a boy who’s been traumatised by his half-brothers, without a reason. None of his previous excuses of survival apply here as he doesn’t need it. The next day, Rhysand joins him.

A little tangent, I’m still convinced a little that both of them only chose to help this particular boy because of his shadowsinger abilities. They just didn’t want anyone else to get to him first. In the one year in between, they never took anyone under their wing. If they had truly wanted to help, they could have done very well without the abuse. Mocking I understand since it’s a hostile environment of young boys.

Azriel accepts them as friends which is often used as an explanation for Cassian/Rhysand’s good intentions. His own family treated him like a prisoner, his brothers torturing him whenever they pleased. He’s never met anyone outside the ones chosen by his family or known kindness in his life. He doesn’t see this as abuse because he wouldn’t be able to tell right from wrong. He accepts the two boys who beat him to pulp and then ‘help’ him because they are comparatively better than his true brothers who burned his hands for a laugh. It doesn’t make Cassian/Rhysand a better person.

Coming back to Cassian’s privileges. Rhysand is the heir of HL of NC. Other kids could hate him and beat him up in training but no one would threaten his life even if he hadn’t been the strongest. Illyrians may defy Rhysand and his family, but no one is stupid enough to kill one of them. Now, Cassian is literally adopted by the heir and Lady of NC. He reaps all of these benefits through his arrangement whether he admits or not, and through the whole year before he and Rhysand become friends until Azriel’s arrival.

After Rhysand becomes HL, Cassian is made his War General. Sure, he is powerful, and his seven siphons and the Carynthian status prove it. But in the eyes of other soldiers, he’s the one Rhysand favoured over them because they are best friends. It’s a common mentality in such situations and Cassian doesn’t try to prove himself to them.

Illyrians live only in Illyria and in bands. Cassian moved to Velaris when he’s a War General and expected to live among them. While the other Generals and Lords take care of these people, he lives in a secret city and only visits these camps for appearances. He doesn’t own a place here as he always stays at the same Windhaven house, also considering he doesn’t own one in Velaris either. He essentially strips himself away from their core identity and traditions while expecting them to respect him as their own when he lives like a prince since Rhysand.

He also destroys an entire camp avenging his mother right after he becomes a warrior.

During Amarantha’s reign, he’s in Velaris while Illyria is suffering. Since some of the bands are allied with Amarantha, they must have known Cassian and Azriel weren’t UtM, letting them believe IC has truly abandoned their people. Immediately after her death, the three hunt the rest of these bands and kill them instead of giving a proper justice/punishment. After all this, he expects them to obey his commands in a war without questioning him.

In the 500 years, he does nothing to change the lives of these people. There are few mentions of banning wing clipping which is not enforced though. He could have improved the lives of young boys by advocating for better conditions—hostels, proper meals, and clothes without having to fight each other for it, maybe a few new rules for this brutal training. But none of it. He hands out blankets in winter to his people. Given how much Rhysand and Feyre boast about their wealth, they could ration out these provisions for everyone every month or year instead of making it look like charity from Cassian.

In 500 years, he manages to start a female fight club which garnered like. . .20 women (iirc). It’s obvious it was just a plot leading to Valkriyes and for Nesta’s arc. Even then, these women are doing chores and then training. He berates the men around these women, provoking them and returning to Velaris, leaving them to endure more hatred/violence from their people.

He literally doesn’t do anything of importance. He trains, bullies, and picks fights. His dream to reform his race is pathetic since he literally does nothing.

And then there’s Morrigan situation. Everyone makes it sound like a favour he did to her. Cassian could have denied her. He did it only to hurt Azriel and tear the two apart. He admits to his jealousy, and to his regret which he feels after he gets what he wants. And he so vividly describes how the sex goes. This is how far this regret extends. Playing buffer means being in the same room as them so the situation doesn’t get out of hand, or interrupting the conversion to keep it comfortable. But he flirts with Morrigan knowing it hurts Azriel and exchanges inappropriate gifts with her in front of everyone including his mate.

I’m not going to get into the whole SF disaster here. But, there’s one scene in MAF where they visit the Archeron’s estate for the first time. Cassian has so much empathy for the Illyrian women doing chores in the camps but doesn’t extend the same to Nesta who had been doing it since their mother died (or at least after they lost their servants) and their family fell into poverty. He understands the struggles of being poor and his heart breaks for Feyre who once starved but not Nesta and Elain who must have gone through the same too.

Cassian is not a villain in anyone’s story but he’s a man child and bully. He’s a classic abuser whose targets and methods constantly evolve. He’s a hypocrite. He states how grateful he is to Rhysand but not to the perks he enjoys every single day. He loves to play the victim while abusing and hurting the ones around him. He loves to exercise his power and authority while pretending to be an underdog. Illyria being a fucked up place filled with cruel people is just an excuse for Cassian to be cruel. It’s a cover up for how ugly he truly is.

[theemporium]

just clicked through your mv33 core and I feel like, since max didn't really have a rebellious teen phase, reader doing funny stuff with him? maybe skinny dipping or shotgunning all the weird stuff one tries as teen

why would you hurt me like this?? i am so soft?? oh my god?? this could be like a whole series🤠anyways thank you for requesting!🫶🏽

.

“This is stupid.” 

“It’s a pivotal part of teenage rebellion!” 

“Which teenager is stupid enough to do this?” 

“I did it when I was a teenager.” 

“I rest my case.”

You shot the boy a look, but he only grinned in response. 

When you were introduced to the world of Formula One, you had a million and one different people telling you what you should think of Max Verstappen. Whether it was journalists or paddock members or fans online, so many people were telling you what he was like. He was a villain, he was a cheat, he was everything bad with the sport. 

But when you met Max Verstappen, none of those words ever came to mind when you thought of him. 

He was blunt and straightforward with the words he spoke. But he was also undeniably caring and thoughtful. He cared deeply for the people close to him. He gave respect to everyone he met, regardless of their opinion on him. He was dedicated and hard-working, and it baffled you that this man was painted as the big, bad guy of Formula One.

The closer you got to the two-time world champion, the more you learned. There would be countless conversations where you would either find yourself on the phone to him or sat across from him on a hotel bed, legs crossed and smiles wide as you talking about anything and everything. 

When Max opened up about his childhood and lifestyle growing up, you don’t think he realised just how heartbreaking it was. He waved it all off, saying that was just how life was if you wanted to be a Formula One driver. But you didn’t buy it.

And you think, deep down, he knew that wasn’t very true either.

You wanted to change that. You wanted to give him back his years of lost childhood and teenage shenanigans, no matter how stupid or small and insignificant it may seem. You wanted to give him those memories, those experiences. And in all honesty, Max didn’t really care about it—but he liked having those experiences with you. 

“This just seems a bit pointless,” Max spoke up once again, his hands resting on his hips as he stared out at the dark water. “What do you gain from this?”

“An adrenaline rush and the thrill of hypothermia’s early stages,” you grinned back at him. “It never gets old, Verstappen. Skinny-dipping is a key experience everyone must partake in before they turn thirty.” 

Max narrowed his eyes at you. “Suddenly everything about you makes sense, Trouble.”

You grinned at the nickname. “Stop stalling, Max.” 

As much as he tried to avoid staring, he couldn’t help himself. His eyes were glued to you as he watched you pull your shirt over your head and dump it onto the sand beside you. Your shorts soon followed, and you were left in nothing but your bikini.

“Enjoying the view, Maxie?” 

His cheeks burned as he snapped his gaze away from you. He looked ahead of him, at the dark water. He could see the waves lapping against the sand, see the tide rise just before your feet before the water was dragged back in. But he couldn’t see the horizon any longer, not in the light of the moon and stars glittering in the sky.

Maybe that was what made it more thrilling. 

“Fine,” Max huffed before he pulled his shirt over his head. “Let’s do this.”

“That’s the spirit, Verstappen!” 

Max wasn’t even sure what he would feel. He almost imagined an epiphany would hit him the second his body was submerged in the ocean water, that the burning desire to make all the memories you spoke about would become stronger. 

Instead, he was just painfully aware that he was naked in the ocean, with his best friend a few feet away, also naked and grinning at him like he meant something.

“Don’t you feel refreshed?” You called out to him, your arms swaying back and forth to stay afloat. 

“I feel like you might have had a more boring childhood than I did if this is what you did for fun,” he retorted, his lips twitching upwards when he heard you laugh. 

“This is only the beginning, Max,” you said to him, almost like your words were a promise. “We are going to give you the crazy teenage life you should have had.”

His smile was more sincere. “I can’t wait for you to show me the world, Trouble.”

.

[turtletaubwrites]

Bend Until You Break ~ Part 3

Thank you so much for this request from the lovely @anemptypuddingcup !!🖤

Pairings: YANDERE!Trafalgar Law x Fem!Reader

Bend Until You Break ~ Masterlist

Word Count: 3208

Ao3 Link

Summary: Law gives you the choice to go against your doctor's recommendations as you begin your recovery. Are you clear headed enough to make the right choice?

Rating/Warnings: Explicit Sexual Content, 18+ ONLY, MDNI, AFAB!Reader, She/Her Pronouns for Reader, Reader-Insert, DARK CONTENT, DUBCON, Dubious Consent, Swearing, Eventual Smut, Yandere, Manipulation, Power Imbalance, Hypermobility, Medical Examination, Medical Trauma, Medical Conditions, Chronic Pain, Injury, Physical Disability, Physical Therapy, Doctor/Patient, Abuse of Authority, Kidnapping, Possessive Behavior, Other Additional Tags to be Added, (Reader is described as having hair "above her shoulders" that she can brush), Needles, Drugs, Arguing, Massage, Praise Kink, Pain, Dissociation, Humiliation, Gaslighting, Non-Consensual Drug Use, (Implied)

A/N: I hate hospitals 😩 But for Law I might make an exception... Some of these medical issues may or may not have come from personal experience 🙃

Extra A/N: I am not a doctor, and this is not meant to be educational, or to contain any health advice. Please seek a health professional.

| masterlist | about me | rules | ao3 |

Beeping. 

What is that sound? There’s another sound.

That soun–

Fuck!

A strangled cry left your throat, pain tearing through you.

Tight, fuck it’s so tight, can’t–

Your eyes were still too droopy to open as your hands scrambled at your neck. A sharp pinch twisted against your right wrist, and you felt the pull of wires restricting its movement. 

That beeping noise was louder now.

“Y/N, you’re okay, it’s okay. I’m right here.”

Law’s deep voice pulled you out, giving you a reason to open your eyes. He pulled your hands away from scratching at the neck brace, and you slumped with relief at his touch. 

Only to let out a choked scream at the pain.

“Shh, I’ve got you. Can you stay still for me? I know you can, you’re so strong.”

“I don’t want to be strong anymore.”

Your confession slipped quietly from your trembling lips as you tried to acclimate to the pain, tried to be still for him. 

His brow creased as he looked down at you, and you felt pathetic. You wanted to take it back.

Law brought those cool, tattooed fingers to your face, leaving featherlight touches along your temple and cheek. Your eyes fluttered closed, burning tears starting again.

“You’re right,” he rasped, brushing your tears away with his fingers, leaving the tissues in their box this time.

“You’ve been strong for so long, haven’t you? You shouldn’t have to fight so hard every day.”

Gentle sobs left your throat, interrupted by a small gasp.

His hand still traced your face in soothing lines, until he brushed his tear soaked thumb across your lips.

Your eyelids were still heavy, but you held them open to melt into the storm gray eyes above you. 

“You don’t need to be strong with me, Y/N,” he breathed, close enough to leave the warmth of his words on your face. “I’ll save you.”

~

Beeping.

I’m with Law. I’m okay.

Foggy dreams of Law’s hands on your face made your skin flush before you opened your eyes. 

That beeping got louder as you fought off the embarrassing thoughts you were having about your doctor’s hands, but the slight shift you made in the bed had you forgetting it all, groaning in pain.

“Nice and slow, Y/N. You’re safe, just take some deep breaths.”

Your doctor stepped into view, his eyes scanning your body before gifting you with a gentle smile. 

Attempting a small stretch of your arms was a bad choice, but it brought your attention to the rest of your body. 

The bed was still angled so that your upper body was lifted. Lying flat had been excruciating. But even with your raised position, it was difficult to look down at yourself over the neck brace. 

“Where are my clothes,” you muttered, looming horror growing at the feeling of a hospital gown against your skin. 

“I apologize, Y/N,” Law admitted gently, tilting his head toward the beeping machine. “I needed to monitor your vitals to ensure your safety since we used that medication to help you sleep. I’m afraid I had to cut through your top to avoid injuring your neck further. I was able to save your bra, and I have scrubs you can wear once your neck is healed enough for you to pull the clothes on by yourself.”

He just said a whole bunch of words. 

Your brain decided the best way to handle all of the emotions flying through your head was to ignore them.

“Why do I have an IV?” You changed the subject, lifting your wrist, and tugging all the tubes with it. 

“Again, since you hadn't had that drug before, I took this as a safety precaution. I assumed you would prefer a single needle versus the potential of many if I needed to administer more medication,” he explained as he disconnected you from the tubes, but left the placement on your wrist. “You’ve also been receiving fluids, which is essential after the traumatic night you had.”

A nod made you wince, so you thanked him softly, feeling warmth move through your chest as another hint of a smile touched his lips. 

“Do you have the energy to move, Y/N? I’d like to show you the room, and do another physical exam to see if you’ve improved since last night.”

The thought of moving hit you with the sudden realization that you needed to fucking pee.

“Is there a bathroom,” you asked, holding your breath from embarrassment. 

“Of course, it’s right here. Let me help you.”

After many whimpers, and groans, and heavy breaths, you were on your feet. Shaking with pain as he led you to the door, you knew that nothing else could have motivated you to walk right now. 

“Do you need help sit–”

“I’ll be fine,” you blurted out, closing the door. 

He’s my doctor. This is fine. He’s helping me because I’m injured, and he’s my doctor.

Those thoughts did not diminish your embarrassment, especially when you did struggle to fucking sit down. 

Gritting your teeth, and clinging to the safety bar, you managed to keep at least some sliver of your dignity by not yelling for him to help you. 

Shame rocked through you as you washed your hands, avoiding looking in the mirror. You didn’t want to know how wrecked you looked. 

But you looked anyway. 

You wanted to splash some water on your face, but couldn’t bend down to do it. 

“Y/N, are you doing alright in there?”

“I’m fine,” you called out as you fought with the ties of the gown. 

Oh my gods, he took all of my fucking clothes off.

That knowledge kicked in again as you tried to make sure every inch of your ass was covered.

“Can you put me to sleep again,” you half joked, taking his hand as he helped you through the door. 

“We don’t want to overdo it,” he said in that serious tone he’s so good at, leading you slowly toward the center of the room.

He sat backwards in that rolling chair. 

But his chair isn’t that color…

“Is this the same room,” you interrupted him, looking around by turning your body instead of your head. You couldn’t tell if the weird sounds you were hearing were real, or if you were just getting a headache from moving around.

“No,” he hummed, nodding slowly at you. “I’m impressed you were able to notice that in this state.” 

You followed the line of his arm as his tattooed finger pointed to a large door. 

“Those are my quarters. I had you moved to an adjacent room so that I can be close if you are in pain, or become injured again. That vent is open so I’ll be able to hear if you need me.”

“O-Oh…”

He shifted his hand again, and you turned to follow it, your eyes a bit wide.

“You already know where your bathroom is. The third door leads out into the corridors of the Polar Tang, but Y/N,” he said, his voice taking on more force, “I request that you refrain from leaving these quarters until you are steadier on your feet. I would hate for you to become injured under my care.”

“But how–”

“Y/N,” he rasped, that low voice pulling you in, “let’s complete the exam before you tire yourself out, alright?”

“Okay.”

“There you go,” he purred, “I love seeing you take care of yourself. Do you consent to me touching you?”

Your ‘yes’ was barely audible as you tried not to let his words, and the way his words sounded with that dangerous voice, make you fall over. 

Feeling his fingers on you might be your favorite thing in the world. Even as you whimpered in pain while he checked along your shoulders and spine. 

“This seems to be the problem area,” he noted, tracing lightly over your left shoulder down between your shoulder blade and spine, rubbing along a few of the vertebrae. 

“But my neck?”

“Everything’s connected, Y/N,” he breathed over your ear, making you shiver and wince. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you learn how your body works.”

Fuck, his voice.

There was no way, no fucking way that you could be dripping wet in a hospital gown while your body was stiff with pain. No way that tight coil of pressure could be building in your core over the only doctor that had ever helped you, ever believed you. 

I can’t fuck this up. 

“Are you feeling alright?”

“Mhm,” you lied, catching yourself before you nodded this time. 

“Let’s have you sit down. We need to take the brace off, so I can examine your neck again. It is going to be painful. Are you ready, or would you like to take a break first?”

~

“Fuck fuck fuckfuckfuck.”

“You are doing so well for me,” Law praised, gently removing the brace to press against your neck, asking you questions while you tried not to move.

How can I like his fingers touching me like this? What is wrong with me?

“Look at you. I’m so proud of how you’re handling this,” he rasped, soothing your whimpers as he secured the brace again.

“When will I be able to go home?”

Law’s jaw shifted a bit as he sat back, and it felt like the air in the room got heavy. 

“As your doctor, I had to make the call to protect your health. We left your island, and my recommendation is that you remain with me for the time being. I think we both realized that one more week of treatment would not be enough support for your chronic condition. This incident with your neck further proves your need to receive continued treatment.”

“Left the– We’re underwater,” you said in a small voice, realizing what the strange clanking sounds in the background must be. 

“You took me away,” you asked softly as your boyfriend’s warnings about Law started playing in your mind.

Fear ran through you then, and the metal room grew smaller, your oxygen growing harder to find. Panic hit your lungs, fast, shallow, useless breaths spiking your neck with pain.

“Y/N,” he drawled, that voice almost frightening now.

“But you were going to be there another week. Why did you take me? Why–”

“Y/N, I will take you back right now if that's what you want,” he soothed, voice warm and inviting. “Please let me explain why I had to make that choice. You weren’t able to make decisions for your own health and safety at the time. As your doctor, I had to do what I believed was best for your wellbeing.”

You stilled, your breath slowing, but staying shallow. That fuzzy distance started to take over, but you dug your nails into your palms to try to focus on what your doctor was saying. 

“Your boyfriend came to the ship in the morning, demanding to take you home.”

The image in your mind built up. That fight. The keys you left in the open door. 

You jolted a bit as Law laid his hand on your clenched fist. 

“He refused to listen when I explained your condition, and that it would be dangerous to move you so soon. He…” Law took in a heavy breath, looking to the ground as he shook his head. When he met your eyes again, his were deep and sad, but etched with kindness. 

“Y/N, your boyfriend accused me of taking advantage of your ‘obsession with being sick.”

Those words were thick like the nausea rising in your throat. 

He did say little things sometimes. Things that made it seem like he didn’t believe me. 

Law’s thumb stroked the back of your fist until you relaxed your hand. He took it in his before continuing with a gentle voice.

“He threatened to return with a group to take you by force. You are my patient, Y/N. I could not in good conscience release you in this current state. I had to make the call since couldn’t.”

That inner distance was coming again, all the sounds feeling washed out. Until he squeezed your hand, leaning in close. 

He smells good. 

“As your doctor, I must always do what is in your best interests. I believe that you should remain here under my care, at least until we have time to make progress with physical therapy. Until you feel safer in your own body.”

Your eyes had to close. It was all too much.

“However, it will always be your decision, Y/N,” he comforted. His voice was smooth, and thick, like some rich dessert. “If you choose to go against my recommendations, I will turn around right now. If you want to go back home, I will take you. All you have to do is tell me what you want.”

A trembling mouth opened, but you had no words to speak. 

“Y/N, I need you to really think about this. Think about what’s best for you.”

Law massaged your hand as he spoke in that liquid voice, a shiver breaking you out of the fog. 

“Where was he, Y/N,” he asked, not pausing for an answer. “You walked all the way here on your own, didn’t you? The amount of pain you were in was frightening, yet you chose to suffer alone. Why didn’t you ask for his help?”

He caught your rush of tears with a tissue, his voice raspy as he came closer to dry your face. 

“Do you want to go back to a place where all the doctors treat you like you’re crazy?”

Years of frustration, anger, and pain fell on you, but you tried to stay present, tried to think straight.

“Do you want to go back to a family that doesn’t believe you? To a partner that believes you’re pretending, that thinks you want to be sick?”

No. You didn’t.

But you tried to let it go, tried to think without emotions. You wanted to shake your head, to move, to fling some of these sickening feelings off of you. 

But you couldn’t move. You were in too much pain. 

And Law is the only person who cares. 

“You know, Y/N, I understand exactly how lonely and angry you must feel.”

He trapped you in the stone wall of his eyes again, and you’d never seen this look on his face before. 

“When I was a child, myself and everyone I knew got sick. They all died.”

“I—“

“Even though I wasn’t contagious, even though I was just a child, every single doctor treated me like I was trash.”

The hand that was holding yours was squeezing tighter while you were frozen by his barely contained rage.

“There was only one person in the world who cared about me,” he muttered, the tension in his shoulders easing a bit.

“He did everything he could to save me. Even when I fought him. Even when I hurt him... He never stopped.”

The overwhelming closeness you’d felt in that metal room was easing, and the heat of tears building in your throat wasn’t for yourself this time.

Law rested his palm against your cheek, and that foggy dream floated through your mind.

“I’m not like all those doctors that abandoned us, that left us to suffer all alone,” he rasped, the twitching of his creasing brows giving you more emotion than you’d seen from him before.

“I will never abandon you, Y/N.”

His promise filled the air, as if this metal room were a ringing bell, the vibrations wracking through your body.

I feel like I should be scared. But why? He’s helping me. No one has ever helped me before. He’s just intense because he knows.

He knows this pain even more than I do. 

Of course he’d do all of this to help me. He’s just helping me.

Law kept his hand on your cheek while he waited for you to think. He didn’t push, just gave you time. You heard the heart rate monitor starting to slow as you breathed with him.

He had taught you to follow his breathing during exercises, and now it felt natural, soothing. 

“I want to stay with you. If you want to help me.”

“Of course I want to help you,” he purred, brushing a few strands from your forehead before stroking his fingers through your mussed up hair.

“I’m your doctor. You can trust me.”

~

“Law?”

“Are you alright,” he answered as he charged through the connecting door.

“I’m fine. Well, the same,” you reported, trying to shift your body up the bed. 

It was getting difficult for you to tell the passage of time underwater, but you knew it had been at least a week.

Your pain was reducing, and your range of motion was improving, but you were still on bed rest unless Law was with you to guide your movements.

“I’m sorry to bother you,” you said, a sheepish grin pulling at your lips. “I’m just… I’m so bored, Law. And if I listen to Bepo’s Uta tone dial one more time, I’m going to go insane.”

That crooked smile made your skin flush as he walked toward you. He started piling pillows onto your lap, gently moving your arms out of the way before propping them up.

“I believe you’ve healed enough to read a book with some support,” he rasped as he brought his fingers to your skin. He pressed lightly against your shoulders, your jaw, and around the edges of the brace. You only winced a little when he stuck his fingers in to check the tightness.

“Although, you’ll need to make sure you’re not straining yourself, so we’ll have to start with short periods of time. Can you do that for me, Y/N?”

“Yes,” you agreed with a smile. It felt like your birthday, finally getting to open and enjoy your presents.

“You like mysteries, right,” he asked as he walked toward the door.

“Oh, uh, yeah.” Your smile wilted just a bit as you tried to recall telling him that.

You hated being so loopy all the time. It felt like you were missing out on parts of your life. 

“This is one of my favorites,” you almost squealed, catching yourself before you wiggled in your hospital gown.

“Really,” he teased as he took it back, flipping through the pages. “I’ll go find you something you haven’t read then.”

“No, please. I love it, thank you.”

“Show me how you’ll be holding it, Y/N.”

Law’s hands on your arms made you crave his massages more than seemed healthy. With your neck as it had been, he wouldn’t risk hurting you. 

You still couldn’t lie flat anyway.

But I’m getting better. Then we can start. He can teach me how to take care of my body. He can touch me again.

Your own thoughts sent blood rushing to your face as you dove in, getting lost in one of your favorite mysteries. 

Even though you knew who the villain was, you always loved the thrill of the chase. 

And you still weren’t sure who you were rooting for. 

Likes and reblogs bring me much ✨dopamine✨ thank you so much!

a/n: I'm having so much fun 😈

Tag List: @shewrites02 | @jadeddangel | @metonimia-de-bellota | @3v37773 | @dewdropsandfrogs | @nubigenouss

Part 4

| masterlist | about me | rules | ao3 |

[honestsycrets]

brujería i: inhuman | ceo!miguel x succubus!reader

❛ pairing | ceo!miguel x succubus!reader

❛ type | doubleshot, explicit

❛ summary | since taking over his bio-father's company, miguel just can't seem to sleep. there may be someone behind that though. or, a succubus wants miguel.

❛ tags | some sacrilege, succubus!reader, ceo!miguel, sex-dreams, sleepy sex, dub!con: miguel is asleep during many encounters, exhibitionism outside of a church, f!reader, some mention of blood and wounds, au with deviations from canon, slight hurt miguel, slight caretaking peter, excessive bodily fluids, some mindgames.

❛ request fulfilled | Was wondering if i could request ceo!miguel x succubus! reader? whether he’s spider-man is completely up to you but reader is basically like a demon hiding in plain sight, toying and feeding on the sexual energy of people. maybe she’s a new hire and then she visits him in his dreams or smth. miguel becomes her target and he finds himself falling in love with her and wanting her so much it brings out an intense carnal desire inside him (1/2)

❛ sy's notes | i based some of miguel's sleep paralysis on my own experience. the catholic religious connotations are not very heavy, but if you're sensitive to that sort of thing, i'd probably skip this one.

Miguel O’Hara was never a superstitious man.

He grew up in a deeply Catholic home thick with superstition. His grandmother’s rosary still sat on his desk, enveloped in a spherical glass alongside stacks of organized paperwork on the latest drug his not-so-dearly held biological father left before he kicked it. Corruption was fiercely rooted, a fact that Miguel was not so subtle about. The papers he rifled through that morning revealed the stupidest account of Brujería among reports of Rapture.

“Brujería-- what bullshit,” he murmured as he dropped a stack of papers back onto the oak desk. He glanced at the glass tabletop and found his reflection therein. His eyes, crinkled at the edges, carried the reflection of countless days of his dark exhaustion. “Si no es una cosa es otra.”

“Miguel?”

“What, Lyla?” Miguel threw a glare at the ceiling at the AI that sang at him. She seemed far too happy with her position as the resident terror of his new office. New was an overstatement. It was his father’s before he croaked, reflected in some of his tacky taste in the things Miguel had immediately thrown out. Why else would it have a picturesque, but grandiose view of Nueva York but for a great view of the people he was destroying? The bright windows also did a bang-up job of burning his eyes

“The psychiatrist is here,” she chirped. “Are you going to tell her about your wet dreams?”

The flutters that danced over his skin at night at the strike of three. Foreign warmth caressed his skin like a warm blanket over his skin. His heart rate raced, and pleasure burrowed under his skin. It never failed that Miguel would wake to a rush of pleasure, cum painting his sheets sticky, his heart soaring into his throat. With such pleasure, why would he tell anyone but Lyla about his pathetic, ruined state that came night after night?

Miguel waved his hand in dismissal. He instead checked the chunky watch on his wrist. You're just on time. He appreciates a punctual professional given how much work he had to complete. In lieu of the report of spiritual abuse, he picks up the pile of sexual misconduct. That was a more pressing matter to address. The actual victims were far more important than some bruto’s complaint of ojos based on a huevo in some water. He should send these idiots to any middle schooler’s chemistry class. The bruja who was coming to visit him today could hardly be a source of concern.

“Why would I do that? Let her in. You listen in and I’ll unplug you.”

“You wouldn’t do that,” Lyla teased, but he knew she was right. Lyla was one of his only friends and by far the one he spent the most time with. She has patience for him. He slips his reading glasses out of their holster as the lock on his office door hisses apart, welcoming in the strange woman whose name he could never find but in Stone’s personal records. A chroí, my love, like Stone could love anyone else but himself.

“Dr. O’Hara.”

Miguel slipped the lenses on. Not only was the woman before him, not the sort of hippy-dippy woman he expected, but you were… familiar. Oh, so familiar. He’s never met you before. Yet, he finds himself inexplicably pulled to closing the gap between your bodies.

You extend your hand for him to take.

“Dr…” You finished his sentence by offering your name.

“Have I met you before?” His large hand clasped your own. A blanket of warmth blossomed from your small hand in his grip. Gentle at first, your very same small hands laced in his. The sudden realization of where he’d seen you hit him like a bullet through the head: unexpected and instantaneous. The image rippled across his mind, Miguel’s hand collared on your nape, his fat dick splitting your cunt against his office’s wide windows. Another pulse of heat soared through his hand--

Miguel jerked his hand back. What in the hell?

“¿Estás bien?” You were so close that he could smell the perfume on your skin. A dark cherry, sultry, and so good. He was swimming in the vague delusion that was your skin against his. There was something delicious about the way you looked at him, tracing the outline of his tie that sat tightly behind a constricting vest. He was hazy, clumsily falling back into his office chair. Moving was tiring with the sudden vial of desire that flooded through his veins. You were at his side in an instant.

“I’m fine,” he lied. “It’s… the heat.”

“Oh! Stone's office is always hot. Here, I'll help you,” No-- he tried to argue. Against his wishes, you slipped his suit jacket off his shoulders and down his muscular arms, loitering a bit too long along his pumped biceps. “Though, I guess it’s all yours now, isn’t it? We all are.”

Miguel has no energy to fight you, lost in the haze that was last night’s forgotten dream. He’d never met you before, that much he was sure. Yet he swore, on all that was scientific and right, that he dreamed of your body on his, emptying him of any worries as he came into the nothingness of his sheets. It wasn’t just pleasure, it was a sea of rapture, and he drowned in it.

“According to your AI, you’re burning up lately.”

How do you know? You walked around his chair, your slender heels clicking over the hardwood floor. His eyes traced the curves of your velvet red pencil dress up to your bust as you leaned in, the back of your hand taking his temperature on his forehead. Your bust had delicate black lace detailing that enhanced your natural beauty. It scorched his ability to be a decent gentleman. Every man had their limits. He’s nearly at his, and you’ve only just arrived.

“You're so warm,” you gasped, but it's strained, a crack through stained glass. “Let me help you.”

You reached for the knot of his tie. That’s enough-- Miguel shoves your hand from his neck. He tugs the charcoal tie away from his throat, drawing it away from his white button-up. You wet your lips, drawing a sheen across your perfectly applied lipstick. You came in here with a plan and purpose to inflame him-- and did just that.

“Careful.”

A pause-- your eyes challenged him, seemed to know how weak he was in resisting the strain of lust that came with your mere presence. He was losing the fight quicker than he’d like. Miguel has to focus. “Your findings on Rapture’s… trial run. Where are they?”

“Destroyed,” you answered curtly.

"Project 2099?"

“Under seal. Oh, don’t look at me like that, hermoso. It wasn’t my choice.”

Hermoso. A flicker of anger shot through him as you reclined on his desk and ran your hands across the rim. You seem to notice the rosary on his desk, eyes lingering on it for more than a few seconds. You dipped so comfortably between propriety and looseness. The distance between your easily accessible skirt and his hardening erection is the entirety of only a few steps. “Stone’s orders, not mine.”

“There are no copies?”

“Why would there be? Stone was always very persistent with what he wanted.”

You? He doesn’t ask.

Something in him doesn’t want to think of it, what his father could have done to you that would make you so willing to stand so close to him. Your gaze faltered. You bore at his groin, his sleek dark slacks straining against his length.

“Now you want to know if I fucked him, que no?”

That's a yes. The way you slip onto his desk, legs slightly apart, tells him all he needs to know. His gaze falters, down then up again, an irrational amount of envy welling low in his belly. He found himself wondering what you’ve done in this very room. You bat your long lashes, far too pretty. He isn't easily dissuaded.

“I've barely met you and you want to know everything about my work and personal life. You’re so greedy. So like him.”

“I am nothing like that man.” At that very moment, his eyes locked with yours. A distant rage filled his belly. No one, he meant no one, compared him with that maniac. His tongue twisted in his mouth, ready to make some sharp remark, but you snatched his words by leaning forward, pressing your lips to his head. Your fingertips combed through his dark hair, a warm comfort. A kiss? His hands felt heavy, weighed down by an impossible weight, one he couldn’t push off no matter how much he strained.

"Hasta luego, Miguel.”

The door closes behind you with a clap. Back in the chair, Miguel was heaving heavy breaths. The restriction on his body loosened up and allowed Miguel to grab the black mirror stashed in a drawer below his desk. Your sticky lipstick left a stain on his forehead, strained with stress lines. He wiped away the red stain of your lipstick and rolled the remnants between his thumb and middle finger.

"Like Stone," he repeated with a hiss. "Mierda."

He wracked his hand around his swollen cock-- panting as he beat himself off, ecstasy claiming that he had to have you. The insatiable need to have -- his father’s whore-- overrode any of the papers on his desk. He came into the cold nothingness that is the air, his hands coated in his own essence. Miguel untucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped himself clean.

“Lyla? Who?” he gasped a breath, “Who is that woman?”

“Beats me,” Lyla thought she was so funny. “She’s not in any electronic records.”

“Really.”

Even if that was the case, Miguel would be damned if Stone got the better of him in death. Miguel cleaned up his hand and whirled open the sexual harassment folder-- he was nothing if not a determined man.

You shouldn’t be here. No, really, you should not be employed here.

He doesn’t know your qualifications because he cannot find them. In the electronic documents, your file is bare bones. The suggestion of your education is non-verifiable but signed off by Stone himself. If it were only him, he might chalk it up to corruption. But there were others-- other dead bodies-- who signed off on your highly amended report on Rapture. The board claimed your employment was not a subject for discussion. Even if he were the face of the company, you were untouchable.

He left his office to the small coffee shop on the third floor. The man who ran it, Peter, was a refreshment from the stress of the day in his own, weird little way. It was probably the high quantity of caffeine that kept him awake.

On the surface, Miguel’s dreams are unoffensive. Light things, like fingers brushing veins that creep along his muscles, soapy breasts dragging along his chest. Using your body like a sponge to clean him after a heavy session at the gym. You are always on your knees, suckling the cum free from his cock with an angelic little flutter of your lashes and those sultry, cat-like eyes. He was in a state of constant arousal with nothing to show for it but a consistently swollen dick. At his age, he considers it a feat.

“You’re so sexy, Peter.”

There it was again. Your giggle over top of the sound of the hiss of a coffee machine. Peter was laughing, shy, or uncomfortable, he couldn’t quite tell. Miguel slips off his wire sunglasses, looking along the bar for the source.

“Hey, Miguel!”

He paced around the corner, then back. There are a few work couples and colleagues speaking with one another. Their tables are fresh with coffee and tea, tiny wrapped sandwiches a poor lunch. You’re conspicuously absent. The lack of sleep was fucking with his head, it had to be. He settled the glasses into the lining of his suit pocket and withdrew his wallet.

“Miguel! You'll never guess who came by. Uh, the usual?” Peter bounced over, leaning over the cash register with a glitter in his eye. He was more upbeat than even usual. Some girl must have made his day, he decided. Sí, he rumbled. Miguel dipped his fingers into his wallet to pull out his card only to be stopped short of the action.

“Nope,” Peter pushed Miguel’s hand away. “Someone paid for you.”

“For me?” Miguel settled the card in its proper slot. “Who?”

“You know,” Peter whispers. "The bruja."

“She was here?” he repeated, following Peter across the side of the bar as he began to make his coffee. Peter is an airhead, a wonderful airhead. Some part of him is infectious on days when he’s not being stalked by a woman with no traceable name. It was as if you were wiped clean. “When?”

“About two hours ago? She said you looked spooked and left me some money for your coffee. I think she likes you.”

You were doing more than liking him.

“And why would you think that?” Miguel pulled out a chair at the bar, humoring the scrawnier man. Peter frothed some milk, a fluffy cloud of relaxation on top of his usual coffee dusted with cinnamon and nutmeg. Miguel takes the mug from Peter, wrinkling his nose at the addition of nutmeg.

“Well, she turned down some dude from marketing,” Peter mentions. “I've been here for a while and-- she rarely turns anyone down.”

You rarely turn anyone down?

It bothered him long after he finished the coffee. You’re so sexy, Peter. You weren’t there. Peter told him that you’d been gone for two hours. He should not have heard the wisps of your caramelized voice in the coffee shop.

It’s the exhaustion, Miguel convinced himself. He just needs the weekend, to rest.

By Saturday night, he hit his last nerve.

Restful sleep would not come. He lay in his large, empty king-sized bed after searching through files for another project that had no other name but 2099 for the entirety of ten long hours. Any information-- redacted-- but your name slapped over the top and bottom of countless documents was like a great, big fuck-you O'Hara. The more he read about you, the angrier he became. You enraged him, but he was positively enthralled with your presence.

He lay in bed listening to should-be soothing jazz that now grated his ear. Night after night, his torment never failed. When he finally found an instance of peace, his muscles locked up. Not quite awake, but not quite asleep. Heavy pressure overtook his chest and arms forced him to remain still. The world fazed in and out, doom on beating alarm bells in the back of his mind. Then he felt it, the phantom pressure on his neck that slid over his tawny skin, from his belly to the dark happy trail that dipped below his silky pants.

Miguel gritted his teeth and ripped himself from his trance. When his eyes popped apart, he was greeted by his shock. Hunger flowed through him in warm waves, piercing underneath his skin. Miguel’s fingers twinged, your phantom figure on top of him. It looked like you, but misty, as though an illusion. In the darkness, he can only make out the shadows that bounce off what little light is in the room.

“Motherfucker--”

Though he said that, your teasing fingers freed him from his cozy pants, ripping them around his hirsute thighs. His length lulls against his body, a shameful drool of cum gathered at his cock. A night of phantom touches has done him in. Miguel lurched back onto his flat pillows when he was abruptly shoved down by an outrageous amount of force. With his arms thrown up by his head-- he whimpered, frustrated with tonight's-- dream, delusion, dare he say-- reality. His joints were locked by invincible chains that forced him to stay in place. The more he fought, the hotter his need became for what came next. His body was pitifully trained.

He wasn’t certain that it was you-- but it smelled so deeply of your perfume, rich and cherry, flooding his nostrils. So familiar. He glanced down at the opaque figure, grinding over his hard cock. A pair of hands crashed onto his shoulder, claws curling into his broad shoulders. Blood seeped forth. A growl gathered in his chest, ripping up when something warm and tight sunk down on his bobbing dick. Miguel gritted his teeth: it had been a long time since he’d been with anyone. Not for a lack of viable partners, but his annoyance with them all.

Despite his immense muscle, he was too weak to do anything about it. Even if he could, what would he do? Throw off the sex-crazed hallucination on his dick? You rolled your hips over him, suckling him right back up. Hypnotized by the smoky illusion, Miguel gazed on begrudgingly, grunting as you rolled over him, his dick straining your insides. He was a toy, nothing more and nothing less, used for his fat cock that split your airy body apart. His hips jerked, frustrated as he found he could go no deeper. You punished him by dragging your claws over his swarthy shoulders, over his collarbones. Blood ripped free, sliding down his deltoids.

“Chingado,” Miguel’s lips parted for the word, hips juddering up like a hungry slut. It wasn’t normal, the warm tickle of your lubricant over his shaft, exquisite in its nature. His heels dug into the bed, balls tightened. He was so damn close to his relief, he could taste it on his tongue, bordering somewhere between immense pleasure and decadent pain. Your need for his pain won out, dipping down over his chest and latching your fangs over his chest-- then up, hooking on the front of his throat. It was going to bruise, badly.

You shook loose his orgasm, ripped free with the need to fill you, own you-- as though he were not the one being owned. His hips staggered, sticky whips of cum coating your walls in waves. More than he’d cum before before. His eyes shut hard, tears pricking the sides of his eyes. Then, as if it never happened, the hold on his hands was released. He struggled with his freedom, his hands slack, softening cock worthlessly weeping over his thigh. The pain-- oh, the pain, it washed over him moments later.

“Woah,” Lyla interrupted, “Miguel! What happened?”

She couldn’t see you. His eyes were like two dark coins, staring up at the ceiling, wide, and unseeing. He can hear her frantic questions, the ligature marks left behind from invincible chains, and the all-too-real blood and bruising that left him utterly ruined.

“It,” he choked out, heat biting at his well-chiseled face. “It hurts.”

He doesn’t remember what comes next. It was five in the morning when he finally rolled out of bed, and onto the floor, gripping the growing headache that grew miserably behind his head. Bitterness bubbled in his stomach, exhaustion in his eyes. The aberration that was his poor sleep was irksome more than anything. He felt someone’s eyes on him, soft and worried, rushing to his aid as though he were an old man who fell off a bed.

“Hey, you’re awake,” Peter said with an undercurrent of concern soaring through his words. “No, wait. I got you.”

He helped him sit against the frame of his bed, a frame that looks small as shit with Miguel’s large body against the frame. He’s unsure of what to say, assuming that Lyla called him in desperation, and let him into the house that Peter most definitely did not have a key to. Miguel’s chest ached. “What happened? Are you… are you okay?”

Everyone seems to ask him that lately.

“I’m fine,” he was alien to the feeling of care. He knew when Miguel dug himself into a hole. Miguel didn’t want to think about what happened only a few hours prior when his exhaustion took over his body and knocked him out. He dreamed of nothing. An abyss of unsettled nothingness, the ache low in his belly to fuck you until you were soaked in his cum and Miguel could finally, finally rest his tired eyes. Miguel pulled on a fluffy white robe Peter supplied, dragging it over thick strips of gauze and medical tape.

“You don't look fine.”

They both know he’s lying, but what else could be said? That the state Peter saved Miguel from was a rarity? That he’s used to being preyed upon by his own delusions? He needs a fuck, maybe that’s it.

“If you’re going to stay, be useful and get me that file.”

“Oh-- okay, this one?” he doesn’t look surprised. He padded across his room to his desk, kicked a chair that was falling apart aside, and picked up the folder on Brujería. It was buried behind more useful folders such as sexual harassment and inter-employee workplace violence. A fact that Miguel wasn’t exactly proud about in the first place.

“Brujería? Like witch stuff, right? No way. You think work is haunted too?” Peter says with a choked-out, nearly forced laugh. Miguel doesn’t pay himself enough for this. Of all the files at hand, it was nearly untouched. It included such things as ancestors, spirits, demons, and curses.

“I don’t. But the workers obviously do.”

Peter was soft and kind, but not stupid. He plopped down next to him and crossed his legs one over the other.

“The ones that say she’s a bruja?” Peter tapped on your photo. Your photo offers emptiness. That though you have a bright smile in the photo, it is undoubtedly fake. He never saw a woman look so innocent and sweet, but dangerous.

“You’ve heard?”

“Well, the men she hangs around always end up dead. They get all successful and rich then, bam, dead. But you can’t believe that right?” Peter reasons. “She’s not cursed, she just has bad luck. She’s always been nice to me.”

“A curse?”

“Yeah,” his warm breath wavers into a sigh. “Stone wanted company, found her in Sacred Heart-- you know, the one they say is cursed?”

“A cursed church? Give me a break. The only curse at Sacred Heart are the exploitive priests.”

“I’m just saying what I heard,” he’s whispering, shivers wracking up his arms at the mere mention. He tries not to push him anymore. Peter stood up and walked to the coffee stand in the corner of his dark room. For the days that he couldn’t be bothered to leave his room, he’d make a hot coffee in the corner and keep working just as he always did. “She’s always been nice to me.”

“Maybe you’re not her taste.”

“Yeah well, probably not. I don't look like you-- but she did call me sexy, so that's something right?” Peter laughed, “Want a cup of coffee?”

Sexy. That's it, he's so fucking sick of this shit.

“No, I don’t want a cup of fucking coffee,” Miguel bit back, shoving the bed several inches as he pushed his hand off of it, storming into his walk-in closet. “Lyla. When is mass at Sacred Heart?”

“Sacred Heart?” Lyla laughed. “You’re kidding--”

“Lyla,” he snarled, chucking his bag across the closet. It connected with his tall, black safe with a loud boom. She was quiet for a moment, undoubtedly momentary confusion for why non-believer Miguel O’Hara wanted to go to, of all things, a Catholic mass.

“6:30,” she answers.

“I’ll go with you,” Peter calls out.

Don’t bother, Miguel returns from the next room.

It’s been a long time since he dressed for mass-- some dark brown slacks and a warm, vanilla button-up. He snaps a chain necklace around his thick, bruised throat and his favorite watch. As he grabbed the manilla folder on brujería he felt like a child, lectured by his grandmother to not be like his bad man-loving, alcoholic mother and go to church. Despite very much not believing in any of this shit, it was frustrating, annoying even, that he had to go back there.

He didn’t want to go but his spirit was unsettled. Something told him that going to his grandmother’s favorite church would give him a sense of illumination, that it would make sense of the things that made no sense.

Sacred Heart stands on a hill, both physically and metaphorically. It takes offerings off the backs of the poor and sits atop a lush hill. Its stained-grey architecture is only beautiful by virtue of its stained-glass murals. He doesn’t care for the saints that loom overhead, unseeing eyes judgemental and cold. Viejitos and the truly devout are the only ones in attendance. Based on Peter’s account, he should expect you there. It doesn't take long to be proven right.

“Bendición.”

Is he hallucinating again? Despite the many rows of unspoken burgundy benches, you sit by him. Miguel is disconcerted as you slide your thick hips by, sandwiching him between the side of the bench and your chunky, beautiful thighs. He worked his words in his mouth for entirely too long.

“Dios te bendiga,” he said, the words chalky and thick in his throat, drawn up from the bottomless abyss of his fluttery stomach. You sat with a black lace veil pinned to your head. The only sort of women who wear a veil are very old or not Catholic at all. He veers on the latter. “You’re Catholic?”

“If you want me to be.”

“Why else would you be here?” he reached over and plucked up a cheap bible from a pouch behind the bench before him. Your eyes follow pupils dilating in a way that isn’t human at all, staring at the many words on the page that spun under his thumb.

“I think you know why,” you said with soft and pliable words. He felt himself melting.

Of course, Miguel thought, you always seem to show up during the most inopportune times.

"You didn't bring a bible," he offers it to you. Your eyes, dilate wide and bright at the sight of the thing, flicker a look down to it, then Miguel again.

"I prefer to listen." You turn away from it. He flipped it in his hand before returning it to its rightful pouch. For some reason, you did not want to be close to the book. He thinks he knows why.

“So you are stalking me.”

"Stalking is such a mean word, Miggy. Haunting, I like haunting better." Miguel throws open the report. He doesn’t want to read it-- but it is the last folder that may hold the information he needs. Your eyes fluttered to the footsteps of others filling their spot, an archaic song on the lips of the practitioners. Wrong page, Miguel.

"What was that?" he asked you.

"Nada."

He looked down to his lap where the report sat. The voices of those present, their lips forming an off-tuned song, itched at his already exhausted mind. The more he fought, the worse it became. You flipped open a black fan and cooled yourself with long flicks of your wrist. He doesn’t think it’s so hot.

“The rosary on your desk is from here, isn’t it?”

How would you know?

“You’re hiding something.”

Page 76. His fingers thumb on the pages on their own accord. Your eyes traced the movement, looking down at the pages before him. On deaths of company men.

I just do.

The thought entered his mind without prompting. He scanned names on the page. Aaron Delgado… asphyxiation. Tyler Stone… myocardial infarction. There were photos pinned there, photos that shouldn’t be so graphic, but somehow are. The men are as naked as the day they came into the world.

“If you say so, Miggy.”

“What are you hiding?”

You brought your hand over the file, closing it shut on top of his hand. He turns his hands over the top. Your fingers run over his knuckles, in misleading circles. “Are you sure you want the truth?”

“I don’t hide from the truth.”

“The truth,” you leaned in, your words husky against his ear. “The truth is I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m a good girl, Miggy. You have to believe me.”

Something about the way you spoke enraged him, prickling him enough to force him to stand in the middle of the priest’s words. He snatched your wrist with his thick hand, gripping you enough to leave pepper bruises across your skin. Your heels clicked after his boots, out through the foyer, past the bath of holy water, and down the discolored steps.

“Miguel?” you sang like a siren.

He’s hit his limit, throwing you against the discolored church wall. A gasp punched out of your lungs, aggravated by Miguel’s large hand strangling the breath from your throat. He felt warm as he kicked your legs apart and took up that space. The heat doesn’t feel like it is his. His bulge against your skirt certainly is. Now, he seems to expect pleasure when he is in your presence.

“You want me to fuck you, sí? That’s why you’re tormenting me every fucking night.”

“I thought you liked cumming,” you relinquished with a harsh giggle. It grates his last nerve. “You finally look relaxed when you do.”

“Qué mala eres,” Miguel snatched the bottom of your skirt, ripping it up the slit to expose your warm skin. He found no panties there, just smooth skin. He cupped your sex for emphasis. “No panties in church. You're filthy.”

“¿Y qué? You’re proving why I didn’t need them.”

He stared, lingering for a moment, challenging your insistence on control. Since he took over this god-forbidden company, you had been defying him with your devilish smile. Miguel slapped your cunt, eliciting a groan that was half of the pain that he’d had only a few hours ago. You liked it, scratching lines up his arms to his broad shoulders.

“You’re so big,” you balanced his abuse with your overwhelming worship. “So big and pretty.”

“Shut up,” he bit out and slipped his middle finger inside of you, unconcerned for your pleasure. Your muscles tightened around his finger, drawing him deeper. He slides another beside it, his hand leaving your cunt to slap your jaw, forcing you to keep focus. Your tender flesh is hot and red, a wonderful tenderness radiating throughout your jaw.

“And you're dripping, do you have no shame?” He grips your chin to look at your face. Raw defiance was slapped across your face. You rolled your hips onto his hand, forcing him to caress your walls in the right spot. He perked his brow, listening to the priest lecturing in the background. Your sweetness drooled over his curled wrist, dripping from his squelching fingers.

“For you,” you whined. “I want your dick. Give it--”

“You’re a brat.”

He said that-- but he was amused. Miguel slipped down onto his knees, knocking your legs rudely apart. His mouth encircled your puffy clit, bringing it into his mouth and suckling it fat. His rhythm was quick, making a point that he could make you cum too. You weren’t debating him, your hands tight in his hair, loud little moans beating free from your lips. His tongue was warm and soft, kissing and nipping.

The priest went quiet.

“You’re being too loud. Do you want them to hear us?” Miguel’s brow furrowed, slipping up from your vulva.

"Why is that my problem?" You whined in distaste after he stopped pleasuring you, your pulsing cunt beating like an open wound. Asshole.

"You could care for someone other than yourself." Miguel tilted his head, turning you to face the wall. He pulled himself free of his pants-- his thick cock fat against the curve of your ass. That’s what you wanted, he decided, gauging by your whine that came with his action.

"How does that get me what I want?" You shook your ass at him, waiting for him to rear back.

“This is what you wanted, hm? Fine, have it. Just shut up."

He leaned over you, your scratchy black veil catching along his stubble. He doesn’t wait for a response, pushing inside. He wasn’t just thick, he was long. But he knew you already knew that-- you knew every curve of his body, loved the thick veins on his cock that filled you so well. You scratched at the wall as he crushed you into the wall, his hips stuttering with your walls tightening him, drawing him further, impossibly deep.

Estúpida, he thought-- and knew you’d hear it. Whatever you were, you weren’t human. You were somewhere between a human and desire itself, evident in the way you looked at him, pleasured by his rutting hips against the church. The priest went back to his lecture-- the churchgoers enraptured in their worship. The only thing Miguel was enraptured with was the way your pussy tingled, the fluid soaking his cock, and the stretch in your lower belly. His hand clasped over your mouth, index finger poking into your mouth. Your tongue drew him in, fangs nipping his finger.

It earned you a hard slam, stuffing you full, your strange body catching his thrusts beautifully. He slipped his hand over your soft cunt, working your clit for your orgasm, though you deserved no such thing. Habit, he supposed. Gloria a Dios-- the churchgoers clammed with one another. Nearly out of time, your pleasure won out, gushing over his fat cock. Miguel suckled a breath, his ego demanding him to hold out, batter your sweet cunt through your orgasm.

“I’m hungry-- Give it to me,” you bit on his finger, breaking the skin and urging blood to flow into his mouth. Your body twitched violently around his cock, drawing bright pleasure forth. “Give me your cum.”

"Stay out of my dreams."

"I don't want to," you reared your head back at him, your nose tight with wrinkles. He drew you fully onto his dick, the final thrusts were sloppy and immature-- but he held out, making you angrier by the second.

"I'll cum on the floor right here, I don't give a shit."

"No, no! Fine! I promise-- I'll let you sleep," the threat of going hungry is enough that you concede, punching your fist against the wall. He grunts in response and feeds your body with whips of cum that felt far heavier than his usual. A pleasure, far sweeter than any orgasm he could give you. Miguel soaked your sweet little body with his sticky cum, chest swelling heavily against your little back. He finishes and pulls himself free. To his surprise, your cunt doesn’t leak. Miguel staggers back with a perk in his eyebrow.

You look far better for wear than he does, clumsily zipping himself back into cum stained slacks, running his hand through his sweat-soaked hair. You recline on the wall, inspecting him. He knows how he looks. He's bruised, long gashes down his chest, and properly fucked-- a mess. The manila envelope sits forgotten by your heels, your skirt-- perfect, as though he never tore it in the first place.

“You’re not human.”

Miguel bends down, picking up the folder. Not like he needs it anymore. He does, however, need that information on Project 2099. I can help you, he hears. He catches your wide, toothy smile. You've grown fangs. He isn’t surprised.

“Not even a little.”

[secret-places-of-the-heart]

⊹ how overwatch heroes love

⟢ i found the start of this in my notes from last summer and decided to finish it. only did a few because they stuck out to me the clearest

⟢ cw :: none; just drabbles of their "vibe" or whatever. includes junkrat, ashe, and widowmaker

also putting it here since i dont have it anywhere else: yes i do requests

| ♡₊⋆ˎ-ˊ junkrat

junkrat would, fittingly, love like a bomb.  jamison fawkes has no experience with a partner, let alone love.  but he’s diving in headfirst, fuses alight with hearts for pupils.  he’s unpredictable; you never really know where he’s going to land emotionally.  all you know is the blast will be damaging — not particularly in a bad way.  those little explosions of love will burn away your skin and all those fleshy layers until he can see your heart.  he doesn’t mind the blood as he cups his hands around it, so raw and so you, the beating of it against his palms akin to a countdown.  and then every burn scar he gets while tinkering on his creations he dedicates just for you.  his love is always around, just a constant ticking clock until the wick is at its end and you hear that familiar ring.  he’s a block of c4 strapped right over your heart.

| 𐙚˙⋆.˚ ᡣ𐭩 ashe

ashe is a hole in the head.  something so intense it disrupts your entire way of thinking. a shot she never misses.  her love is all you can focus on, dripping all out down your forehead and into your eyes and mouth, staining your teeth a visible red when you smile so love-drunkenly for her.  it’s a consistent shot of pain, an ache that will never cease.  she leaves your brain all mushy, torn up so all you can really think about is her. when you look, she’s stood in front of you with her hat tipped down, muzzle of her gun pressed to red pouted lips, blowing a leash of smoke around your neck with no intention of letting go.  your head is split open for her viewing pleasure, and she makes sure you know. but she cradles your jaw with lissom fingers and wets a white handkerchief with her tongue, dabbing it over your heart-shaped wound.  she sort of revels a little in the way you wince at the sting, cleaning you up just enough so the wound never really heals.  it may scab over, but ashe is always ready with another bullet, and you know how quick she can reload.

| ᥫ᭡₊ ⊹ widowmaker

widowmaker loves like a spider bite.  you’re tied up in her sticky strings of love, her carefully woven web tied from lamenting bone to lamenting bone. and it seems for a moment the spider whose web you’re caught in has died with how long you struggle all alone.  but she’s there, perfecting her poison before her final performance.  widowmaker is graceful as she moves along that pretty, heart-shaped web of her design.  long legs tantalizing you, love just dripping from those sharp fangs of hers. you can feel it spread painfully through your veins, pumping into your heart.  and it’s like your chest constricts; she’s taking you for herself from the inside out.  she’s focusing in on every single part of you, scoping into the sweat that’s dripping off your face, the intoxicated way your eyes fight to stay open.  your vision is so foggy when she lifts your head by your chin, all you can really make out is her shadowed form.  and now it’s like the web that ensnared you is the only thing holding your body up.  your veins write jeremiads up your arms; her love is a pain you just couldn’t bring yourself to hate.

[hopelesslys-world]

STOCKHOLM SYNDROME | CH. 5

WARNINGS: NON-CON, Age Gap ( Massimo is 34 reader is 20 ), sex, loss of virginity, unprotected sex, oral (both female and male), yandere themes, stalking, KIDNAPPING, violence, harsh language, murder...

Tell me if I missed something... ( As you can see most of those warnings will make their appearance in future chapters. )

I apologize for any grammar mistakes...

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𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐖𝐎𝐊𝐄 𝐔𝐏, 𝐈𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐀𝐋𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 outside. You felt a slight depressed feeling approaching you, not to mention that you were starving like never before.

Right as your brain woke up, you felt someone’s hand lying heavy on your waist. Massimo was sleeping next to you, spooning you from behind leaving no space whatsoever, curled into a ball just like you with his arm around you securely.

Moments of yesterday's fight flashed before your eyes and disgust washed over you. What was he doing here? Being all cuddly and shit? If he won't apologise for his behaviour then you're in for a much terrible year.

You were afraid to move, to wake him, and you had to go to the bathroom. Slowly, you started to slip from under his arm, lifting it delicately. Massimo took a deep breath and turned over on his back. He was still asleep. You got up and headed to the bathroom tiptoeing.

After you were done with your business, you took your clothes off and went to the enormous shower. You turned the water on letting it soak you. Taking your loofah and using a generous amount of heavenly scented soap you began to scrub your body.

The door slammed open suddenly. It was the Man in Black. He was ogling me, not even trying to act cool.

A surprised scream left your mouth and hurried to cover up all your lady parts. "What the hell" you murmured to yourself

“Good morning, baby girl. May I join you?” he asked, rubbing the sleep off his eyes.

At first first all you wanted was to rush at him, pummel him with your fists for what would have been the thousandth time, and throw him out. But your experience of yesterday's fight told you that it would comedown to nothing and only elicit an abrupt, violent, and unpleasant reaction.

Instead, you replied, “You wouldn't leave even if I told you to. So be my guest.”

Massimo stopped rubbing his eyes, frowned, and froze, dumbfounded. He must have thought he had misheard you. You had thrown him off balance.

Time to finally put Plan C into action I guess. You thought mischievously.

You couldn’t change the fact that he had just gone in behind you and seen you naked, no other man had seen you like this before. It was for a brief moment, though. Your hands hugged your breasts protectively while you crossed your legs tightly preventing anyone from seeing your bare womanhood.

Slowly, Massimo approached the expansive shower, grabbed the shirt from the back of his neck and tore it off with one fluid motion. You backed up against the shower's wall, surely but hesitantly you removed one of your hands and began scrubbing again. Keeping your eyes glued to the floor tiles not daring to meet his burning gaze.

Massimo entered the enormous cubicle and turned on the second shower head. There were four of those in total, not counting the gigantic water jet panel that looked like a bathroom radiator.

“We’re leaving today,” the Man in Black said impassively. “We’re going to be away for a couple of days. Maybe weeks. I don’t know yet. We’ll drop by some galas and parties, so take this into account while packing your things. Domenico will take care of everything. You just tell him what you need.”

In the end, your curiosity won. You turned his way and saw Massimo standing with his arms propped on the wall, letting the water flow freely down his naked body. The first man you saw naked in real life and not movies.

The view was overwhelming— toned leg, shapely buttocks, muscled belly were all testament to the enormous work he had to do to keep his body in such perfect shape. Your eyes stopped wandering not wanting to push your luck and create sly comments from him.

The soap disappeared from your body, you turned off the water and moved forward to leave the shower. Without warning Massimo grabbed your arm and you slammed softly to his chest with a gasp. You could feel his erect cock touching your lower back.

"I wanted to say sorry for yesterday, you made me so furious I wasn't able to control myself." He kissed your shoulder. You didn't move. "I want to be gentle with you Y/N, but I don't know how...will you teach me how to be gentle?" His lips started to trail toward your neck and his large hands roamed your waist.

You nodded. Your body was rebelling against you, where did that even come from? He was so mean to you and now you wanted to fuck him?

What the hell!?

"I have to get ready." You said desperately wanting to get out of there.

He let you go with no complaints and you rushed out. You grabbed a bathrobe on your way and threw it over myself, running through the door.

You shut yourself in the ginormous closet until you heard him leave. You sat at a bench scolding your subconscious that wanted you to sleep with him. How did that thought even crossed your mind, it was sick! You didn't know what time it was or how long you stayed in there.

Suddenly, you heard someone knock on the room's door, unwillingly you gathered your wits and left the closet to go and answer the door.

It was no other than Domenico, "Hi." You greeted. You moved aside to let him in, he was holding two gigantic Louis Vuitton travel bags.

The young Italian smiled. “Hey, you are leaving in an hour, so I thought you could use some help, miss. Unless you don’t want me to…”

“Stop calling me miss. I can’t stand it. Besides, you can't be that older, so let’s skip the formalities.”

Domenico smiled and nodded, signaling his consent. “Can you tell me where we’re going?” you asked.

“To Napoli, Rome, and Venice,” he replied. “And then the Côte d’Azur.”

You opened your eyes wider, surprised. You had never been to all those places. You haven’t seen so many places in your whole life!

“Do you know what we’re to do in each of those places?” you asked. “I’d like to know what to take with me.”

Domenico walked over to the closet. “I do, in fact, but I was told not to spoil it for you. Don Massimo will make everything clear in time. I’ll help you pick the right outfits, don’t worry.” He winked at you. “Fashion is something of a hobby to me.”

“I’ll trust you fully if that’s the case. If we only have an hour to prepare, let’s get to it, shall we?”

Domenico nodded and disappeared in the cavernous closet.

"Domenico," you said. He quickly spun around to meet your face. "Could you by any chance bring me something to eat? I'm starving to death here..."

"Consider it done." He then speed dial someone on the phone and arranged you a meal in Italian.

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Fifty minutes later, you were standing in front of the mirror, packing your cosmetics into one of the leather bags. You'd tied your hair neatly with a hair clip, Domenico picked a red maxi skirt and a white top, along with white heels and jewellery that complemented the outfit perfectly.

“Your things are packed,” Domenico said, passing you your bag.

“I’d like to see Massimo now, please.”

“He hasn’t finished his meeting yet, but—”

“Well it's about time he does, ” you interrupted disdainfully, leaving the room.

The library was one of those rooms whose location you had committed to memory. You headed down the corridor, and the patter of your hills reverberated from the stone floor. As you reached the right door, you took a deep breath and pulled on the handle. You went inside and felt a shiver running down your spine. You hadn’t been here since your first conversation with the Man in Black, only a while after waking up from your deep sleep.

Massimo was sitting on the couch. He wore a light linen suit and an unbuttoned shirt. Next to him sat a man with graying hair—very handsome and a lot older than Massimo. A typical Italian, you thought. Longish hair combed back and a well-groomed goatee. Seeing you, both of them jumped to their feet.

The first look you got from Massimo was ice-cold. As if he wanted to scold you for interrupting his meeting. But as soon as his eyes swept your entire silhouette, his stare seemed to grow less severe. He said something to the other man, keeping his eyes on you, and started walking your way. He approached you and leaned over, kissing you on the cheek.

“You look lovely,” he whispered, planting the kiss. He took your hand in his and led you to his friend.

“Y/N, meet Mario—my right hand.” you walked over to the man to offer him a hand, but he swooped in, grabbed you by the shoulders, and kissed you on both cheeks. You still hadn’t grown used to that. Where you come from, you only kiss your closest friends and relatives.

“Consigliere,” you said with a smile.

“Just Mario is all right.” The older man returned your smile. “It is good to finally see you in the flesh. Alive.”

Those words rooted you to the spot. What did he mean, “alive”? Had he assumed you wouldn’t live to see him? Your face must have shown some of your emotions, as Mario quickly explained, “There are paintings of you all over the mansion. They’ve been there for years now, but nobody ever believed you were real. You must be as astounded as we are.”

You could only nod.

“I won’t lie: this whole situation is a bit surreal and daunting. But we all know I have no power over don Massimo, so I humbly accept each and every one of the three hundred and sixty-five days he has given me.” Irony was your new best friend now, you rolled your eyes.

Massimo burst out laughing. “Humbly…” he repeated, turning to his companion, who immediately joined in the merriment.

“I’m happy I could improve your mood. Now, I’ll wait in the car so you can enjoy my absence,” you hissed, sending them both an ironic smirk. As I turned you back on them and headed to the door, you heard Mario say, trying to hold back the laughter, “Indeed, Massimo, it’s just as if she was Italian.”

You ignored that and shut the door behind you. You stopped before you exited the house and went out to the driveway. The image of the dead man lying on the paving stones flashed before your eyes. You swallowed, took a furtive look around, and headed in the direction of the SUV parked outside. The driver opened the door for you and gave you a hand as you stepped inside.

Your iPhone was lying on the back seat, right next to your laptop. You squealed with glee, seeing both devices. You turned the phone on only to find out that your password was changed.

You tried and tried again until you were made to stop by the phone's security.

That fucking bastard!

In that moment, the car door opened, and Massimo deftly slipped inside. He took a look at your hand. The iPhone was still in it. "Why did you change my password?" You asked your vision going red. That also means that he scrolled through it as well!

“I don't trust you that much, just yet. You will only talk with your relatives under my supervision.” he replied casually. He pressed the button and then the black glass separated us from the driver.

“The last stop of our trip will be Warsaw. It won’t be as soon as you’d like, but calling your parents more often from now on should assuage her concerns and give us more time, so you can call them whenever you want- while I'm with you.”

That was good news. “Thanks I guess...” You turned your head away looking at the window.

Massimo kept his eyes on you for a moment longer. Then he lay his head on the headrest and sighed. “I’m not so bad. I don’t want to keep you here against your will. I don’t want to threaten you. But, tell me: would you stay of your own will?” He fixed you with a searching stare.

You turned away. Would you stay? Of course not. Without second thoughts.

The Man in Black was still waiting for a reply, but didn’t get one, so he turned to his iPhone, scrolling and reading something on the Internet.

The silence was unbearable. You needed someone to talk to. Maybe it was because of your longing for home. Still looking through the window, you asked, “Where are we going now?”

“The airport in Catania. If the traffic is light, we should be there in less than an hour.”

Another good thing, you enjoyed flying a lot.

Massimo reached into the glove compartment and took out a black paper bag. “I have something for you,” he said, handing me the package.

You frowned and sent him a questioning look.

The elegant gold lettering on its front formed the words “Patek Philippe.” youknew that name. There could only be one thing inside. You also knew how expensive those watches were. “Massimo… I…” your eyes wandered back to him. “I can’t accept that.”

He laughed out loud, sliding on his aviators. “Baby girl, this is one of the cheaper gifts I’m going to give you. Besides, don’t forget you don’t get to decide for another few hundred days. Open it.”

You knew this was going nowhere—arguing with him never did. It could only lead to misery for you, especially since there was nowhere to run now. You pulled a black box from the bag and opened it. The watch was marvelous—pink gold encrusted with little diamonds. Simply perfect.

“You have been pretty isolated today. I had to reward you. I know I’ve taken much from you, but you’ll start getting it all back now,” Massimo said, fastening the watch on your wrist.

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[ series masterlist ]

TAGLIST: ( THANK YOU ❤️ (if you want to be added comment in the chapters or send a message:) ) @lucidlivi

DON'T BE AFRAID TO SPAM WITH LIKES AND COMMENTS. I WOULD ALSO APPRECIATE IT IF YOU COULD REBLOG THIS POST <3

[ikeromantic]

His Touch

How the IkePri guys show affection through touches . . . headcanon ofc.

Chevalier

His touch is sure and possessive. There is a false confidence in his rough handling. He knows he lacks practice and a gentle hand, but this does not deter him. He will learn you until his touch is the only thing you crave. Until his hands memorize the map of your body, and his lips have claimed every peak and valley.

Clavis

Playful, progressive, experimental . . . Clavis' touch is all that and more. You are the material and the result, a means and an end. He loves to toy with you, his touches carnal and teasing. Adventurous. There is never a dull moment. And the more he tries, the more he wants to try. He will push the boundaries of pleasure and find new ways to make you sigh or scream.

Nokto

He touches you with practised hands. A man that calculates the value and impact of every touch. Nokto knows you in ways you do not know yourself. Despite the depth and breadth of his knowledge, love is new to him. And so, even with all his experience, he is often surprised. Not by your reaction, but his own.

Luke

His touch is unpracticed but confident. A simple certainty, both gentle and protective. Though his size makes him sometimes cautious, he trusts himself with you. He is encompassing in his affection, and even the lightest caress will often lead to being hugged, lifted, held. He wants to hold you close, all of you to all of him.

Leon

His touch is passionate and sweet. A burst of fire that warms without burning. He values every brush of his skin against yours. Holding hands under the table, letting his knee rest against your leg, a kiss on the cheek in passing. Leon is unreserved in his affection and it shows in the way he reaches for you.

Jin

Jin's touch is the essence of adoration and desire. Though he is an experienced lover, his previous encounters were practical, a pleasurable transaction. In short, nothing like the love he shares with you. This shows in the intimacy he shares. From his possessive arm around your waist to the less-than-chaste kiss goodbye before he goes about his business. If he could, he would never let go.

Yves

His touch is that of an artist with his most valued treasure. Gentle yet desperate, eager to hold and love. You are his favorite thing. He wants to show you off, his arm linked in yours, a partner. He wants to treat you with gifts and treats, his touch joyful and creative. He wants to be the only one you see, greedy and wracked with desire.

Licht

He touches you with a sense of awe. You are the unexpected future. A world he did not believe existed for him. He lives in you, through you, beside you. His touch is almost worshipful. When you are with him, anything is possible. His touch is a fevered need to know you are there. That you will always be there. And to remind you that he is still here, because of you.

Sariel

His touch is the devil's. Wicked and wonderful, a lover with experience. Disciplined and cool, he keeps his passionate side well hidden in public view. From the outside, it would be easy to dismiss the brush of a kiss to your cheek, the hand on your back, the momentary press of his side to yours. But these are all promises of more, when the moment is right. In private, he is still disciplined but far from cool. His love is a flame that burns and warms.

Rio

There is only one word for his touch. Devotion. All of him is yours. Every touch is a surrender to you, and a claim. What you take, you give. He wants to be everything for you. A caretaker. Protector. Friend. Lover. Confidant. His hand on your shoulder, his lips to your ear, his eyes always on you.

Keith

Keith's touch is cautious, at times reserved. You are a precious creature, a wonder that he is only beginning to explore. Even after years together, there is a sense of wonder in him at every kiss and embrace. He is exultant and protective, his fingers twined with yours. His kisses always begin gently, but may not end that way. His touch is kind, unpracticed, authentic and genuine and overflowing with love.

Wicked Keith

His touch is playful, taunting you with unexpected sensations. The sharp nip of his teeth, the caress of his tongue instead of a chaste kiss. He thrills with your reactions, and always seeks some new way to excite you. His hands are possessive, and whenever possible, he will hold onto you. He is fierce and wild, a proud creature that has claimed you for his own, and this shows in everything he does - from the way his hand settles around your shoulders to the press of his lips to yours.

Silvio

Silvio is a practiced lover, a man of wealth and experience. His touch is an adventure, an exploration of you. You are his discovery, a strange and lovely creature that passed his careful defenses and now that you are within the walls of his heart, he will never let you go. While his words are sometimes brash, his touch never is. He is a thoughtful lover, an affectionate friend. His hand rests on the small of your back, or holds your hand as if you were a delicate flower he is afraid he might crush. His kiss is like the ocean, calm upon the surface and churning with deep currents beneath.

Gilbert

His touch is that of the conqueror, one that revels in the delight of what he unexpectedly won. Possessive, an arrogance that belies the desperation and uncertainty beneath. A lonely creature that has found you, and will never let you go. You are both the entertainment and the entertained. In possessing you, he is possessed. His touch is needy, hungry, and eager, though he would never admit it. His kisses are fevered passion hidden behind a calculating veneer.

[preciousbarnes]

By Your Side

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You get badly injured on a mission, and Bucky doesn't handle it well.

Word Count: 1.7k

Tags: Established Bucky x Reader, Agent!Reader, Explosions, Bodily Injury, Near Death Experience, Hospital Setting

It had been as routine as any mission could be. You, Sam, and Bucky were tasked to break into an old WWII bunker which held files containing information about a weapon that was at risk for resurfacing. The government wanted the files back in their hands before they could fall into someone else’s.

You all stood in the musky smelling dark bunker, everything covered in a thick layer of dust, not seeming to have been touched in decades. You were quickly gathering the old paper files into your backpack, when there was a sudden, persistent beeping to your right.

“Forget to turn off your alarm, agent?” Sam joked, making you and Bucky laugh.

You shook your head, before your eyes widened in realization. You all had let your guard down upon entering the bunker. With all the dust, you never imagined it could have all been staged to look untouched. You all made the mistake of being too comfortable. Too self-assured. And you were about to reap the consequences.

“Bomb!” You yelled, right as the beeping became constant.

Then, a bright flash and deafening boom, as your body was thrown back from the blast. You felt a sharp, searing sensation in your abdomen, overwhelming the pain you felt in the base of your skull. You laid there on the cold concrete floor, disoriented, your vision blurred as you tried desperately to regain your bearings.  Looking up you see a dark figure running to your side, a muffled sound of your name being called. Once the figure got closer, you could make out that it was Bucky.

His face, once it was in your vantagepoint, worried you. The usually stoic man on missions with the thousand-yard stare was obviously rattled, his eyes wide, hands ghosting over your form, afraid to touch you, like he was in fear he may hurt you more. Your eyes left his face to follow where he was looking, down at your abdomen, where the burning and constant ache was.

There it was. A metal pipe had pierced you during the explosion, now lodged in your stomach. There was blood pooling around the wound and on the floor under you, unsettlingly warm against the cool concrete. You swallowed dryly, before looking back up to Bucky, who looked utterly lost. That’s when Sam finally came into view. He had some scrapes and already forming bruises, but it was clear that you had taken the worst of the blast, being so close to the bomb.

“We need a medic in here, stat. Does anyone copy?” You heard Sam call through the coms, hearing a quick but dull reply you couldn’t make out respond soon after his order.

“They’re coming as fast as they can. How are you feeling?” Sam asks, kneeling on the other side of you, glancing up to Bucky to gage his condition before returning his focus to you.

“I-I’m cold, and s-so sleepy, Sam” You say hoarsely.

This seems to awaken Bucky, he begins sternly shaking his head, hand coming to firmly grasp yours. He recognized the signs. Cold. Sleepy. Signs of massive blood loss. Possible internal bleeding. Early signs of a fate he didn’t want for you.

“Doll, no, y’gotta stay awake. Stay awake for me, okay?” He says quickly, his metal hand coming up to push the hair out of your face and gently tuck it behind your ear. As he pulls his hand back, he notices his fingertips are coated in blood. Your blood. You had an injury to the back of your skull. His eyes widen at the sight of more of your blood, before he schools his expression back as much as he can, trying to look calm for your benefit, when he feels anything but calm.

“I- I don’t think I can, Buck. I’m so tired,” You tell him softly, before a cough works it's way up your throat, the force of it jarring your body and making you wince in pain.

Tears sprang to Bucky’s eyes as he shook his head once again. He knew what it meant if you went to sleep. He’d seen it play out way too many times on battlefields. You wouldn’t wake back up.

“Please, sweetheart, stay with me.” He pleaded with you, grasping your hand tighter, pulling it up to his lips to kiss gently.

“James,” you began, blinking a few times in effort to stay awake long enough to tell him what you felt compelled to tell him. You weren’t stupid. You knew you were in bad shape, with the likelihood of your survival getting slimmer by each passing moment the medics were taking to get to you.

“I-I love you, James. It’s okay. If I have to go, I’d want it to be like this. D-doing the work I believe in, and getting to be with you. You’ll be okay, Jamie.” You told him, voice shaky.

Tears begin to fall down Bucky’s face as he cries without abandon, shaking his head once again, hair flopping around with the viciousness of the shakes.

“No. You can’t leave me. Not like this. You can't tell me you love me like this. Save it for when you’re better. Not like this.” He begs between sobs.

Sam rises to his feet, calling on the coms that they needed help now, that things were looking grim. Your eyes begin to drift shut on their own accord, unable to keep them open any longer. You begin to fall into what feels like a deep sleep, Bucky’s cries being the last thing you heard, each one breaking your heart.

The first thing you heard was a soft and steady beep, accompanied by the sterile smell that medical facilities always had. You felt the weight of a hand in yours, recognizing the callouses belonging to your boyfriend. You slowly blink your eyes open, taking in the soft lighting of the room in the medical bay of the avenger’s compound. Usually it was you siting in Bucky’s place after Bucky did something reckless on a mission. This was the first time things were the other way around. You gently turn your head, wincing at the stiffness in your neck, making you wonder how long you had been out. There he was.

Bucky looked disheveled. His shoulder length hair was tied back in a messy buns, strains sticking out haphazardly all over the place. He was in sweatpants and a wrinkled t-shirt. His head was resting on the side of your bed, head turned to the side, giving you a view of his dark circles and scruff that had grown out longer than he normally allowed it. He looked how your body felt; a wreck.

You gently brought the hand that wasn’t incased in Bucky’s over to his head, gently and soothingly running your fingertips over his face. At the touch, he slowly opened his eyes, his widening upon seeing that you were awake.

“Baby, my god it's so good seeing those eyes again,” He said, voice gruff from lack of use. He had barely spoken since you had fell asleep back at the sight of the blast. He looked so relieved, like he could finally breathe again. If you looked closer, there were some tears gathered in his eyes.

“Hi Jamie,” you said softly, voice also hoarse from lack of use.

Hearing your voice and the nickname, he smiled softly, grabbing a cup of water from the stand by your hospital bed and holding it so you could get a drink. You took a few gulps, thanking him afterwards.

“How are you feeling, doll? Any pain?” He asked you, hand caressing your cheek as you leaned into his touch.

You took a moment to survey your body. You could feel the presence of a bandage wrap around your midsection, no doubt covering the wound and incision from the emergency surgery you were sure you had to have. You also noticed the presence of other bandaged dispersed along your limbs, due to smaller cuts and scrapes from the blast. While you were sure you were quite a sight, you didn’t feel any pain.

“No pain, but what’s the damage?” You ask.

“Two cracked ribs, a large gash to the back of your head that went down to your skull, so you’ve got 7 staples back there. The pipe that went through you luckily missed your major organs. They had to do some repairs to your intestines, and they had to remove your appendix that was damaged from the pipe. You’ve got a nasty concussion and some cuts and bruises. You’ve been unconscious for 4 days,” He lists off your injuries from memory.

A silence falls between the both of you. You look down at your hands held in Bucky’s, his thumb gently brushing back and forth on the tops of your hands.

“God, baby. You scared the life out of me,” He says, voice breaking at the end.

“I’m so sorry, Bucky. I should’ve been more careful,” You tell him, hating the pain you’ve caused him.

His head jerks up at your apology before he scoffs softly and shakes his head.

“No, doll. I should have been more careful. It's my job to watch your six. I’m so, so, sorry I failed,” He says with a sniffle, trying to hold back tears.

“You didn’t fail. It was made to look untouched, undisturbed for decades. We had no reason to suspect anything. We will be more careful next time, all of us. This was no ones fault,” You tell him sternly, willing him to understand that he is not responsible.

“I thought I was going to lose you, baby. I thought I was losing you without ever telling you I love you,” He whispers.

You smile softly, reaching up to tuck an unrulily strand of hair back behind his ear.

“You can tell me now,” you offer.

“I love you doll. I always have.” He tells you, a reverent tone taking over his voice, overcome with emotions he thought he’d never feel again.

You both lean in and softly kiss. You know the road to full recovery is going to be long, but you would do anything with your Bucky by your side.

[justagalwhowrites]

Halcyon - Prologue: Prom Night

Your best friend, Joel Miller, takes you to prom. The first chapter of Halcyon, a modern no outbreak AU TLOU fic found on Tumblr here.

Pairing: Joel Miller x Female Reader

Warnings: Modern No Outbreak AU, No use of Y/N, Slow burn, 18+ only, Minors DNI

Length: 3.7K

AO3

A/N: This fic is a modern no outbreak AU fic. All but this chapter will be set in 2022/2023

Austin, Texas 

May, 2008

“I can’t believe you still have the keys to the press box!” 

“Shhhh!” You hissed at your best friend as you climbed the stairs to the top of the stadium, the bottom of your blue satin prom dress clutched up around your thighs so you wouldn’t trip. “Just announce it so the whole school can hear why don’t you.”

“No one is over here,” you heard him roll his eyes. “Everyone is still at the dance there’s no one here to hear me. I just can’t believe golden girl Goldie didn’t return the keys…” 

“Shove it.” 

“Stealin’ shit,” he teased. 

“Joel…” 

“This is probably breaking and entering, you know,” he said cheerfully. “They can try us both as adults now since you caught up…” 

“Fuck you, Miller.” 

“Awfully adult language comin’ from that smart mouth…” 

You rounded on him, taller than him for a change from your perch a few steps ahead.

“Didn’t you just say they could try us both as adults now that I’m 18, too?” You raised your eyebrows at him. He rolled his eyes. “Pretty sure that means I can swear. And if you’re not careful and I’ll shove you down these stairs…” 

Joel scoffed. 

“They’d try you as an adult for that, too.” 

“Not once I testify about how annoying you are they won’t.”

He scoffed again. You turned back around and kept climbing the stairs. 

“This view had better be worth it is all I’m saying,” he said, sounding short of breath. 

“Oh quit your bitchin’,” you replied, hoping you didn’t sound breathless, too. “Which one of us is in heels?” 

“Yeah, yeah.” 

You made it to the top of the stadium and dropped the hem of your dress before selecting the large, utilitarian key from the keyring in your clutch, letting yourselves in. 

The press box was dark and so was the field below. You gathered your dress again and made your way to the windows, the city lights beyond casting the desk against the glass in a warm glow. 

“Damn,” Joel whispered, coming up alongside you and looking out at the view of the city. 

“Told you,” you said, smug. But you were awed, too.

From here, you could see the Capitol all but glowing in the distance, the skyscrapers lit up along the Colorado River beyond, the UT tower standing tall. 

“Never seen it without the stadium lights on,” you said quietly, looking out at the city. “Wanted to experience it at least once before I left.” 

“See why,” Joel said, serious for a change. You could feel his eyes on you. “Can’t deny that view.” 

You felt your cheeks get hot for a moment and Joel cleared his throat. 

“So,” his teasing tone was back. “Could you even tell it was me playing from up here?” 

“Oh sure,” you smirked, glancing at him for a second before pointing at the sideline. “You always rode the bench right there on the end…” 

“Shut the fuck up,” he elbowed you lightly and you laughed. 

“No, I could tell it was you,” you smiled up at him before looking back out at the field. He’d gotten so much taller since you’d first met him, shooting up half a foot over the span of a few months after you became friends in the first place. “Always head and shoulders taller than all the other jocks out there, spaghetti noodles for arms… Also the fact that you have a number on your shirt helped, you dork.” 

He snorted and you looked back over at him again, the way the light fell on his skin. It was almost like he was glowing, too, like he was made up of everything on the horizon in front of you. He turned to look at you, smirking. 

“Wanna drink?” 

The two of you perched on the desk against the glass, facing out toward the city. You bunched the restrictive skirt around the top your thighs so you could actually move and Joel loosened his tie and unbuttoned the collar of his crisp white dress shirt before reaching into the pocket of his suit coat. He pulled out a flask wrapped in worn leather, the name Miller elegantly stamped into the front of it, and offered it to you. 

“Fancy shit,” you said, taking it from him. You took a swig, cheap rum burning as it went down. You handed it back to him. “Where’d you get it?” 

“It was my dad’s,” he said, looking at it for a second, his eyes tracing over the lettering before taking a drink himself. He flinched as it went down. “So was the rum, actually. Not sure what I’m gonna do once we burn through it all, my mom never buys the shit. Lucky for me that means she never checks it, either…” 

You laughed a little. He held the flask back out. You took it. 

“Yeah, that would not work in my house,” you said, taking a sip. “Even when we were living with my dad, my mom watched that shit like a hawk. Never had a chance. Now it’s just not allowed under her roof. That’ll be one perk to college, I suppose. Don’t have to dodge him and don’t have to hide the beer from her.” 

You passed it back. He took it and took a sip before he wrapped his arms around his knees in front of him and sighed. 

“So you’re really leavin’ huh?” He asked, looking over at you. 

“Yup,” you nodded. “Getting the fuck out of this damn place.” 

“So sorry to be such a let down,” he teased, but there was a hint of hurt in his voice. 

“Hey,” you looked over at him. “You know you’re the only thing I have here that makes life worth living, right?” 

“You’re just sayin’ that because I was willing to be your back up prom date,” he smirked. You rolled your eyes. 

You weren’t joking when you said that. Joel was, easily, the best thing in your life. The only thing you’d really miss when you moved away to go to college. 

When you’d moved across the city just before your sophomore year of high school, you’d expected it to be hell and you’d been right. The school you transferred to was cliquey and close knit. Everyone had known each other all their lives, they had their own groups and ways of doing things and you were an outsider, an interloper. 

Which would have been fine if they’d have just let you keep to yourself, but they weren’t content with that, either. One of the guys at school grabbed your ass as you stood at your locker your second day of class and a friend of his girlfriend saw it. The girlfriend decided it was far better to hate you, the new girl, than actually confront her shit head boyfriend and you were suddenly stuck bearing the brunt of her toxic relationship’s misery. 

That’s how you’d met Joel. This girl - fucking Hannah - had sicced her older brother and his friends on you. They had you pinned down against a stadium wall, your heart in your throat as you clutched your diary to your chest. 

“Like tryin’ to take shit that ain’t yours?” The biggest boy - more man, really - said as he crowded in toward you. “Maybe I should…” 

“Hey!” 

The new voice was surprisingly deep, you half expected a teacher to come running over. Instead it was a boy about your age, baby fat still on his stomach and cheeks, his curls messy. But he didn’t move like a teenaged boy, he moved like a grown man who knew how to bend the world to his will. The others seemed to recognize it, parting like water, giving him a clear path to you. 

“The fuck you doin’, Young?” He demanded. “Threatening some girl?” 

“Fuck off, Miller,” he snapped. “Not you business.” 

“Makin’ it my business,” the newcomer positioned himself in front of you. The first boy had a few inches on him and plenty of muscle but it didn’t seem to bother him. “Happy to make punching your fuckin’ face my business, too.” 

“You think just because…” 

“Think coach’ll let you play Friday if he finds out you were gonna hit a girl?” The boy cut him off. “Heard UT is already scoutin’, don’t think they’ll be interested in some jackass ridin’ the bench.” 

The older boy glowered at him but, eventually, looked over him to you. 

“Keep your hands off my sister’s boyfriend.”

You didn’t bother to fight him on the specifics of what happened. You weren’t sure you were able to speak to do it, anyway. Instead, you just nodded and clutched your diary tight to you. He nodded once, face stern, and stalked off with his posse, leaving just you and the other boy. He waited until he knew they were gone to turn to face you. 

“You OK?” He asked, looking you up and down. You just nodded again. “Good. You really go after Hannah Young’s boyfriend?” 

“No!” You said, your ability to speak almost surprising you. “I’m not going after anyone’s anything, he just grabbed my ass yesterday in the hall and…” 

The boy laughed. 

“I’m fucking with you, Goldie,” he smiled. “No one in their right mind would go after him. Bryce is a jackass and Hannah’s a dumbass. They’re a match made in heaven. I’m Joel.” 

You frowned. 

“Nice to meet you,” you said. “But my name isn’t Goldie…” 

“Be a hell of a coincidence if it was,” he smirked and nodded at your diary, the cover gold glitter with an elastic loop holding a matching pen. “But sure seems like you like the color well enough.” 

You looked down at the diary, your prized possession, the one thing that kept you sane. You wrote in it constantly, everything from your thoughts to what happened to you during the day to ideas for stories to poems. You filled up the notebooks that slipped into the gold cover in a matter of weeks, had stacks and stacks of them sitting in your closet at home. It had been the one thing you’d made sure you packed when leaving your dad’s house. 

You looked back at Joel and gave him your name and he nodded, like he was considering it, trying to figure out if it suited you. 

“You’re new,” Joel said after he’d apparently decided about your name. “Freshman?” 

“Sophomore,” you said. “Just moved.” 

“Me too!” He said, sounding a little excited. “Well, not just, we got here about 2 years ago now but feels like just. Everyone here has known each other since they were fuckin’ born. You get used to it.” 

Joel showed you how to get into the stands even when the main gates were locked and sat with you, telling you the basics about the school, figuring out that you’d moved into an apartment complex that was only about a five minute walk from his house, learning that you both were excited about the new Curtis and Viper movie coming out in a few weeks. 

“Have you watched the director’s commentary for the third one?” You asked. “It’s like that man thought they were making the next Citizen Kane, it’s hilarious…” 

“Miller!” 

Joel’s head snapped around to the field where a bunch of other boys in uniform were flooding out of the locker room and onto the turf. 

“You just itchin’ to go on tour?” 

“No Coach!” Joel said. 

“Then get your ass dressed!” The man yelled. “Move it!” 

Joel jumped up and waited for the coach to turn his back before turning back to you. 

“What’s on tour mean?” You frowned. Joel laughed. 

“He means runnin’ all the stairs in the stadium. His favorite punishment. If you wanna hang out for a bit, I can give you a ride after practice. I technically don’t have my license yet but I’m turning 16 in a few weeks and I already saved up for my truck and my mom’s so busy she’s just happy she doesn’t need to haul my ass around anymore.” 

“Yeah,” you smiled. “Yeah, that would be great. Thank you.” 

“Cool,” he smiled back. 

“Miller!” 

Joel flinched. 

“Yeah, I gotta move my ass or it’s gonna get chewed out. But I’ll see you in a bit, Goldie!” 

You watched him jump the railing at the base of the stands onto the track below, making you gasp and scramble to your feet to see if he was alright. But Joel was already jogging into the locker room when you made it to the end of the bleachers, like what he’d done was nothing at all. 

The two of you had been inseparable ever since. He dropped you off that night and, the next morning, you opened your front door to find him there, playing his steering wheel like a snare drum with his fingers, like the plan had always been to pick you up and drive you to school. Even when you started working at the school paper and Joel made it to the first string of the football team you saw each other every day. You didn’t knock when you came to his house, you just let yourself in, his mom calling you Dorada - golden in Spanish - and telling Joel to listen when you tried to get him to study. Your little sister, Anna, had Joel wrapped around her finger to the point that he had a stash of fun sized candy bars in his locker that he’d raid before coming to your apartment so he had one to present to her. 

Even when you started dating Steven, your now ex-boyfriend, you saw Joel all the time. Steven never seemed to like him much but, to his credit, didn’t seem threatened by Joel. 

Which made sense. You knew better than to think Joel was interested in you that way. You were certain he saw you like a sister, like family. You weren’t someone he could look at and want. He was Joel Miller. He was handsome and funny and scored the winning touchdown in the playoff game that sent your school to the final. Boys like that weren’t interested in the girls who spent all their spare time with their nose in a book and tracked the GPAs of the other top students in the class to know where she fell in the fight for valedictorian. You were lucky he was friends with you at all. It didn’t matter how you felt about him, you weren’t about to press your luck. 

But when Steven dumped you two weeks before prom and you showed up outside Joel’s last class with eyes that were red from tears, he jumped up, grabbed his backpack and just gave his teacher a wave before slinging his arm over your shoulder and guiding you to his truck. 

“You know what’s so stupid?” You sniffed, perched on the gate of his truck as you poked at the Blizzard you’d gotten at Dairy Queen but couldn’t bring yourself to eat much of. “I think I’m more upset about the fact that now I can’t go to prom and I got the best dress for it. I know it’s insane but I was going to actually look kinda hot and I’ve never gone to a dance with a guy and…” 

“Why can’t you go to prom?” Joel frowned, reaching his long, red spoon into your ice cream cup. You rolled your eyes and tilted it his direction. 

“Because you can’t go by yourself,” you said. “That’s pathetic. Especially not when you just got dumped.” 

“I’ll go with you,” Joel shrugged. “My mom keeps sayin’ that she thinks I could wear some of my dad’s old shit now, he had at least one suit.” 

“I’m not about to ask you to cramp your style with the ladies by being my prom date,” you rolled your eyes. Joel had gone out on at least one date with every hot girl in your year and a few of the junior and sophomore girls, too. The longest anyone had lasted was Carly Smith, who held the prestigious title of Joel Miller’s almost girlfriend for 10 days and the three class periods before lunch when he told her he wasn’t interested before asking you if you wanted to run to Whataburger. 

He scoffed. 

“Not interested in any of them,” he said. “Setting my sights a little higher these days.” 

“College girls?” You teased. 

He laughed, reaching his spoon over for your ice cream again. You tilted it in his direction and shook your head a little as you did. 

“Somethin’ like that,” he said. “C’mon. Let me take you. It’ll be fun and you can still wear the fancy dress.” 

You ate another bite of your Blizzard, thinking for a second as you sucked on the spoon, the plastic edges sharp on your tongue. 

“Alright Miller,” you said eventually. “Let’s do this thing. You and me at prom.” 

“Gonna be fun, Goldie,” he said. “Promise.” 

He was right. It had been fun. Really, really fun. Honestly, way more fun than you’d ever have with Steven, anyway. Joel picked you up in his suit that was a little big around the middle but actually fit his broad shoulders and long legs. He’d gotten his truck washed and he’d even vacuumed the inside and he came to your door with a corsage in a box that was still cool from being kept in his fridge until he came to get you. Your mom took pictures of the two of you together and you hoped you didn’t look as stupid as you felt when you posed with your hand on Joel’s chest, tucked against his side like a real date while your heart was beating so fast it felt like it was threatening to burst from your ribs. Your dress was long and sleek and fit you just right, highlighting the womanly curves you’d grown into through your teenaged years. Your mom styled your hair so that it was elegant but still framed your face just so and you spent an hour working on your makeup. 

“Steven is gonna feel like a total fucking dumbass,” Joel said as he drove you to the hotel near campus where prom was being held. “You weren’t kidding about that dress.” 

You laughed. 

“You clean up pretty good yourself,” you said and he winked at you, making your heart flutter. 

The two of you danced and laughed and you took silly pictures next to the over the top decorations with the disposable camera you’d bought just for the occasion. 

But as prom wound down, Joel talked you into slow dancing with him, his hands warm and soft besides the callus he had from playing guitar and football on your exposed back. You had to fight to stay focused on the fact that it was Joel. He was your best friend, not your boyfriend. He was slow dancing with you because that was the nice thing to do when you took someone to prom, not because he was interested in you. Even though his eyes were on yours in a way that didn’t feel like was just to be nice and the way his fingers sank into your skin made it seem like it was more than just being nice. 

“Wanna get out of here?” He asked quietly as the song wound down. 

You tried to think of a place you could go that wouldn’t just be his truck or wouldn’t involve the two of you humoring Anna or his little brother, Tommy. For some reason, you wanted to be with just Joel. 

“Yeah,” you nodded. “Think I know a place.” 

You looked at the Capitol dome in the distance, the soft glow of it, and sighed. 

“You don’t have to leave, you know,” Joel said quietly after a moment. “Could just go to UT. Shit, we could even be roommates, I’ve already got a job lined up…” 

“If I stay I’m just going to get swallowed up by my mom’s needs and Anna’s and my dad is going to keep trying to fuck everything up…” you sighed. “And do you really think you’re going to move out? Or are you going to end up basically living at home so you can help your mom with Tommy?” 

“I’d move out if it was with you,” he said.  

You scoffed. 

“Sure you would,” you said, incredulous. “Joel, I love you, but we both know you’d be right back at home the second Tommy acted out at school again.” 

Joel sighed. 

“He’ll get his shit together eventually,” he said. “It won’t be forever. Stay.” 

“I can’t just be in one place my whole life,” you said softly, looking over at him. “I need to try to be someone somewhere that isn’t here.” 

He sighed heavily.

“I know,” he took another drink. You scooted closer to him and rested your head on his shoulder, taking a deep breath as you just looked out the window a bit longer. 

“I don’t know what I’m going to do without you,” you said softly after a few minutes. 

“You’ll be fine,” he waved you off. “You’re the smart one, the one with the real skills and shit. You were always going to do great things, Goldie. Just liked being close enough to you to see you do it.” 

You tilted your head just enough to see that he was looking at you, watching you, his brown eyes glistening in the hazy light of the city. You realized, suddenly, that you were close to him. Very close, so close that your nose brushed his cheek when you lifted your head from his shoulder, your eyes still on his. Your heart was pounding. 

“Joel…” you breathed. 

Your heart kept pounding as your best friend kissed you. It didn’t stop pounding for a while.

A/N: Welcome to Halcyon! This is a totally different kind of Joel Miller and I'm so excited to share him - and Goldie - with you all.

You can expect weekly updates as we watch these two try to navigate all the curve balls life throws their way.

Thank you thank you thank you for being here! Follow my updates account here and subscribe to get alerts when new chapters are posted.

I can't wait to go on this adventure with you all. Love you!!

[neptunes-sol-angel]

Title says it all! Pick the picture(s) that you're drawn to the most, then scroll down for their corresponding message.

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Pile One

What Needs Protection?

You need to be more private about the things that you're trying to manifest and any spell-work that you do. If you're in tune with your psychic abilities, then I'm getting that any plans in store for you that your spiritual team sends you messages about, KEEP THEM TO YOURSELF. It seems like anything related to the occult that you practice, needs to be discreet when it comes to family members, friends, and what you post on the internet. Knowledge is meant to be shared, but some things reside in the occult for a reason, your gifts, relationship with spirituality and the divine, is not for everyone's eyes to see or for any and everyone that you believe to be trustworthy. Even though no one can mess up what's for you in the end, protection is still needed to prevent any unnecessary drama from others trying to bring obstacles your way.

What Needs Exposure?

I feel like a lot of you are actually new in your spiritual journey and are receiving intuitive downloads or seeing more signs that remind you of someone that's no longer living, but very close with when they were still alive. Whether you are new or a little bit more seasoned in this journey there's this message to move inward in this path, some of you could still be on the superficial side of spiritualism which could be insulting to some of your guides because it's giving off the impression that you're in it for the aesthetic when there's an actual calling for you to partake in. There's a need to be more trustful with with your guides (god(s), ancestors, angels, etc) and to communicate with them more, as well leaving offerings for them. It's very important to build a connection with them instead of just leaping in with them to ask them for guidance and assistance for rituals.

Pile Two

What Needs Protection?

You need to be more protective over your time and energy! You know that quote "givers need to learn boundaries, because takers don't have any"? That's exactly the message that I'm picking up for this pile. There are attributes that you have that remind me of the sun, you're resourceful, regenerative, you create your own energy and produce your own light effortlessly that makes others gravitate towards you, but you must be careful with burning yourself out sooner with the way you're not limiting yourself on how much you give. People could rely on you for direction, money, emotional support, or even insight that they plan to take all the credit for. I'm sensing mainly that if you guys are creatives, keep your ideas to yourself, do not tell what you plan to create unless it is finished. Another is that some of you need to have more credence, you give away your visions and ideas because you don't believe you're capable of executing them yourself and you need to stop shortchanging yourself like that. I notice you guys keep saying "no" to yourself a lot on the things that could benefit you, try working on exerting that no onto the people that you should set boundaries with, especially if there's someone that you've been having a bad feeling about for awhile.

What Needs Exposure?

People in this pile have a story that needs to be shared. Whether it's autobiographical or fictional, there's something very personal that you've worked hard on in your life that needs to be public. Maybe you've triumphed over situations that would have broken other people, and the experience and wisdom that you've gained from this could inspire others who are going through situations that they feel that they won't make it out of. You may downplay what you've persevered because you it's something that you've adapted to, but what you may view as easy, can show people that when they encounter a big mountain, they don't need to be intimidated by the thought of how they're going to get over it, they just need to go around it.

Pile Three

What Needs Protection?

You're sitting on some tea that needs to be kept to yourself. Someone or a group of people could be trying to involve you in some mess, but you need to know that that drama has nothing to do with and that you need to stay out of it. Don't give in to the peer pressure of joining cliques, because that bond together out of gossiping about others, will not have long until they're turning on each other and you. If there isn't any drama that's going on, then there's a message for people in the pile who are going through a phase of wanting to impress others or do things for a person or a group who are either high in status or something else that you'd like you to be a part of. Your self esteem and individuality needs protection, do not place everybody on a pedestal or put so much of your faith into regular people. You may see yourself as the diamond in the rough thinking that you need someone or something to give yourself meaning, but that's the quickest way to fall into manipulation and a spiral of confusion about who you are.

What Needs Exposure?

Your ability to stand on your own needs more exposure. Maybe you have a parent or someone in your work/school environment that's underestimating you by believing that you're codependent and incapable of having a mind of your own with a backbone to follow it, but you gotta show these people better than you can tell them, that you're not someone to push around or someone to discredit when it comes to your accolades and the things that you've worked hard for. Maybe some of you are hesitant to make a certain move that involves parting ways with someone who's toxic towards you, but you have to acknowledge that you've lived a life before them and that you are safe and strong enough to create a life without them. And once you do, I feel like there's this boost of prosperity, positive attention, or a period of luck that you may experience as a confirmation that these people are not the reason for your success, you're blessed because you are, not because they were in your life, especially if they were creating blockages in your money and opportunities.