#wilted-woods reblogs

[wilted-woods]

:[

well. 👏 let's press on, everybody;

[gghostwriter]

The Language of Flowers

Spencer Reid x Fem!Reader

Summary: Spencer prepares a personalized gift for his first date with you Trope: Fluff! Just fluff! w.c: 1.02k a/n: It’s been a while and I’ve been very much under the weather lately but I wanted to finally let this out of my drafts to make way for new ideas! Not proofread. Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated! masterlist

Spencer could feel his calloused fingers shaking from the weight of making a mistake that would put him back to square one. He had been hunched over his dining table since the ungodly hour of five am—grateful it wasn’t a work day. He wanted to get this right. 

No, he needed to get this right. 

There was a sheen of perspiration that started to cover the crevices of his tightly wound body making him briefly wonder if this was what bomb squad members felt when faced with the choice of cutting between a blue and red wire.But instead of wires, he was cutting papers with such precision that only a Doctor would have during surgery. 

A single bead of sweat made its torturous way down from his temple to his chin, hanging on the precipice as if threatening to leave its’ teardrop mark on the colorful sheets scattered around the table.

He sighed, uncurling his hunched form, as the back of his palm wiped away the built-up sweat, eyes roving the crafted perfection laid in front of him. 

When the concept formed in his expansive brain, he had entered research mode on which specialized papers would be best and, with the help of Garcia’s complied instructions via the web, he had started test run a week before this very special day. 

Everything had to go right—be perfect for his very first date, one of the many, he hoped, with you. 

The grandfather clock tucked between his bookshelves chimed—a quarter past four. He jumped from his musings, hurriedly rushing to change into his carefully selected outfit, all the while muttering a series of affirmations under his breath to ease his nerves. 

He never thought he’d ever get the chance to ask you out. When he first ran into you, literally, you had this magnetic pull to his very being, as if you were his very source of gravity on Earth rather than Earth itself. 

It was unlike anything he experienced before and if Spencer had to describe a best representation of smitten at first sight, it would be that exact moment when he spilled his coffee on you and you, head thrown back, laughing before flashing a sweet, saccharine smile that made him tongue-tied and bumbling. 

That was a few years ago and you’ve been a constant figure in his life ever since—always lovely and radiant and him, always pining for a future he thought could never be.

He spritzed himself with the perfume you’ve gifted, peppermint and cedar wood, before grabbing his personalized gift to commemorate the first date. 

An origami bouquet of purple Morning Glory.

———

“Hi,” you opened the apartment door. There was a hint of breathlessness behind your words—an effect of your ceaselessly pacing while waiting for him to arrive. 

“You look beautiful,” he dazedly whispered, cheeks coloring a shade of bright red. “I—uhm, these are for you—” he conjured the bouquet behind his back.

You gasped, warmth blossoming from your chest. “For me?”

He nodded. “You love flowers but you—” he cleared his throat. “—mentioned you get sad when they wilt so I made you eternal flowers. Is, is that alright?”

The corners of your gloss painted lips lifting up to a smile. The same exact one that got him hooked from the first look.

Your lack of reply did little to ease his trepidation, causing him to ramble. “Uh, they’re these flower called ‘Morning Glory’ and they signify affection and new beginnings. They’re also one of your birth flowers—September and actually in Chinese folklore, they represent ‘a single day for lovers to meet’ not that we’re lovers, yet I mean, at all but yeah—they remind of you.”

“That’s so sweet of you, Spence,” you step away from the entrance to let him in. “Why don’t you come on in, I’ll just place them on a vase.”

He shuffled inside after you, taking in the warmth and life your apartment evoked. The sunlight streaming in through the thin, almost translucent white curtains that light the place with softness. The precariously stacked books, half of the authors he had never heard of, beside your worn out beige sofa and a lively green plant that threatens to grow out of its pottery.

Everything felt homely.

Every piece reflected you.

“Sorry it looks a little bit messy right now,” you rambled on, placing the origami bouquets on top of the living room table—effectively making it into a center piece.

He shook his head and laughed. “No, no. It looks lived in, homely.”

“That’s good to hear. So—” you rocked back and forth on your heels. “Should we get going?” 

“Yeah,” he opened the door and gestured with his arm. “Ladies first.” 

The hallway was filled with giggles and shy glances as you went ahead and locked the apartment behind you. Life felt surreal ever since you uttered the word ‘yes’ to his ramblings on going out on weekend market date. He briefly wondered if he had to clarify his invitation as a ‘date’ between two individuals that would like to broaden their relationship and not as a ‘date’ between two platonic people. But your cheeks turned this candy pink in color before your sweet voice spelled out that it will be a romantic one and, in which case, he vigorously nodded. 

“So,” you started.

“So,” he mimicked.

You laughed before slowly moving your hand towards his. The backs of your palms gently rubbing against each other, creating friction that sent his beating heart into overdrive. You bit your gloss pillowy lips before intertwining your pinky with his. 

“I’m glad you asked me out,” you breathed out. 

He tried to steady his breath, all of his fingers now intertwining with yours. “I’m glad you said yes.”

“As if I could ever say no.” 

And when he let go of your hand to help you get in his vintage faded blue car, he reached out over the console to tangle it back together, finding the solace and comfort that he had hopefully and finally, found his forevermore partner. 

Comments and reblogs are greatly appreciated!

[indigo-art]

A continuation from this reblog chain. Welcome to the world's most helpful oil spill. Featuring @blackkatdraws @wilted-woods @silvermoon279-madam @minamariq @bullpup-blog and a very tiny @marsalta this is a collab post, @blackkatdraws is next and then @deviousnarrator

[theoxenfree]

TINCTURE OF ACONITE

werewolf x "magic" practitioner!reader | 2.4k

a man is told about a dilapidated inn on the outskirts of the village that houses a practitioner of unsavory sorts. he seeks you out to find a cure for his affliction—lycanthropy. with blood on his hands, at the mercy of a fate of cruel uncertainties, he has no choice but to take on the task you give to him and the catch that comes with it: he must decide if he deserves to live or die.

warnings; dark fantasy, mentions of blood and mutilation, a very dark interpretation of lycanthropy, very evasive interpretation of what a "practitioner" is, mc smokes, theological discussion, derogatory insult (e.g. bitch), roughly proofread.

this is the first of my prompts fulfilled for my personal october writing project! this was also the prompt that won the first poll!

i would appreciate it enormously if y'all would please reblog + leave me feedback on this! particularly if you'd be interested in seeing this as a full story down the line!

From the hawk-nosed widow selling stale bread and wrinkled, gray potatoes with mysterious growths, he'd learned about a dilapidated inn fringing the northwest end of the village. There, she had said warily, with keen and wise eyes showing wide whites and tiny bloodshot threads, he would find the answers to everything he had never asked for.

He would find the Practitioner.

It took him less time than he thought to find his way across the village, away from the cursory and reluctant and distrustful looks as he lumbered through in his heavy boots and loose-fitting black tatters he'd sewn together himself time and time again. His face was haggard, skin wet and ashen, and he couldn't remember the last time he held a blade to shave his face, tame his long, dark hair.

To the townspeople, he must've looked like a wildman; uncivilized; belonging to the deep wood and meadows and smelling thickly of untouched nature, mud, and musk. Perhaps, now, he was just that because he also could no longer remember a time where he'd been welcome to sleep in a bed, ate a meal cooked and seasoned to be used with cutlery, allowed himself to be gripped by scalding water and bath salts, reveled the touch of another person.

Upon reaching the inn sometime later, a tiered, hulking structure which seemed to rot from the inside out; the middle of the massive thing bowing inward as though slowly being sucked underground—into hell, he was greeted at the entrance without ever having needed to knock.

“Second floor,” was all the older fellow said. A man with unhealthy grayness to his complexion that rivaled his own. All of the vigor, pink liveliness was long gone from his face and his eyes reflected nothing—not a want, a wish, a worry, or thought beyond remembering to move one foot after the next to keep locomotion.

He moved beyond the gaunt, wispy fellow who quietly closed the door, then shuffled off through another threshold leading elsewhere. He'd been instructed to go to the left, to the end of hall and through the door which faced him.

When he did this, the somnolent dreariness of the world outside fell away and he was sucked into silence filled with static. The room was sentient, almost, swirling with immense wafts of burning herbs, fragrant flora, dark tendrils of smoke emerging from wilted candle wicks and the cherry flickers at the tips of them.

“Well, aren't you a sad sight!” Your voice was deceptively upbeat in comparison to this room, this place. He noticed you seated in a high-backed chair padded in ripped red velvet, a large table stretched out before you and sprawled with many, endless things. “It isn't easy to find this place. Who told you about me?”

“The potato seller at the village.” He said.

You pressed a flat, metal tip between your lips and sucked in on some weird instrument, blowing out a profuse cloud of faint, purple smoke which smelled otherworldly and familiar.

“You mean the widow with the crazy eyes?”

“I…suppose so, yes.”

“She's crazy, you know?”

“She told me you'd be able to cure me.”

You smiled like he'd just told you an amusing joke, wooed you a bit in the process. He watched your teeth come out from behind your lips and clench down on the metal tip.

“Cure you? She wouldn't have used those words. She despises me and likes to think people she sends my way meet their death. What a vindictive old bitch. She’ll get hers one day.” You said, then gestured to the empty chair opposite the table to you. “I’m flattered you think so highly of me, though. We’ve only just met. But, I know a desperate man when I see one. I know a cursed man when I see one.”

The chair was uncomfortable, not at all wide enough, strong enough to bear his form but it did not collapse under his weight, only creaked and whimpered. You were observing him as casually as he would have had a friend a long time ago, with such little regard for safety, little fear of this brawny and moody stranger sitting across from you at a table with countless, shatterable objects.

It occurred to him after an awkward moment of silence (on his end, you were perfectly at ease), you were waiting for him to diffuse his anguish, his worries, his curse—why he was really here in this room with you now. Only, he wasn't sure where to start, nor what information he could give that you'd consider pertinent apart from the rest.

He'd forgotten how to speak to people during his long, lonely solitude as well, it seemed.

“The woman—the widow—she told me you're a practitioner in the Devil’s Magic. Is that true?” he mumbled, for one second considering taking one of the hundreds of baubles on the table to turn over in his hands. “I do not much believe in any of that. The workings of any god or evil, it isn't related to my affliction. But, I want to know if you're actually capable of curing me, or a charlatan scamming the poor to be even poorer.”

You exhaled more of the luxurious smoke from your strange pipe before finally setting it aside to take up a round flask made of clear glass. Despite it appearing empty, something unseeable sloshed within—water, perhaps—and it smelled foul when you uncorked it.

“Devil’s Magic,” you seemed to consider his wordage with a derisive smile, but he had a feeling this wasn't about him. “That old wretch is something else. Handsome Sir, I am a lot of things and no one important. I am no witch, wizard, magician, druid, and I am certainly no charlatan. I might be able to help you with your case of lycanthropy.”

Hope reignited in his eyes, still but a dull flicker waiting to be snuffed as it had many times before, yet he always dared to feel this way whenever a possibility arose.

“I—never mentioned my affliction,” surprised as he was, he now knew he'd made the right choice spending his afternoon finding the inn rather than continuing onward for the next town. “How can you be so certain that's what I suffer—”

“A man of your destitute and good manners aren't the types who get stricken with vampirism or cursed by hags. You were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time, I'll bet. A good man, loyal to a fault to an… owner? An employer? A lover, perhaps?”

You were staring over his face searchingly at the end, carefully winding your wrist with the nauseating, invisible concoction in your hand. For a moment, there was nothing but silence as he considered the meaning behind your exact curiosity, trying to pry an answer from you with a stern look he'd used to terrify and award himself some small, scarce comforts.

When you didn't falter, he slouched deeper into his seat, clearly defeated by your eccentricity and dumb fearlessness.

“Thousands of miles away, I once served a Duke and a Duchess as their guard. One night, I was sent out as the baleful cries of some beast had sent My Lady into a frenzy, my My Lord into a fit of rage. Those lands were cursed, everyone was well aware, but I've never thought above my status and so I went.

“The night was all around me. Something lurked in the trees, perhaps lost souls, perhaps something else. The mist moved as though alive, a limb, an arm, an extension of the forest itself and I could scarcely see. But then, I saw it: an enormous, bent creature in a man’s torn clothes. It had the vicious face of a wolf, yet it could walk upright like a man and when I gave chase, it could sprint unlike anything I'd ever seen.”

You were leaning to one side of your throne now, an arm bent on top of the armrest while you swiveled the bottle, still watching him as though he were simply divulging some asinine discontent.

“I—” he paused, breathing arrested behind the rise of ugliness in his throat, something that tasted as vile as it was to remember.

Until then, he had been speaking to you quietly and sullen, like a man resolved to his fate. But now, he listened to his own voice fracture, quiver, and croak. Beyond that, his face and ears burned, aching from embarrassment, every emotion he had belittled himself into hiding away.

“I—was restrained by the damned thing and it took a chunk out of my side. I thought it would rip me apart; part of me wishes it had. Everything after that for a while is a blur to me even now, and I never remember the instances when I… change… only that the night calls to me, the moon a siren’s song.”

“Have you killed anyone as a beast?” you asked.

The mention made his gaze shift down to his hands which still groped the bauble, finding it a safe thing to concentrate on in that moment. Fortunately, the impossible heat in his head was quickly receding and he could once again fully regain clarity.

“I would have to believe so, yes,” he chose to say, honestly. “When I become the monster, I never have a recollection of the things that happen. But, I've awoken enough times covered in blood, surrounded by mutilation to ever claim otherwise.”

Now, you had the pipe back in your mouth and were inhaling the dreamy fumes. Letting the purple haze out of your nostrils. You were no longer looking at him, instead skittering the vastness of things across your tabletop, obviously in search of something.

“I want to be forthright with you, though you've only kept an air of mystery around yourself the entire time,” he started, replacing the object back on your table with the rest. “Either, I want your help for a cure, or I want you to develop a poison that will kill both myself and the beast inside of me.”

Your eyebrows ticked up, conveying the most emotion he'd seen out of you yet. “Those are both extremes. I cannot promise you anything because I am not a practitioner of magic or miracles. I am simply: the Practitioner. You will be the one to decide your own fate, for I cannot decide it for you.”

“I don't understand.” He looked at you helplessly, weathered and weighted.

From among the mass of stuff before you both, you pulled out a small notebook bound in leather, secured with a strap. You resumed puffing away on your pipe once he took it from you, studying it with some measure of apprehension and revulsion.

“This notebook contains many different specimens I've studied over, oh, some years. One of those specimens is a plant called aconite. You must find me a bushel, along with a handful of other things, and bring them back to me for me to create the tincture you need to either be cured or poisoned.”

He examined the notebook front to back several times, as though all of his answers would suddenly materialize across the covers. Of course, no such thing happened. “You have this table of the strangest things I've ever seen, and yet you don't have the things needed to create the tincture. I’m finding you to be a liar.”

You gave a great huff of exasperation, blowing purple smoke towards him in retaliation. “And I'm finding you to be among the dullest of men I've ever met. These things that I have do not serve a purpose to individuals. You must be the one to create the tincture for yourself. It is the intention behind it; your thoughts, feelings, beliefs, and desires. You have to decide what you truly think you deserve—what you truly want.”

“That is witchcraft,” he said, incredulous. “It's magic!”

Again, you gripped the metal with your teeth and smiled around it. “Is it magic, or is it the power of your own thinking? Is your lycanthropy the result of a beast or your own illness? Will you live or die? I can't answer those things for you.”

“Then, I must go.” He found a pocket inside his coat that hadn't worn or torn with all his previous transformations and tucked it there. When he rose from the crackling chair, wood springing back to life once he was out of it, you surprisingly stood with him. “I'll find the answers I need. I'll return to you with these things.”

You were less awful seeming up close, a normal person dwarfed by his size. It was an odd feeling to be in such close proximity to someone else, one who didn't shrink and cower beneath the severity of his face—the dark brows and dark hair and unshaven jaw. But, you stood there with him next to the door to let him out, unafraid and fixed in your confidence that he would bring you no harm.

It moved him.

It moved him so deeply that he reached for your warmth, or your illusion, and kissed you deeply. He relished the touch of your lips, the press of your body against his, and the taste of your fragrant smoke which was effervescent and sparkling in his mind.

He could have taken you to bed right then, lain naked with you, damp with sticking skin while tangled together in an embrace, luxuriating in the afterglow.

But, he could not answer those desires while with his affliction as you would die, and he couldn't burden that sort of grief after knowing the touch of another. He even wondered, with some shame, whether he deserved to know someone of your caliber, your mysticism and wisdom, after slaughtering men and women whom he'd never know the names of. Those whose families would never know closure.

He kissed you once more, letting it linger and swell with his feelings before he let you go and went for the door.

“I'll return to you.”

You still had your pipe and smoked it, smiling evenly and contentedly.

“I wonder what you'll choose in the end.”

[wilted-woods]

I can't do much so I'll be reposting this‼‼

KOSA is back with Elon Musk

From "Stop Internet Censorship" Discord!

Red Alert!

There is a HUGE push to pass KOSA rn at the end of the year.

Real quick summary: Blumenthal and Blackburn "rewrote" KOSA to appeal to the right more. They worked with ELON MUSK 🤦‍♀️🤦‍♂️ to push this bill "protecting kids". Tomorrow, many orgs are bringing groups of parents to speak to congress. This is coming at a time when FTC commissioner admitted their agenda is straight transphobia: https://bsky.app/profile/esqueer.net/post/3lcogiyr7os24

Top of the agenda is to go after providers of gender affirming care, including for adults. The FTC could also go after online platforms for displaying LGBTQ content which would be supercharged under KOSA. This is catastrophically bad.

Justin Brookman (@justinbrookman.bsky.social) Punchbowl's @benbrodydc.bsky.social got a copy of FTC Commissioner Andrew Ferguson's pitch to be chair under Trump:

There are two ways KOSA can be passed right now. Either from the House or attaching it to an end of year spending bill. They will try both.

Republican leadership(Scalise and Johnson) are surprisingly what is stopping thia from going through. They wont admit it out loud but they dont like the bill.

WE NEED TO PUSH BACK NOW!! Tomorrow those phones need to be ringing OFF THE HOOK while they meet with parents.

PLEASE SPREAD THIS EVERYWHERE!! ADD THESE LINKS TO TWITTER, REDDIT, INSTA, TIKTOK!!

USE THESE CALLING TOOLS AND SCRIPTS TODAY AND TOMORROW ALL DAY!!!

@titleknown

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Dirty Work 19

Warnings: this fic will include dark content such as bullying, familial discord/abuse, and possible untagged elements. My warnings are not exhaustive, enter at your own risk.

This is a dark!fic and explicit. 18+ only. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: You start a new gig and find one of your clients to be hard to please.

Characters: Loki

Note: in the words of Miley, we won't stop.

As per usual, I humbly request your thoughts! Reblogs are always appreciated and welcomed, not only do I see them easier but it lets other people see my work. I will do my best to answer all I can. I’m trying to get better at keeping up so thanks everyone for staying with me.

Your feedback will help in this and future works (and WiPs, I haven’t forgotten those!)

I love you all immensely. Take care. 💖

You stare at the mirror, at the woman you don’t know. The faucet runs as you’re tempted to splash the water over your face and wash away the stranger. As another diner enters, you twist off the tap and shake off the trance. You grab a strip of paper towel and dry your hands, tossing it before you exit.

The interior of the restaurant is just as pleasant as the outside. The back wall has flowers and vines painted across it as all the others stand it bright pure white. The tables are thick wood and edged with matching benches and chairs. You’d almost rather be inside than out.

As you come outside, the sun glares in your outline. You approach the archway that opens onto the patio and stop short as another figure meets you there. The new arrival is only a tall silhouette as the daylight stands at their back.

“Pardon, ladies fir–” The nicety is swallowed down halfway and your name bubbles up in its place. You don’t recall Mr. Laufeyson even saying your name; it was always ‘maid’ or nothing else. “Ah, there you are.”

Silence. The light limning his figure shifts and he comes clearer. His sights narrow as he considers you and he runs a hand down his lapel. His lips part slightly as if he means to say something but his teeth snap shut at second thought. He flutters his fingers, speechless and you wilt. You know you look silly, like a little girl wearing her mother’s pearls.

“Uh, Mr. Laufeyson,” you address him awkwardly and glance around. You can feel him staring as you clutch the seams of the dress and rock on the balls of your feet, “we… we’re just over there.”

You point through the archway then follow the gesture. You step through as he follows, his soles softly touching the boards of the patio. You pull your fingers from around the fabric and ball your hands to fist.

As you near the table, he gets closer. You can feel him looming as a growl grits from his throat; ‘what is he…’ He doesn’t finish the question and instead clears his throat.

“Allow me,” he goes to step forward as your eyes meet Frigga’s glittering green irises and Thor cranes to follow her gaze. He stands as you close in, waving away Laufeyson’s reach as he grips the back of your chair.

“Lady,” Thor bows his head gallantly, “we were worried you got lost, rather you’ve found my brother.”

“I might have this seat,” Loki insists before you can sit, “why don’t you sit with my mother?”

“She’s fine as she is,” Frigga insists, “all her things are there.”

Your barely touched cranberry juice weeps in the tall glass and the shopping bags clutter under that side of the table. You peek at Mr. Laufeyson but only get a glimpse of his throat as it tightens. You quickly put your head down and sidle around to sit in the chair. Thor pushes it in under you.

“Well, sit, we’ve been waiting,” Thor insists as he draws his hand away to clap his brother’s shoulder. You only catch a sliver of Laufeyson shrugging him off before stomping around to the empty seat. “We’re starving.”

“And what is he doing here?” Laufeyson asks his mother as he ignores his brother.

“Loki,” she reaches to touch his sleeve, “please, you two are too old for this.”

“For what? You didn’t tell me he was coming. It’s only decent–”

“Brother, please,” Thor leans forward as he clasps his large hands together, “I’ve come to make amends. I’m not too sure what I’ve done, but whatever happened at father’s, I never meant to drive you out.”

Laufeyson lashes Thor with a venomous look. His jaw ticks and his cheek twitches. He's about to boil over, as if the apology is an insult in itself. He takes a breath and lets it out, unlocking his jaw.

“I apologise for keeping you all waiting,” Laufeyson evades a direct response, his eyes flitting over to you, “I lost track of time.”

Your eyes cling to his as the tension drains from his brow and he tilts his head slightly. Again, he seems as if he means to say something, and unlike himself, he restrains his thoughts. He looks down at the waiting menu and you do the same. You imagine there will be a lecture for overextending his mother’s generosity.

As you peruse the selection, a tense silence invades the table. You all focus on the listings, a necessary distraction. As you keep your eyes on the menu, hiding from the other diners, you feel a tickle along the side of your leg.

Thor’s hand rests on his thigh, knuckles pressing against yours as he sits wide on the seat. You try to ignore the touch, assuming it's unintentional and focus on the menu. He slowly shifts and turns his hand, brushing his fingertips along your skirt. You squirm and bend your leg over the other to elude him.

You settle on a simple dish; caprese on a croissant. You sit up and reach for your drink, Thor’s hand lingering on the edge of your chair. What is he doing?

Your ears are alight and you feel the sweet about to break through on your forehead. You sip and your eyes meet another pair. Laufeyson has a finger pressed to the menu but he’s unbothered by its contents. He’s watching you.

You bite your cheek and put your glass down. There’s a sheen of gloss left on the rim. You take the folded cloth napkin and dab your around mouth, paranoid of a smear. You ring the fabric as you lower it to your lap and glance over at Thor’s tapping fingers, crawling closer yet again.

The table jolts suddenly. Frigga gasps and Thor grunts. He sits up and rescinds his hand, his attention flashing across to his brother. The two glare at each other.

“Apologies,” Laufeyson makes a show of rubbing his thigh, “I had a cramp. Did I get your toe?”

“Eh, it’s fine,” Thor grumbles, his thumb circling against the side of his knuckle.

“You two,” Frigga tuts, “please, you’re making a scene.”

“It was an accident,” Laufeyson insists, “I was in a car for far too long and now my muscles are all knotted.”

“I keep telling you, you need a proper regiment,” Thor intones, a taunt in his tone, “at our age, we need to stay active.”

“I’m active,” the black-haired brother rolls his eyes, “don’t presume you know anything about me or my life.”

“Hm, your house may be big but roving the halls like a ghost isn’t exercise,” the blond chortles.

Laufeyson huffs and shakes his head. He returns his attention to the menu as you stare at the table. You don’t quite understand. You don’t have siblings so you don’t know where this kind of animosity would come from. While your dad isn’t entirely loving, you know why he is the way he is. 

But these two, they have everything anyone could ever want and they only seem bitter. They have a family, they have wealth and all that comes with it. All that and they expect even more.

“You know, Loki, it would do you well to get out more,” Frigga suggests, “it’s a lovely house but so… grim, these days. Perhaps you might consider an update. That might help–”

“I get out,” Laufeyson insists, “please, have I only been invited to be lectured?”

“Well, darling,” Frigga squeezes his elbow, “we didn’t see you for a whole year after the divorce. We worry–”

“Don’t,” he commands, “I’m fine. The divorce is well past done. I’m over it, so why can’t you move on?”

“Ah, but it is hard to get over a lady like Sif–”

“Shut up!” Laufeyson snaps at his brother, “don’t–”

“Loki,” Frigga girds, “please.”

“No, I do not want his opinion on my wife. On my marriage. Can we stop beating this dead horse, already?”

You make yourself as small as you can. You shouldn’t be there. You’re hearing things you have now business knowing. You look around and the image of running out of the restaurant glints through your mind. It’s tempting even if it would be a bit insane. 

“So let’s talk about something else,” Laufeyson sighs, “how was your day, mother? You two seem to have been quite successful.”

“I’d say,” Thor agrees as you feel him look at you.

“Oh, it was wonderful. Eliana took care of us, isn’t her hair lovely?” Frigga preens, “and she’s such a sweet girl, isn’t she? Everything looks so lovely on her. Dear, didn’t you have a good day?”

You gulp and peek up. You pick your nail and nod, “yes. Thank you. It was… very nice of you to include me.”

“Ah, she is so polite,” Thor booms as his hand once more goes to the back of your chair. “How do you put up with him, sweetheart?”

You frown and shake your head, “huh?”

“My brother? How can you do it?”

“She is rather adept at her work,” Laufeyson sneers, “I am the least of her tasks.”

“I wasn’t asking you, was I?” His brother retorts.

“I… I do my job,” you press your palms flat to each other.

“I’d call him hard work, indeed,” Thor guffaws.

“Thor,” Frigga hisses, “be nice.”

“I am,” Thor says defensively, “I kid. Gods, it isn’t my fault he cannot take a joke–”

He grips the chair as he lets his thumb stroke the back of your collar. You sit forward slightly, wiggling to the edge of the chair. You bring your hands to hug your glass. Laufeyson fidgets with the cutlery wrapped in a napkin.

“Jokes are usually funny,” Laufeyson utters and shifts in his seat, “where is the damn waiter?”

👠

No words are exchanged as you approach the car. Mr. Laufeyson is particularly dour as he opens the door for his mother, then you. He sweeps around to claim the driver’s seat and turns the engine so it whirs softly. He steers out into the lull of traffic, twisting his hand on the leather wrapped wheel.

“That was a lovely lunch,” Frigga breaks the frigid sheet of silence, “wasn’t it?”

“Food was good,” Laufeyson agrees.

She exhales as you shrink down, hoping to blend in with the shopping bags.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I thought you two could make up. After what happened–”

“Mother,” Laufeyson breathes and his eyes glance in the mirror, “we’ll talk about this later.”

“And what about your father?” She prompts.

“I said, later.”

“Mm, yes, sorry, darling,” she apologises again, “why don’t you leave me off at the house and take her home? It’s been a long day.”

“It’s only four-thirty,” he replies.

“Yes, well, we did a lot of running around. I’m certain the darling could use some time. She has her father to worry about.”

“It’s alright, I don’t–”

“No, no, you’re right, mother, it has been a very long day already,” Laufeyson interjects.

You clamp your mouth shut. You’re a marionette being pulled between their strings. It’s not about what you want. You’re not heard. They take you out and put you away like a toy.

“Dear,” Frigga chimes, “thank you so much for today. I had a lovely time.”

You don’t realise at first she means you, not until Laufeyson says your name. Again. Maid. Call me maid, that’s all I am.

“Oh, no, thank you, Frigga,” you say, “it was really nice of you to bring me. I…it’s really too much.”

“Not enough, dear, not enough. I hope the next time I’m in town, we might have another day out,” she trills.

“If you like,” you concede.

The rear view mirror stares back at you. Laufeyson’s snakish gaze makes you squirm as he idles at a light. Have you said the wrong thing? A honk comes from behind him as the light turns green and he quickly presses on the gas.

You sink back into silence, this one airier. You watch out the window as the car rolls through the streets and you take it all in. You’ve lived in this city your whole life and you haven’t seen half of it.

He arrives at his gates and opens the gate with the switch clipped behind the rear view mirror. He drives through and the doors unlock loudly. Frigga gets out and he does the same as he helps her sort through the bags on the other side of the back seat.

You’re startled as Laufeyson bends to peer through, saying your name a third time. You flinch and look at him as he holds a cluster of bags.

“I’ll be only a moment to get mother settled,” he explains, “feel free to move to the front.”

He closes the door and leaves you to mull his unprompted explanations. You could stay as you are but that feels weird. He would be like a chauffeur or taxi driver. That’s awkward and you’re already torturously strange.

You let yourself out of the car and slide into the front seat. Frigga’s perfume clings to the suede as you pull the seat belt down. You watch the leaves of a lush tree rustle as you wait. As the driver’s side opens, you let out a squeak.

Laufeyson swings inside and pulls the door shut. He adjusts himself as he fits his long legs under the wheel and grasps the wheel with one hand. You turn your head straight and stare off at the house’s facade.

“Thank you for driving me, Mr. Laufeyson,” you murmur.

“Mm, it is no issue,” he assures as he slowly shifts into gear, the car lazily following the arc of the driveway back to the gate.

You flick your thumb nervously against your index. Your foot wiggles and your knee jitters. You can’t sit still.

“I hadn’t a chance to mention…” he begins, pausing to consider his words, “you…” he leans forward to look both ways before continuing onto the avenue, “you look very… nice.”

“Oh,” you still yourself and focus on the dash, “thank you, Mr. Laufeyson. You’re mother’s a very kind woman.”

“She is,” he says, “I… I knew she would know best.”

“Um, if it’s too much, erm, you can take the clothes back–”

“Nonsense, keep them. They are for your work,” he rebuffs coolly.

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

He doesn’t reply. Only sighs. You carry on without speaking. You wouldn’t want to distract him from driving. You're still waiting for that lecture. You steel yourself for the words; ungrateful, selfish, lazy...

The car grows suffocating. He pulls into your neighbourhood and slows before your house. You swiftly hit the button on the seat belt, ready to run inside. 

“I could help with your bags,” he offers.

“N-no, Mr. Laufeyson, that’s… okay,” you say a bit too quickly. You wouldn’t want him to see more than he already has. Besides, your father was never fond of visitors. “Thanks.”

“Right, yes,” he accepts, “regular hours tomorrow.”

“Yes, Mr. Laufeyson.”

“Hm,” he hums but does not comment. He sounds almost disappointed.

“Have a good night,” you say as you climb out of the car.

“You too,” he mutters so quietly you’re not even sure he truly spoke.

You open the back door and gather up the remaining bags. It’s awkward as you slide them out with a loud crinkle. It feels unearned.

“You know,” he turns, his hand on the headrest of the passenger’s seat, “I did tell you a dozen times about the clothes.” He looks you up and down, “much better.”

He unhooks his arm from the seat and turns back to face the windshield. You nod, struck dumb and mute, and elbow the door shut. You turn and head down the overgrown walk and climb the creaky steps of your father’s porch. You pause at the top and glance back as the car remains unmoved.

Through the tint, you can see Mr. Laufeyson’s shadow. It looks almost as if he has his head on the steering wheel, gripping it as he hunches forward. The light must be playing tricks on you. You turn and continue on to the front door.

You hesitate to enter as the dingy siding feels you with guilt. Here you are with a handful of shopping and a belly full of gourmet food. Don’t forget where you come from, it’s where you’ll always be. Fancy clothes or not.

[dev1lm4n]

untold

pairing: post-outbreak!joel miller x brothel worker!reader

summary: fragments of memories during your gradual (and rather horrendous) infatuation towards your number one frequenter, joel miller.

word count: 3.8k

warnings: explicit (18+) mdni, oral f receiving, sorta dark undertones but honestly joel's a sweetheart

notes: do reblog or comment if u enjoyed it! don't be shy to hit my ask box as well ;)

Love is stupid.

It’s lawless and frankly, holds no value in the realm you’re familiar with. Love could only exist in a world of unsullied brilliance, orderly conversations, washed hands, clean clothes, and good manners. Untarnished by the hands of the wicked, of the seven deadly sins; where birds sing out morning hymns and festive lights strung out wintry nights. Only then can love flourish. To think that such an innocent tenderness could exist within your barely nine feet by six room would be utterly idiotic. 

“You gotta pack the cigs first.”

“Huh?”

“God, you’re helpless.”

You didn’t even realize he’s tucked in a crisp stick on the very corner of your lips. His brown eyes gentle on yours as he flicked his lighter on, effectively igniting the tobacco-filled end in a slow drawl. Inside Boston’s most popular brothel after the end of government and the start of flesh-eating monsters, it was never brighter than the gathering gloom of dusk. Even at midday. It was always bleak. The bed was a plank of wood on legs, thin quilts and a ragged blanket hardly helping you through winter. But with him, it’s always a warm furnace. 

His rough fingers were quick to snatch the worn-out box of Marlboro from your loose grip. Exquisitely, he proved his familiarity with the product by ‘packing’ the filter against his palm. You weren’t sure what the action provoked, but it still had you looking up at him with stars in your eyes - twinkling fondly as if he’d just pulled out a magical rabbit out of a top hat. He looked down at you with such reverence, a little too much respect for the common whore you were, though you undeniably basked in it like fresh summer air.

Joel Miller was your light at the end of the alley. Your beacon of hope. 

“Breathe, girl.”

He chuckled oh so lovingly.

“You’re strugglin’ like a damn rookie. Come on, girl. I know you got this,” he spurred on like a goddamn sports coach.

Ungracefully, you retched on the new stench entering your airway. The taste proved to be unsuited to yours as it left some sort of disgusting filament sheet over your taste buds, yet you struggled to keep it on the edge of your lips.

Whatever Joel gifted you needed to be preserved or consumed in the finest way possible; it was a rule consistent to every paying patron you’ve dealt with, though it’s a compulsory need to be met when it comes to him. He was so engrossed in the entire fiasco playing out that he failed to give you the next crucial step to smoking a cigarette - to inhale.

“It tastes like shit, Joel. This is worse than Johnny’s battery acid cum.”

“Yeah? What ‘bout mine?”

Without giving you a much needed warning, Joel let his fingers tentatively slide along your neck. He was moving with such expertise, as if he knew exactly where the windpipe is, where you’ve been struggling terribly to inhale. He dragged his forefinger down a straight line before finally cupping the base of your neck in a firm grip. Commonly, when a customer manages to get you in a situation that’s prone to escalate dangerously, you’d be quick to retaliate. With him, it was.. different. You felt at ease, even when he’s practically in the position to strangle you.

“You taste good.”

You grinned sheepishly. Joel’s eyes traveled from where red consumed the wilted edge of your cigarette to your heaving chest. Still bare with prominent buds making their grand appearances, though the sweat from your previous endeavors had finally dried down into a light sheen. You’re undeniably angelic in the midst of all the monstrosity occurring all around him, in a way that cleared his mind and freed him of his terrors, and it sparked a feeling of guilt deep within him. You didn’t deserve this. Any of this.

“Another go at it then?” 

“Joel!”

It was the fourteenth of February.

Not until Joel Miller came prancing around with a fucking bouquet. 

Valentine’s day used to be a big deal around Boston. You could still conjure up images of the old world; a symphony of vibrant colors. Streets were adorned with heart-shaped decorations and shops showcased a dazzling array of chocolates, obnoxious bouquets, and greeting cards. The smell of cocoa and vanilla was still vivid, embedded in the back of your head even after years of being exposed to the reeking stench of sex and sweat. Working in a brothel, you learned to exploit people’s needs for romance and affection, even so, no madman has ever gone out of their way to put some thought into romancing a whore.

“Mmph.. oh.. right- right there.”

“Please, Jo- Joel. My clit. It’s right- please, no.”

Your eyes fleeted down towards where he’s located - right between your trembling thighs. He nestled his tongue towards where your natural heat is radiating from, effectively lapping up every spurt of wetness that managed to escape from your twitching hole. His tall nose constantly nudged at your bundle of nerves, each time causing your back to arch and your pelvis angled directly to where his sloppy muscle is located. You’ve told him your worries; that you were a hooker for fuckssake, you fuck guys for a living and that’d instantly make you deem unworthy of being eaten out.

Joel didn’t care one bit. Not when you’re making such sweet noises at his ministrations.

“Gotta be patient, pretty girl.”

He’s making a show out of it and it drove you insane. You averted your gaze away from him, head lolling to the side to meet his handmade bouquet propped up loosely on the small bedside table. They were fresh, some open and others in bud; you’re a little bummed you’d never get to see the ones in bud flourish as your little room was equal to a jail cell, lacking natural light. A prudent shade of pink caressed each petal, yet the kind of color that feels confident, proud to bring a newfound radiance to the shabby furniture.

The flowers felt like a mockery, a tongue stuck out to your face, everybody knew he was a madman for bringing you such gestures.

“Pay attention.”

He demanded, a carnal need for more laced in every syllable that dribbled off his lips. Joel’s eyes stuck to yours and in that moment of truth, you’re both spellbound under each other’s magic. Times like these made your brain race into untouched territory; of whether he loved you beyond the messy sheets and hushed whispers, of whether you’d escape the brothel and strive for your own. He was quick to ground you as he caressed the sides of your vulva with his ring and pointer fingers, tickled the needy hole with his middle, and pressed his thumb along each and every groove as he sought for where you ached the most.

A gentle lick upwards initiated a sharp jolt that could only be described as electrical. He pressed the end of his tongue flat against it again, then twirled gentle circles around it, and all you could do was twist the worn bedsheets in a messy crumple, splay your legs out more, and submit to his wishes. This was your gateway to heaven. He brought you the only kind of heaven you’d beg on your knees for - not the ones of unadulterated truth and clarity, but the one that’s true to the shrill, sullen, and violent world you’re living in.

It was beautiful. A moment you’d like to snap and pin with a red magnet to the refrigerator door, but it’s fleeting nonetheless.

Fuck Joel Miller and the way he’s making you feel.

“Don’t stop. Please.. please.. oh, please.”

You pleaded with all your heart, body, and soul. Nirvana was near; you could see your salvation in front of your two frantic eyes, presented among the stars scattered everytime you closed your eyes, but he cut his little performance short.

“Not yet, sweet girl.”

“You’re just my kind of man.”

Stuffed inside a dimly lit alley, amid the patronizing starlight and the warm milky glow of the moon, you leaned idly against a chipped cobblestone wall. Your figure was clad in a worn-out dress, edges tattered and stitches pulled from extended use, that hinted at both vulnerability and resilience. The night air carried a symphony of whispered conversations, muffled laughter, and faint clinking of glasses from underground taverns. It was humiliating the way your hopeful eyes met fleeting glances of passerby, assessing each one for a spark of interest, but this was your way of living. Your way to survive.

A tug on your rod, a salt and pepper man approached you with hesitant steps. You recognized the look in his old wearied eyes easily: curiosity and guilt.

“You really are. I’m really good, you know, Cherie.”

With practiced ease, you mustered a welcoming smile and gestured him to come closer in a way that made it seem like you’re withholding the world’s biggest secret. You had a certain charm when it came to attracting patrons, choreographed mannerisms that portrayed you in the sweetest manner possible. A small shy shrug here and a gentle tug of your lacy sweetheart neckline, you became a femme fatale. A true enchantress on the prowl. 

It’s one of those nights where you’re eager to make a score. Joel Miller, your number one frequenter and main source of income hadn’t popped his nose in for a whole week, and despite your thriving loyalty to him, you’d rather stash up on credits than starve. The need didn’t necessarily sweep off the guilt. You felt wrong for scouting strangers from the street to offer your services, to cater to their curiosity and help them crush the weight of societal expectations, to return their diminished ego. It felt like you’re betraying him. Another stupid thought of yours that hit the curb as soon as the older man caressed your side, his grimy fingers dirtying the pure cotton.

You felt disgusted, but really, it’s just like every other day.

“Everybody says I’m pretty.. and all the other men like me.”

He’s falling. You could watch the exact moment in real time as he weighed out his options, making peace with his moral compass.

“Don’t you like me?”

“How much-”

Bingo! Bells dinged above your head. Jackpot.

“She’s mine for the night.”

What you saw first was his thick finger, dug upon the male’s shabby shirt, forceful enough that the fabric underneath crinkled in an uncomfortable manner. Dirt underneath his nails, fingertips coarse from all the physical work he’s exerted, and everlasting scabs decorating the ends of his knuckles. You knew who it was before he brought his face to light - onyx orbs oozing off disdain as he peered from your potential patron’s shoulder. Joel could kill a man from how tightly he’s eyeing you, up and down, side to side as if trying to reason with your misdemeanor.

You watched as your ‘Cherie’ scurried off into the dark, a slow whistle drawed out of your jutted lips.

It was pissing you off. His fucking audacity.

“I’m not yours for the night,” you chimed stubbornly.

“Yeah?” Joel closed any visible gap between the two of you, trapping you between the chilly wall and his heaving chest. Your eyebrows knitted with jeering derision and in return, he scooped up every last flaky ration card from his pocket and stuffed it in your balled hand. “Now you’re mine.”

“You’re always mine. Morning, day, and night. Fuckin’ remember that in your pretty little head,” his voice taunted each and every part of you as his scruff made sweet contact with your helix. You shuddered, rocked with adrenaline. “Can you do that for me, girl?”

“Yes.”

“What’s this from?”

You sat by Joel’s relaxed knees, prim behavior with your calves tucked underneath your thighs. Gentle eyes illuminated by the gentle sway of brilliant gold. By the flickering yellow the room is dark, the shapes of the furniture distinguishable but the colors were so muted that they are almost gray. It was a different kind of night; there was a prominent uneasiness in the way he’s studying you, the lines he’s provided as guidance slowly blurring away with each and every flicker of amber. He’s never done this before. Laying loose in front of you, letting you unbutton his flannel, having you set the pace - you weren’t sure what he’s trying to convey with the sudden acceptance.

Joel is a man of closed doors, and so the prospect of seeing what’s behind thrilled you.

You looked up at him. Eyes interlocked in some kind of mutual understanding as your hand extended, cold fingers ghosting over his bare skin, and only when he gave you a hesitant nod did you let it crane down. He jolted ever so slightly, a twitch in his hooded eyes. Your thumb ran over the expanse of his lightened scar. It felt odd. Not in a weird way - just in a different, intriguing way. In a way that kept you tuned to the intimate aspect of the exchange.

The most you’ve seen from him was his pelvis bone, the thick of his unshaven bush, and his cock. He’s always made sure it’s all about you, despite being the one paying. And you respected that, all the time. Though it’d be a lie if you said you didn’t want to tear at his clothes, tug at his remaining buttons, unbuckle his belt with both hands to see all of him.

You refrained nonetheless. It looked like it was taking all of him to be this open, you wouldn’t want to scare him off with your rashness.

“Got bitten by a very scary zombie.”

He lied, adorably, was he trying to make you smile?

“Joel.”

He’d die happy at the sight of you right now.

“I thought we’re tryin’ to make this fun?”

“Fun, sure. Not absurd!”

“Okay, okay, it’s uh.. I wasn’t careful with a knife.”

You hummed softly. Not entirely sure if it was more so a mundane kitchen injury or a mugged-in-the-street injury. Your eyes traced the contours of his chest, a canvas sculpted with strength and tenderness. With sweet delicateness, your fingers continued their journey; gliding ever so softly over his warm, smooth skin up to where his gallbladder is supposed to be. Speckles of gray and black coarse hair trickled over your adventure. Each sensation rippled through your fingertips, awakening your senses to the subtle textures. Every stroke was a personal exploration, an expression of gratitude. This was where you found your solace.

“This one?”

“A trip over to Vermont gone wrong.”

“Drugs?”

He hesitated. A beat of silence from the two of you emphasized the noises from beyond your thin walls: a myriad of moans, foul words, and skin slapping.

“Somethin’ like that.”

And so, your voyage proceeded, each movement a testament to the admiration you held towards him. You wondered if he felt the same way. If he’s ever thought of the fruitless hopes you held towards him. If he’d ever longed for your existence the way you did everytime he missed his scheduled visits. You need him in the most desperate way possible, beyond the way he buried himself inside you, beyond the amount his physical existence could give. Lost in your own thoughts, you let your fingers lower.

Lower.. lower.. and lower until it rested over his clothed cock.

“And what’s this from?”

“You.”

Joel Miller has an odd habit.

Every girl in your brothel knew that he’s a peculiar one; no man has ever been this dedicated to a hooker before, to the extent where you’ve had some curious questions, wondering if he’s proposed to you or do something of the sort. Men are greedy pigs who could only take and take, every whore has established that, so the sight of his reverence astonished them. He’s too good to be true. A once-in-a-lifetime abnormality. What they’ve yet to discover was of his equally peculiar habit.

Joel loved leaving a small reminder of him everytime he’s forced to leave in weird hours of the night. A small, brightly colored post-it that’s frequently left with a stack of ration cards - always insanely over the common charge - and a trinket of some sort if you’re lucky. What he wrote consisted of a broad variety. An extension of his intrinsic need to capture and remember fleeting thoughts, to show his deep fondness of you, to let you feel the parts he’s too afraid to reveal. You’ve always chalked it up to sympathy. A poor whorehouse girl like you needed pitying and he’s doing that to fix his torn morals. 

You’d rather die than commit to the thought of him being in love with you.

He couldn’t possibly be. He’s him and you’re you, the two of you have established that.

Out of the many he’s left in your shoebox-sized room, the first one will always be the most memorable one. You remembered that it was in the peak of summer, heat almost seared your skin off your bones as a group of cicadas screamed their hearts out. The establishment is finally quiet at four in the morning. Most guests have finally stopped their endeavors and spent the night holding their pretty whores or leaving satisfied, and so you finally have the time to yourself. To relish in the satisfying silence. You lit a new candle and saddled it in its special nook - a spot on your bedside table that’s garnished with remnants of wax.

Your eyes met your pay. A good stack that was equal to three days worth of food and a place in the brothel.

Satiated, you reach over to make a proper count. That was when you discovered the vibrant yellow square, greeting you with a mystifying aura. Scribbled with a smudged wet ink, you predicted he used some kind of ballpoint pen to write the remark. Your first thought was of how corny it is. A snort uncontrollably left your lips as you observed the object closely. Never in a million years would you expect a brothel visitor to leave behind a hearty “Thank you for being here tonight” note.

You used to consider them strange, but over time you found yourself looking forward to the trivial gesture.

“Stay safe” was a quick and easy one. 

“You reminded me that life is full of surprises” bore through your heart even when it made you cringe. 

“Smile for me, pretty girl” had you by the throat.

“Can’t wait to fuck you good” elicited warmth between your thighs. 

“I’m gonna miss you” made you long for him.

This morning was the same as every day. You rose from your slumber at exactly four in the morning, grumbled at the sharp sensation down your bad back, pulled your sheets at every edge, lit a lone candle, only then could you finally relish in the daunting silence. It was so quiet you could hear every beat of your heart, every time you inhaled coldness and exhaled warmth, every time your heart squeezed at the fact that he’s not here. Just like every other day, Joel Miller left you alone. In the dark.

Your line of vision moved from where your legs were planted on the freezing wooden board, to the very top of your bedside table. This was where he first broke the sacred routine, because there wasn’t a thing on top of the rotten wood. Your pay’s not there and moreover, his post-it notes were nowhere to be seen; it’s humiliating to admit you’re a lot more concerned about the latter.

Colors drained from your face. The pink from being so deeply enamored with his gentle affection, the red from being wrapped up in a lustful haze over him, the blue from being left in the dark when he knew just how much you despised it - each and every last emotion mingled into a puzzled mess. In frantic panic, you kneeled onto your knees to try and see if it dropped down underneath, but nothing met your hand other than a glob of dust and hair. Your hope slowly began to dwindle, tears welled up in your eyes at the thought of being swindled. He wouldn’t do that, would he? That was until you made the decision to pull at your drawers with a sharp tug.

What you saw was even more baffling.

Your tongue went dry.

There were stacks upon stacks of ration cards. Every single color available at your disposal: grass green, tan, olive, and faded salmon. You’ve never seen that many officially-issued ration cards in one place before. It exceeded the amount held by soldiers when giving out pay, exceeded the best tip you’ve received in the whole year  you’ve worked, exceeded foolish dreams you’ve had of it. You let your fingers run through each fold, instinctually counting the number in each band when you knew for a fact that it’s much more than you’ll ever need. There’s a catch to this. 

You continued to rummage through your drawer, searching for his note, anything that might give you a clue to what the sudden influx of pay may signify. What met your fingers next was something blunt. Hard, stiff, and cold so it must be a metal of some sort. You took hold of what you could only assume to be the handle. Lo and behold, you’ve just discovered a revolver, it’s metal surface tarnished with age. Your heart raced as you gingerly picked up the weapon, the weight of it unfamiliar and dangerous. Joel has always hated when you interfere with his world, of guns and drugs, of robbery and murders, so what’s with the change of heart?

Beneath where the revolver was hiding was the item you’re looking for.

His note.

“I’m heading West. Tommy needs me.”

He’s not coming back. He doesn’t have to say it word for word.

“Ration cards will last you three months at best.”

Droplets of salty tears started dirtying your cheek as you clutched onto the note. Your heart shattered with each and every word, his instructions painfully etched deep in your wounded soul. You need him, you breathe him.

“Gun’s loaded. Use it to keep you safe.”

The words on the paper, though seemingly innocent and void of any emotions, held a sanction of finality.

“Leave the brothel. Find some place safe.”

Time seemed to stand still as you retreated further into yourself. This was your way out, yet it stung like shards of glass.

“I lo-”

Your eyes glazed upon the tear on the very edge of his note. A sign of cowardice. You knew what he meant to say, you knew what he tore off the page better than anyone else.

Fuck Joel Miller and the way he made you feel.

[tinyliltina]

Ethan drove his blade into his hilt. Wide, jade eyes scanned the horizon for any sign of movement. The scent of blood was heavy as he picked his way around humanoid corpses, desperation catalyzing the frenzied flutter in his chest.

“Christina?!” He barked, voice echoing through the trees. The echo was met with a long silence. Not even the creatures of the wood dared to interrupt him. Uneasiness writhed in his stomach. He’d been sure the princess was tucked away where she wouldn’t be seen, so surely the thieves hadn’t…

His hands grasped at a tree, pushing aside mangled vines to reveal another empty crevice. Gods damn it all, where is she?! Watching his step, he twisted himself through the underbrush, watching for the princess’ wings. He reached another great oak and scanned the leaves above him. Nothing. Ears wilting, he turned to the next trunk.

The knight’s heart wrenched. If he’d only been more careful. He should have known to stay closer to the main paths. Even with heavier foot traffic through cities, more eyes, the odds of being disturbed were low. Very few were foolish enough to disturb a knight. Fewer were foolish enough to disturb an enchanted knight.

~~

AN: A short story with Ethan and Chris in an AU where Chris is a fairy princess that’s advocating for her people for…some reason. Haven’t gotten that far yet. 😂 keep reading, reblog and comment if you enjoyed!

“CHRIS!” Ethan’s voice trembled. He turned, but still no signs of the princess. Too much blood to smell her out, when with his mouth cracked he could only catch faint traces on each inhale. Close, thankfully, but no definitive trail.

Frantic, he whipped around, his muscles begging to move. But he couldn’t. He had to stay calm. Ethan dropped to all fours to scour the underbrush. He couldn’t risk crushing the princess. The thought made him nauseated. Gloved hands brushed weeds and grass aside, peering beneath to sweep for any signs of the fairy princess. Though he noticed the movements of bugs and small game, still no Chris.

His hope began to dim. It felt like hours searching, inch by inch, tree by tree, every nook and cranny and hole he could find when he heard it. A small sound. His focus sharpened. Slitted pupils darted to his left. There. Slowly, he stood, and crept towards the flutter of movement.

“Christina?”

A cluster of feathers fluttered. Relief quelled his flurry of anxiety. A shaking hand reached towards the little brown bundle, gathering the shivering princess to his chest. Thank the gods… He looked down to the princess.

~~

Chris’ legs locked as she stumbled into a familiar plate of armor. Though hard, and metal, nothing felt more comforting than its presence. Finally. She sank into the knight’s palm.

“Princess…gods above, are you okay?”

She nodded. Her eyes locked with the armor in front of her. She could see spatters of red, shuddering internally. The bandits came out of nowhere… Though Ethan stashed her away, one managed to corner her. Her arms ached from trying to beat away the thief's hands, fingers. She’d heard blows land, and screams, but lost sight of Ethan when her captor collapsed and threw her aside.

“I’m…yes,” she sighed, eyes closing again. “I’m alright…just sore.”

“Let’s…move somewhere safer, yes?”

“Mhmm.”

The ground sank away. Chris stiffened until everything leveled, and finally looked up. Ethan’s face had some scratches, but as usual, he looked unharmed. At least, compared to his opponents. She flexed her wings, wincing as they pulled. No doubt she’d be sore tomorrow… Still, okay to travel. As long as she made it to the conference in one piece, or at least a piece big enough for advocate for the fae of the Eastern band, there was still hope for her home, and her people.

[snowdice]

Big Bang Editing Story [Day 125]

I started writing this fic while editing my Big Bang story years ago, but am going to continue doing it for other things now that Kill Dear is out. I will write and publish 100 words of the story every time I finish doing whatever task I’m doing. If you’d like to block these proceedings, please feel free to block the tag ‘proofread stories.’ I will reblog this post with the parts of the story I do today. Edited chapters are linked; everything else I’ve done so far is under the cut.

My Master Post Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 Part 14 Part 15 Part 16 Part 17 Part 18 Part 19 Part 20 Part 21 Part 22 Part 23 Part 24 Part 25 Part 26 Part 27 Part 28 Part 29 Part 30 Part 31 Part 32 Part 33 Part 34 Part 35 Part 36 Part 37 Part 38 Part 39 Part 40 Part 41 Part 42 Part 43 Part 44 Part 45 Part 46 Part 47 Part 48 Part 49 Part 50 Part 51 Part 52 Part 53 Part 54 Part 55 Part 56 Part 57

I have been sick and I'm very tired, but I will work on the epilogue today for a bit at least!

Chapter 58 (Patton)

If Patton hadn’t already been looking, he probably wouldn’t have had any idea what happened.

Everything had been fine. Virgil had been sitting cross legged, idly watching the conclusion of the game they’d been playing when his posture had suddenly changed. Patton had looked over at him only to see an expression on his face he didn’t recognize, but it didn’t seem good.

“What?” Patton had asked, but the question didn’t seem to register to Virgil.

Logan had glanced up confused and also noticed Virgil’s face. He’d just opened his mouth to also ask what was going on when chaos descended.

Virgil was suddenly moving, crashing into King Thomas who hadn’t even looked up to see something was wrong at that point. Patton realized after the fact that Virgil had swiped up the board of the game they’d been playing as he jumped over it, the pieces previously stacked on it scattering all over the blanket. There were three thumps as some things hit the thick board, imbedding themselves into the surface.

When Virgil discarded the board in favor of the picnic basket, Patton saw there were small darts in it oozing a dark black liquid. The parts of the board they touched were dissolving, the grass under the new holes beginning to wilt rapidly.

Logan seemed to notice the oozing liquid the same moment Patton did and was quicker to realize what it was. He grabbed Patton’s arm and yanked him away from the board so hard he almost dislocated Patton’s shoulder, not that Patton was too worried about that. He scrambled away from it when he realized what it must be himself.

He could hear the sound of glassware smashing above them. Logan and Patton had rolled off the blanket in their quest to get away from the smoldering, melting board and apparently Virgil had pulled the picnic blanket fully over the king at some point.

Virgil himself was now gone from where he’d been the last time Patton had looked and it took him a moment to figure out where the boy had gone. The person who had been shooting poisoned darts at them had been drawn out of the wooded area they’d been hiding in by Virgil’s attacks.

They were cloaked in dark green from head to toe, explaining why they’d been difficult to spot when they were in the woods. Whoever they were, they were significantly larger than Virgil, possibly an actual adult or almost adult assassin, but they were also clearly a long distant fighter. They had not been expecting resistance let alone resistance in the form of a so quick he was almost a blur fellow assassin.

They had a bow strapped to their back, but they hadn’t had a chance to get it. Instead, they were trying to fight Virgil off with an arrow they’d managed to draw from their quiver. Virgil, meanwhile was lunging at them with a broken piece of plate in one hand and the picnic basket in the other.

Virgil dodged out of the way of the arrow striking towards his arm, though Patton didn’t think it was because he was afraid of getting scratched by an arrow, but because it may also be poisoned tipped.

Virgil was distracted by dodging for long enough that the older assassin managed to hit him in the face with the arm not holding the arrow.

He went down, but he took the older assassin with him, sweeping their legs out from under them. Patton hadn’t noticed (his mind working too slow for how fast they were moving) but they were on a slight incline. They went rolling in a tangle of arms and legs towards the edge of the cliff and skidded to a stop only a few feet away.

Virgil ended up on top, his piece of broken plate in his hands. He moved to slash it across the other assassin’s throat and managed to draw blood, but the assassin’s fist came out to shove at Virgil’s chest at just the right moment, causing the strike to veer off course and slice across the assassin’s cheek instead.

Virgil jerked to the side to avoid a second strike to the chest and went back for another slash. The other assassin rolled to the side as he did and the plate only managed to nick their ear. The point of the motion hadn’t been to dodge, however. They were lunging for the arrow they’d dropped a few feet away while they’d rolled. They grabbed it with their right hand and in the same motion stabbed back behind them towards Virgil.

Virgil rolled to avoid the hit, already slashing up with his plate as the assassin turned back towards him.

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He didn’t hit them this time but his swipe managed to stop them from stabbing him when they tried again. They shoved themselves back to avoid Virgil’s swing, putting a bit of distance between them. Both of them managed to make it to their feet during the momentary reprieve, but both also stayed crouched, eyeing each other.

They both lunged towards each other at the same time. The assassin went for a stab to Virgil’s neck with the arrow, but Virgil was already ducking down. This time, he wasn’t going for a kill shot. He grabbed the assassin’s wrist and at the same time drove his piece of plate into the assassin’s arm, slicing down from the elbow to wrist. The assassin spoke for the first time, cursing in a language Patton didn’t recognize as they were forced to drop their arrow.

Virgil took a moment to kick the arrow away from the assassin and it ended up falling off the cliff.

However, this pause gave the assassin enough time to regroup. Despite their arm bleeding profusely, they still decided to use it to backhand Virgil across the face viciously, leaving a long line of their own blood across his face.

Virgil lunged back forward, but the assassin was able to get a leg between them, kicking Virgil squarely in the chest and sending him flying back a few feet parallel to the cliff’s edge.

The assassin went to grab their bow and another arrow from the quiver still strapped to their shoulder.

Virgil, however, apparently went for another weapon too and he was much faster with a knife than any archer. A knife appeared in his hand, having been strapped to his ankle and was embedded into the assassin’s chest before they could even full remove an arrow from their quiver.

The assassin promptly burst into flames, fire catching their clothes (and from the smell of it their skin) ablaze. Panicked and dying, they stumbled two steps to the side. They stepped directly off the cliff.

There was a second of silence. They heard the sound of the body hitting the ground far below and then the flap of wings and screeching as birds below fled from the startling sound (and possible soon to be forest fire).

…

“Uh, Virgil?” King Thomas said. He had managed to get the blanket off his head at some point. When, Patton didn’t know, but seeing any of it was probably enough.

Oopsie.

Chapter 59 (Logan)

Logan and Patton had been useless during the fight, but that may have been for the best. Considering the skill differential when it came to fighting (and that differential had never been as clear as it was in this moment), that was probably for the best. They likely would have just gotten in the way.

The moment Logan’s father spoke, however, they both jumped into action.

They both knew their jobs in a situation like this. Patton pushed himself up to his feet ungracefully and all but sprinted over towards Virgil. Logan, on the other hand stood to face his father, putting himself very purposefully between the man who had no idea what was going on yet and the boy who was two seconds away from remembering what was going on.

“I can explain,” Logan said.

His father was still sitting on the ground. “You can explain,” he said slowly, “how Virgil just threw an assassin off a cliff.”

Logan thought pointing out that Virgil hadn’t thrown anyone off a cliff and instead had set them on fire with a magical knife causing them to walk off a cliff, would not be useful in this moment. He glanced back briefly towards where Virgil and Patton were standing and then turned back to his father. “Yes.”

“And what would that explanation be?”

Before even starting to speak, Logan found himself making large dramatic ‘explaining hand gestures’ that he’d thought he’d long since trained himself out of. When he was younger and in trouble, he always used to give himself away as guilty by being overly expressive with his hands (and arms).

“So,” Logan said. He was still not able to stop the hand motions. “Virgil was an assassin. He came here to kill you last fall, but he accidently went to the wrong room in the royal wing. Patton and I were having a slumber party and caught him in the act. Then we reformed him and now he doesn’t kill people anymore.” He paused and glanced back, remembering the body that had just toppled off the cliff. “Er, uh, he doesn’t kill people who haven’t shot poisoned darts at people recently anymore?”

“What?”

“Look,” Logan said. “You’re going to have to tell him you’re not going to execute him soon. Patton can only keep him from bolting for so long.”

“Execute him?” his father asked.

“Well, he was a Mocnejsi assassin sent to kill you,” Logan said.

“Virgil is a Mocnejsi assassin,” his father repeated as though to confirm he’d heard him right.

Logan had thought the Mocnejsi was implied. “He was,” Logan confirmed.

“Why does that make more sense than any other explanation I’ve come up with for him?” his father asked while pinching his brow. Logan took that as rhetorical. Then, his father looked at him again. “He’s 14.”

“Yes,” Logan said, “I’m also pretty sure this is the first person he’s actually killed while not under a blood compulsion, so you really need to tell him he’s not going to be executed.”

His father seemed to actually absorb Logan’s request this time. He finally looked over Logan’s shoulder at Virgil, concern crossing his face at what he saw. “Right.”

He moved to step around Logan then, and Logan let him. Logan turned to watch him slowly approach Patton and Virgil, his hands out in a placating manner. He stopped a few feet away.

“Hey,” his father said. “That was a bit scary, huh?” Virgil looked at him, eyes wide and darting around like they did when he was looking for an escape. There wasn’t much of one being so close to the edge of the cliff.

Logan would worry he’d contemplate throwing himself off of it in a bid to escape if Patton wasn’t clutching him to prevent that. “You did a good job.”

That seemed to give Virgil pause, his eyes focusing on father. “Good job?” he asked.

“Yes, well,” father said with a small smile, “judging by what those darts are doing to the grass and how far we are from any supplies for counter potions, I think you blocking them probably saved my life. So, I think a good job is in order.”

Virgil did not respond verbally, though he tilted his head like he did when he was thinking through the steps of a potion.

His posture changed enough that Patton released him cautiously, taking a step away.

“But,” Virgil said. “I’m an assassin.”

“Yes,” Father said. “I could tell by how that fight just went.”

Virgil shifted his weight. “I came here to kill you.”

His father spread his arms wide. “Yet, here I am,” he pointed out. “You’ve had me alone multiple times including once in a secret room possibly no one would have ever found. Plus, you saved me today. I think that more than makes up for the intentions you had months ago.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to send me to prison?” Virgil asked. “Or execute me?”

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“No, of course not,” his father said.

Virgil eyed him, still slightly warry.

“I promise, Virgil, you’re fine.”

“Dad wouldn’t lie,” Logan interjected. Virgil looked over at him and then back at Father. He nodded slowly.

“Good,” Father said. “Now can we get a bit further back from the edge?” He glanced at Patton. “You too, Patton.”

Virgil and Patton both stepped towards him, and he herded them far away from the edge until they were at the edge of the surrounding forest. Logan followed as well.

“Can I touch your face?” Father asked once they were sufficiently away from the cliffs.

Virgil nodded and father pulled out a handkerchief. He carefully wiped the blood off Virgil’s face the best he could (most of it was not Virgil’s) and inspected the boy’s split lip and already bruising eye.

“Is your chest alright?” Father asked.

Virgil nodded. “Yeah.”

Father considered him. “Enough to ride back to the castle.”

“It wasn’t that bad of a hit,” Virgil insisted.

Father studied him for a moment longer. “I’ll choose to believe you for now,” he said. “We should get back to the castle as soon as possible just in case this is not an isolated attack.”

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“We don’t work in teams,” Virgil informed them. “They worry we’d get emotionally attached and not complete our missions.”

“I can understand why they would say something like that,” Father said, letting just a bit of his scorn come through, “but still, we should be on our way.”

With that, he put an arm on Virgil’s back to guide him back towards where they’d left the horses.

“Huh,” Logan said to Patton as they began to walk behind them. “I thought we’d be in more trouble for all of this.”

His father paused at overhearing that, turning to look at them over his shoulder briefly.

“Ah,” said Logan with a grimace. “I see.”

“It’s been nice being your friend all these years Logan,” Patton said solemnly. “Too bad we’re both going to be locked in our rooms for the rest of our lives.”

“Until your 50s with good behavior,” Father informed them blandly.

That was… probably fair. They did allow an assassin to freely roam the castle for months without telling anyone. The fact that his father was now watching that assassin like a hawk to make sure he wasn’t more injured than he was saying, did not change that fact.

Logan couldn’t find it in himself to regret it.

Epilogue

“Do you think they’ll light your trees on fire this year?” an amused (but slightly concerned) voice asked from behind Jeffers. Jeffers ran a finger over the empty thumb of his slightly dirty gardening gloves while watching the two boys. They were currently leaning over an unlit lantern and various “supplies.” In truth, he’d stopped his own work to watch the two boys out of that very concern.

“Virgil helped me fertilize that tree a week ago,” Jeffers replied. “So, I’d hope he has some caution.”

“Virgil likes fire though,” Thomas pointed out.

Jeffers sighed. “That he does.” He tilted his head towards Thomas. “You did confiscate the fire knife again after last week, yes?”

“I did,” Thomas confirmed, “but that means very little. Even burying that thing with a corpse did not dissuade him.”

As he spoke, a sudden spark of light flew from where the boys were working. A whining sound and then pop sounded as the spark exploded into 10 pieces, raining down colorful light. Luckily, they burned up before hitting the ground (or the tree).

“Boys, if you set anything on fire, you will be grounded from the festival,” Thomas called in a booming voice. Both boys jumped. Jeffers imagined Logan hadn’t even known he was there. (Virgil certainly did, but he still jumped. “For the second year in a row in Logan’s case.”

“They’re not flammable!” was the claim from Logan.

“I don’t believe you,” Thomas called back.

The boys ignored this, turning back to their experiment.

“We should have kept them grounded,” Thomas muttered. Despite Thomas’s original decision to ground Patton and Logan until their 50s (and Helen’s push to keep them grounded until Thomas, Helen, and Jeffers himself were all dead and couldn’t enforce it anymore), the boys had only been grounded for two months after Thomas had found out the truth of Virgil’s origins. That did, however, mean that Patton and Logan had been grounded from most of the lantern festival the year before.

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Logan, at least, seemed to be trying to make up for lost time this year (explosively). Jeffers did worry about where Patton was slightly, but honestly Patton without Logan or Virgil tended to be much less destructive in his hijinx. The worst he was probably doing was stealing sweets out from under Helen’s nose. Which was why both Jeffers and Thomas were currently here watching these two.

There were more sparks from the boy’s experiment. The grass caught fire at their feet. Virgil hastily stomped it out.

“I’ll watch them if you want to get food to bribe Virgil away,” Jeffers offered.

[wing-ed-thing]

Shino Headcanons Relationship Headcanons

𓆃 Shino can go for moderate periods without having to sleep. Because his hive sleeps in shifts, he can sustain himself on this incremental energy in emergencies. 

𓆃 While this ability makes him a great nighttime scout on missions, difficulties sleeping can become involuntary at home. Especially when Shino feels anxious, the hive can keep him awake with their activity.

𓆃 Other times, the hive is audibly noisy. Beetles also like to explore the room outside of Shino’s body when he’s asleep. If you’re not being woken to the sound of tiny insect legs, you may be woken up to bugs in your bed.

𓆃 Shino has a great knowledge of the local plants and insect species. The Aburame Clan grow their own extensive gardens and keep a well-maintained apiary.

𓆃 If you want to keep Shino talking for a while, he’ll happily chat about plants and bugs for hours. The best part is he doesn’t usually realize how long he talks.

𓆃 Shino has very strong feelings about invasive species. He’ll often take walks around the woods, pulling out growing invasive species when he can. Even during your romantic strolls, if he sees a plant that should be growing, he’ll take care of it then and there

𓆃 With his knowledge of the local plants, the Aburame clan works closely with the medical corps to provide and develop cutting-edge medicine. While Shino isn’t a medical shinobi, he could capably bail you out of a pinch if something goes wrong on a mission. 

𓆃 You never have to remind him about flowers because he always has a fresh bouquet of native wildflowers whenever the last one wilts (how does he know??).

𓆃 The flowers will have at least 3 bugs in them.

Thank you to all who liked, reblogged, followed, and otherwise supported. Your support means so much and is greatly appreciated.

[hey-august]

Congratulations on your milestone, August!!! 🥳🥳 I'm so happy for you 😍 Can I have petal (gardenia) + “You’re gonna make me cry.” Thank you ♥3♥

Thank you, Venus!! 🩷🩷 I really appreciate all your encouragement! It makes me so so happy to see your likes, reblogs, comments, asks etc etc etc 🥰

Prompts: Petal (gardenia), "You’re gonna make me cry." Teaser: "[...] I don’t remember putting in an order for droopy sticks.”" Warnings: SFW, established relationship, brief profanity, it takes a moment for Buggy to show up, but he does! Word count: ~1k

Check out my 250 Follower Prompt Event and see fulfilled prompts here.

˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ✩ ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗

The sun hung high, dropping a bright and heavy heat onto the ship. Your shadow clung to the small perimeter it was allowed to occupy as you traveled the deck. Only a few crew members remained working under the cloudless sky, cursing those who had taken refuge in the cool belly of the ship. Your passing presence was overlooked as they fixated on completing the tasks at hand and retreating from the sun’s aggression. 

Your feet picked up the pace, matching the speed of the sweat beading on your forehead. Although your body was trying to cool itself, the layer of saltwater only added to the constricting heat. As much as you’d also like to avoid the oppressive heat, there was something important you needed to do.

A ship this size has a few areas that are visited rarely - usually only by those required and just often enough to ensure there aren’t any problems. In this case, you were headed to such an area due to a self-imposed requirement and because you knew there was a time-sensitive problem.

At the stern of the ship was a small maze of storage. Crates and barrels were stacked and strewn with careless intention. The minimum amount of planning was used to organize the wooden containers in a way that each one could be accessed and checked with relative ease. This left behind a few unused nooks as items graduated from storage to in-use. And in one such nook were a few planters with greenery that was becoming less green with each passing minute.

Crouching low, you looked at the plants you’ve cared for since they were seeds. You didn’t expect they would sprout, but they did. You didn’t know if they’d take to life at sea, but they did. You didn’t think they’d live long enough to bloom, but they were trying.

Your heart ached at the sight of their wilting leaves. You pinched a few, examining how the soft rubbery foliage rolled. There was still hope. 

The plants needed to get out of the hot sun. But you also needed to keep them out of sight, at least until they bloomed. You had been working on this surprise for so long and the swollen buds meant the end was close. If they survived.

You swiped at the sweat on your forehead, which only served to gather the liquid and create fat drops that escaped down your hand and the sides of your face. You would need a drink after this and so would the plants. So not only did you have to find a safe place, but you also need to hydrate them. Without being noticed.

Maybe there was a space nearby that would work, at least temporarily. It would be better to bring the planters inside, but even a shady area would be better than nothing right now. You stood up and turned to assess your options, only to be met with an unexpected audience sitting atop a nearby crate.

Buggy kicked his feet against the wood and waggled his fingers at you in a nonchalant wave. The pirate clown had shed most of his usual attire in favor of a version that was better suited for the heat. The open vest showed his glistening chest and arms, signs that the pirate had been out in the sun nearly as long as you.

“Fuck, Buggy! What are you doing here?” you said indignantly, shuffling to the side to block his view of the plants.

“I should be asking you the same thing,” was his quick retort. “It’s too hot to be skulking around like this.”

“Uh, yeah. You head back inside and I’ll be there in a minute. Actually, I’m thirsty. Why don’t you grab some drinks for us?”

“Them too?” Buggy gestured to what was behind you.

You hesitated. Your captain was exactly who you wanted to keep the plants from and at this rate, you might not be able to convince him to leave long enough for you to help the fading flora. This was a surprise for him, one that could be ruined or saved by his presence. If the plants died, then you’d have nothing.

“Yeah…them too. It’s too hot for them,” you said, walking over to Buggy and standing between his still swinging legs.

“Why are they even here? I don’t remember putting in an order for droopy sticks.” 

You slapped his knee, despite the joking grin that accompanied his quip.

“They’re mine. I’ve been growing them and wanted to keep them a secret until they bloomed. They’re supposed to look beautiful…” You couldn’t hide the apprehension at the end. They had meant so much to you.

“I got seeds from that old guy on the island a few months back. I wanted to… They’re…”

Buggy raised his eyebrows but stayed surprisingly quiet. Probably an attempt to conserve energy while under the boiling sun.

“I was growing them for you. They’re supposed to be gardenias and they reminded me of you. I wanted- They’re supposed to be a thank you for everything.”

“Oh stop, you’re gonna make me cry,” Buggy teased, as he dragged a finger down his cheek from the corner of his eye. The movement only highlighted the truth behind the extra mist in his eyes and the quiver in his lip.

Slapping his knee again, you teased back, “Don’t, you’ll only dehydrate yourself in this heat. You’d probably fall apart into a pile of dust, instead of body parts.”

Buggy convinced you to move the plants into your shared quarters. The room would be cooler and would collect enough light for the blooms.

Together, you scooped up the three containers. Buggy looked at the stakes in each planter, labeling the different varieties: August Beauty, Crown Jewel, and Celestial Star. Buggy rolled his eyes in an attempt to spread out the excess moisture they were collecting. He didn’t know what the flowers would look like, but he knew enough to understand why you picked them as a thank you for him.

“I can’t wait to see the flowers, they’re going to be so flashy,” Buggy proudly announced once the containers were settled in their new home and soaking up water.

His unabashed excitement was contagious. You threw your arms around the pirate, ignoring how you stuck together, and planted kisses all over his face. Although the flowers were supposed to be a way for you to show your appreciation, there were other things you could do in the meantime.

[peanutbutter-doodles]

I Will Never be The One.

Characters: Robin, Kylar.

Pairing: kylar/PC mentioned, a little bit of Robin and Kylar

Route: The Hateful

Summary: ‘’Kylar…is it happening again?’’ Robin Questioned, sadly. Her face twisting in concern and sadness, golden eyes dimming down at the sight of her friend in front of her very own eyes as they stutter and fiddled with there hands the more they don’t answer her question, the question they always ask every time they meet like this on a bright sunny day in the park, near the lemonade stand where Robin worked. Leaves flying through the air with a sudden breeze while birds sang and couples all together were all happy all around except….

For her.

‘’Ky.’’

‘’Hm?’’ 

‘’Did it happen again?’’

_______________

⚠️ Warnings: blood, injury, vomit mentioned, abused undertones, metaphors, angst, hurt, comfort, semi good ending, self harm, kylar and robin are a mess here, The hateful. Ask to tag!

Note: First time writing for dol, been wanting to for a long time and I finally got the opportunity to do it, so I hope you guys will enjoy ^^

Comments and Reblogs are appreciated!

OnAo3Now!

‘’Kylar…is it happening again?’’ Robin Questioned, sadly. Her face twisting in concern and sadness, golden eyes dimming down at the sight of her friend in front of her very own eyes as they stutter and fiddled with there hands the more they don’t answer her question, the question they always ask every time they meet like this on a bright sunny day in the park, near the lemonade stand where Robin worked. Leaves flying through the air with a sudden breeze while birds sang and couples all together were all happy all around except….

For her.

‘’Ky.’’

‘’Hm?’’ 

‘’Did it happen again?’’ Robin asked, again. Softly, noticing Kylar's head moved slowly from the way her voice sounded to her ears as she little bit of her face that slightly leaked with blood on the wooden bench they were sitting on. She knew she was bleeding, wanting to wipe it and clean it off of her but instead waited for the right time to do so in order not to frighten the poor girl and perhaps scare her off with how much is going around them, she didn’t want a scene to happen.

‘’Di-d w-w-What Happen?’’ Kylar shakily asked, stuttering through her words. Her black locks covering half of her face as they fly a little bit from the wind, shifting her position a little. Turning face forward to the fountain instead of Robin’s direction, her breathing trembled as she saw a couple on the fountain hugging and making out with another sweetly instead of violently like…

She’s use to.

Her and Robin’s heart ache, but due to different reasons within them they only know. Robin didn’t move but watched Kylar as they both looked at different things in front of them which somehow calmed and bothered them all around but they kept themselves together in this dark world of there’s that somehow seem innocent in the day yet hellish at night from what they’ve seen and heard but nonetheless it was normal even though it wasn’t normal at all despite what others say with there words that robin remembers very well and wishes she doesn’t.

Words that…

Make her nails go deep in the wood when she remembers them, digging her nails into the hardened wood of the bench, deep enough to get splinters into her fingers, lodging into the soft skin that were smooth like crystals and glistened from the sun above them, making their presence known on them as the splinters pricked and pricked like nails, seeping so deep blood began to trickle and dripped on the bench then down onto the sidewalk beneath them, it tainted the rose that was once blooming with life now….

Dwindling as it was wilting.

Breaking apart, plucking itself to the point of death it was unbearable each second it happened as the girls just sat in silence just watching and….suffocating with each other as life around them tortured with happiness they couldn’t achieve with no matter what they did as days went buys and things repeated over and over again, getting more worse until the bough breaks and flood the whole world around them eventually….

Drowning them, so much it hurts.

Robin sighed, moving a strand of her locks behind her ear. Watching more blood leave Kylar’s face as it drips down on her white skirt, staining and ruining it with blood as she smears with her hand trying to get rid of it in the process only making it worse, as the white became coated with red, clearly hearing the mumbling and the words of that voice of her’s hurting herself the more she did it.

Breaking Robin’s heart even harder as minutes went by and the atmosphere of the park got brighter and brighter yet between them it got dimmer and heartbreaking as time went by and it was practically almost dawn as the sun started to set on the horizon, as the skies became golden just like Robin’s eyes and down like Kylar so much both their eyes were wet with tears peeking from the sides of them.

‘’May i have…a tissue please?’’ Kylar nervously asked, her voice croaked. Her lower lip trembling, not raising her head or moving her hair, She sniffles. ‘’Please?’’

Robin…obliged. Silently, taking a tissue out of her purse nearby. Rummaging throughout, she finds tissues and carefully shifts close to Kylar enough not to scare her.

Her hand reaches out with the tissue, Kylar flinches.

Robin stops, she looks up and see’s….

What the hateful did, that made her eyes go widened, stomach churning at the horrific sight before her, vomit coming up slowly, the coppery smell of the blood went up into Robin’s as she stared into those eyes, the smell poisoning her with how much it surrounded and tainted everything around them as some of it went on her hand, almost crumpling it up and the throw up almost making it out, trembling yet….

She fought back the urge, Keeping her composure thus…taking a breath.

‘’I’m Not going to hurt you.’’

‘’How do i know for sure?’’ Kylar questioned, eyeing Robin’s hand carefully.

‘’Because….’’ Her hand goes out slowly but gently on Kylar shoulder, they both look at each other.

One golden as a flower, the other….

Green as an emerald.

Dressed up beautifully as a Queen, the other like a mess of a peasant.

Yet faces full of sadness and concern as they held eye contact with one another, Robin hand went up to gently wiped up the blood from the face that held many tales of sorrow that she wanted to doused with tales of life as she spoke with a voice that calmed Kylar and herself, soothing themselves as she wiped and took away the redness that tainted the loner as she became the protector instead of the protected.

Saying….

‘’I’m not the one who’ll hurt the innocent any chance they get, i’m not the one who’ll berate nor abused a person for anything for there own enjoyment, i’ll never go and take the things away that make you happy, i'll never go behind someone’s back, i will never be….’’

Her eyes trembled, she swallowed.

Birds fly, a car past.

Flowers dance, leaves fly like their hair flowing in the wind.

They look at each other, eyes reflecting like mirrors.

Her mouth opened, Kylar’s heart raced.

‘’The One You Fear.’’

i don't have anyone to tag for this, but if you guys stumbled and have questions about dol, the characters, or anything at all. I would be happy to answer them and explain everything about the world of dol ^^

if you enjoyed reading this, and want more of it, I would love to supply you with more of my stuff!

Anyway....

Tootaloo!

Love, Butters ♡

[stardancerluv]

A Time to Love and to Fight

Part Twenty - Three

Summary: The past comes to visit Enjolras while on the vastness of the ocean.

Notes/Warnings: Mentions of Courfeyrac being questioned about Enjolras. Dated view of women..life…marriage. Mentioning of a duel. Angst in relation to what happened to Enjolras with the Royal army.

Thank you for reading! ❤️s & reblogs are always welcome. Feedback is also very…very welcome!

“Enjolras, take your angel and get out here.”

He nodded. “Go to my solicitor. He will surely help you, Grantaire if he is with us.”

“Fine, now go! Run!”

Courfeyrac met his comrade’s, his friend’s eyes one last time. Then he watched as he ran off holding his angel’s hand.

His arm trembled as he lowered it. Nights prior, they had sworn to the death. Their hands clasped in the promise. Even then he had not wanted it to get to that.

He deserved a life and so did Enjolras. Especially since the sweetest angel had entered his life. His friend deserved to have the life people dreamed of.

The only strings he had connected him to Govroche which was severed no more then an hour ago, the one with Grantaire shook. Last he saw him, he was slumped over drunk in a corner. Willing he released the one with Enjolras. He wanted his friend to be happy.

Behind him the wood burst as what remained of the doors flew open, cold fear ran down his back. Royal soldiers poured out. One that appeared taller turned and his sharp eye landed on him.

********

Stars erupted in front of his eyes as another blow landed. “Tell me where he is?”

“Who?” He would not betray his friend.

More blows landed.

Behind them he heard a shuffling sound. Blinking he saw a staggering Grantaire.

“Enjolras, where are you?” He rubbed an eye.

In his hazy sight, from under a swollen eye he watched as the tall solider turned to him.

The man grabbed Grantaire by the collar. “This Enjolras where is he?”

*******

A stewart helped Enjolras carry the trunk to the small cabin the two of you were going to share. You followed close behind and only kept your eyes on them.

The trunk took up most of the room.

“Your solicitor made arrangements that you and your wife,” Pausing, he glanced at you. You replied with a polite nod. “There is another gentleman traveling in a manner similar to the two of you. The two of you, and the man shall dine with members of the crew, if you wish it.”

Enjolras brushed his hands against his trousers once they placed the trunk on the floor. “We will consider it.”

“The food with us will be more to your liking, and what you are accustomed to.”

Enjolras, pressed his lips together and nodded. Reaching into his pocket, you caught the twinkle of a coin.

The man gestured dismissively with a hand. “Thank you, but all has been arranged.” He held the brim of his hat and nodded. “I shall leave you both, as I have to aid with the prep of departure. Monsieur, Madame.”

You could barely give him a polite nod. Your heart thudded heavily. Desperately, you tried to ground yourself, you fidgeted with your gloves behind your back.

The door creaked and the clang as he closed it behind him, it made you wince.

“Ange?” Enjolras’s voice sounded far away. You were certain you felt his solid warmth.

*******

A part of him was bemused. The first night he visited you, a fainting spell fell over you. Here you both were about to embark on a journey that would carry the two of you to a new life, a new world and here you were as delicate as a flower in his arms. And yet, you were strong, standing firm as he fought the royals but now you wilt. Something, about it made him smile.

He traced the curve of your cheek with his scarf. He was grateful they had left some cool water in the room. He taken it upon himself to moistened his scarf. As he continued to graze your features relief filled him as he saw a gentle stirring within you.

“Enjolas?” Your lashes danced against your cheeks as you came around. The flush in your cheeks was finally beginning to fade.

“Yes, mon amour?” Your eyes met his, he smiled.

“I fainted?”

“Yes, and once again I caught you.” He added softly. “Something I shall never tire of.”

******

You had removed the pins from your hair, they were in a neat pile on the table beside the bed. Nestling close to Enjolras, you rested your head on his chest. Glancing down, you eyed both yours and Enjolras’s boots as they sat on the floor at the end of the bed. Despite, being assured by the captain that the waters wouldn’t be terribly choppy, the two of you had tucked them into a tight niche. You hoped that the captain was right and the choppy seas would be later on in the trip.

Tilting your head so, you caught Enjolras eye. He grimaced.

“Shall, I refer to as Julien while we dine on this ship? Or as …”

Your words got lost in your throat. You had never imagined anything like this ever happening.

He smiled then.

“You may only refer to me as your amazing husband.” He paused and his lips curled into a quick smile. He cleared his throat. “In all seriousness, perhaps Julien. No one except my family knows me by that name.”

You nodded. “Julien.” You tested it again on your lips.

A smirk curled his lips. “I never thought I’d enjoy hearing my given name on anyone’s lips.”

You gave him a shy smile.

*******

In small mirror, you managed to set your hair once again. Turning your head, you eyed yourself. You gave Enjolras a smile as your eyes met his.

You turned and looker up at him. “Is it ok, that I’m nervous?”

He nodded. “Yes, love. But remember you charmed my heart and all those that met you. And you will once again.”

You nodded.

******

You practically hopped into Enjolras, grasping his arm while walking down the corridor. A sizable rat squeaked as it scuttled past the two of you.

“Don’t like rats ?”

You nodded, glancing behind the two of you. “They would constantly invade the cellar and ruin things.”

“I don’t like them either. I was grateful where I lived they never climbed so high. Though, Courfeyrac complained bitterly about them.”

******

As much as he wished to eat with the crew, etiquette dictated that a man of his standing would eat with the captain. To be fair, he had befriended General Lamarque and that had not gone so bad. Perhaps, the captain would share stories of being the ship.

Despite starting a new life he would not let it change who he was. Life would certainly be easier in some ways but he would remain aware of the world around him and you. Inwardly, he sighed. He had truly been given a second chance, a chance with you. He would make this work.

*******

“There I was standing on the foremast. The waves were as big as hills in the country side.”

The captian paused, and cackled. He brought one of his ruddy hands to his chest.

“Madame, excuse my enthusiasm. It has been a long time since I’ve shared my stories or been in front of a lady.”

“Oh.” You gave the captain a smile. “You are quiet alright, Monsieur.” You took a sip from tankard.

“You are kind. Julien, you have a good wife. It has been too long since we have had such a sweet presence on board.”

You could see how the remark pleased him.

“I will agree with you. Lucky a man is to have such a good wife.”

You flushed at his kind words.

*****

With your arm looped with Enjolras’s, you walked back to your quarters.

“I believe that went well.” You said happily.

He patted your arm. “I agree.”

“Monsieur Julien?”

Your heart stilled, a nervousness blossomed in your stomach. As you both turned to the voice.

Enjolras rose his eyebrows, as a questioning look washed over his face. “Monsieur Fournier ?”

“Yes, may I ask for a moment of air with you?” He quickly looked between the two of you.

Enjolras, pressed his lips together, then nodded. He glanced down at you. “I’ll see you back at our cabin.”

You nodded.

*******

The floorboards creaked and groaned as the boat cut through the water. The air, was not dank here on the deck. Glancing upward, he squinted as he took in the sight of the white sails flapping in the wind of the setting son. He marveled for a moment that a man could know the winds and where to follow them. Despite how brash the captain was, he was a smart man.

All that surrounded them was the water. He swallowed down the unease it planted in him. He didn’t like that there was no where to escape to. He felt as confined as he did in that alleyway where he had clanged swords with that solider.

He had thought surely he was close to breathing his last but Courfeyrac had appeared and shot that man down. He truly hoped his friend, his comrade was still among the living.

“Over dinner, it struck me you are Marquis Alarie’s son, are you not?”

Enjolras, stilled and he turned to the man. He had not wanted to go above deck with him but surely avoiding an invitation such as that would be suspicious. He, both of you had to be careful.

“It is I, Bellamy.” A huge smile appeared. It fought against the vivid scar that was across the man’s face. “We used to get into the muck quite a bit when our mothers allowed it.”

He narrowed his eyes as looked the young man over. Then his eyes grew.

“Bellamy! My old friend what are you doing here? And your face? What happened?” What had happened in his adult years. He had always been too boastful; he could only guess that it caught up with him.

His friend smirked before shrugging it off. “A duel with a Royal Solider.”

Enjolras’s brow furrowed. “What?”

“I had been flirting with this girl. Apparently, she split her time between me and the solider.”

Enjolras ndded.

“So, I made her choose. I am no fool.”

“You never were.” He agreed.

“So at one dawn; a few weeks ago was our duel.” He chuckled. “It was fantastically dramatic. Something that would appear in books. I even managed to wing him through the pain and blood that fell into my eyes after the blow he landed. Its by miracle my physician saved me.”

Enjolras just shook his head. “Your handsome face is gone.”

He smirked. “I have character now.” He took a step closer to him, his chest puffed out. “And he’s stuck with a girl with a so so family. Not that it matters now.” He sighed. “Father, figured I had better go to London in case the solider gets drunk and wants to finish what he started.”

“They can be pretty ruthless.”

He nodded. “He had wanted to deal a death blow. What little feelings she had lingering for me caused her to pull him away.”

Enjolras made a face. “She was there?”

“She insisted.”

“Ah, that kind.” He pressed his lips together.

“Yeah.” His friend gestured to his hand. “What happened there?”

“Solider.”

“Ah. Good thing, he didn’t take the hand.”

“Yes, luck lingers around us apparently.”

“Well, I better let you get back to your little cabbage. She seems sweet and delicate.” He paused. “May I be bold, old friend?”

Enjolras nodded. “With our past? Of course you can be.”

“I had always thought you’d marry someone more feisty.”

Inwardly, he smiled. You were strong, but he wasn’t about to divulge that. “She is my sweet girl.”

“Good. I am happy for you.”

*****

Enjolras, locked and leaned against the door. You immediately stopped pacing and came over to him. “Are you alright? Should I, should we be worried?”

Enjolras cupped your cheek, his thumb gently caressed your cheek. A smirk curled his cheeks.

Confusion blossomed in you. “Julien?”

“Nothing happened, mon amour.” He smiled. “He is friend when I was nothing more then a boy. He is not aware of what came of me after our childhood years.”

“The two of you used to be friends?” You brought a hand to your mouth.

“We were.” Enjolras chuckled. “He’s here because of a duel. He will only help our cover all the more.”

“Happy to hear it. I had been worried.”

“Soon, once we are on firm ground we will no longer have to worry.”

*******

Leaning just so, Enjolras snuffed the candle’s flame, once he laid back he pulled you close.

Greeting his past just now made he wonder. If he would have been that insufferable. Inwardly, he shook his head grateful his life led to this moment.

“Enjolras?”

“Are you sure everything is ok?”

“Yes.”

@aftertheglitterfades @corrodedcoffn @dealswiththedevilsblog @randomstory56 @pl1nfa1 @phantomxoxo @ladybug0095 @the-iridescent-phoenix @maryan028 @kindablackenedsuperhero @amethyst-serenade @crazyworldofsiani @moondev1l @samunson83 @julieteagk @little-wormwood @wafflepixie @shadyhamiltonfanatic @gretavankleep37 @peacefroggg23

[indigo-art]

Thank you again to everyone who included my narrator (Arthur) in their drawings in the last reblog chain. It makes my day every time I see someone draw him. You're all amazing artists and I'm happy that you took the time to include him, from the most detailed piece to the quickest doodle. 💜

@bucketttt4 @jaydentv @ufevalyne @ling-doodles-draws @animsay28 @vellichorom @supergnome-a @chainlink34 @cloverlux @minamariq @wilted-woods and of course @blackkatdraws

[charlieswanismydad]

about me !!!

links

drawn by the amazing @ghosttoastx !!! if you read this ily you’re never getting rid of me now

Hi!!! I’m Alice.

I do stuff. It’s pretty cool.

Enfp, hufflepuff, Capricorn Sun, Libra moon, Pisces rising, he/she, and more!! I’m also a non-partnering aromantic and gray asexual!

I stalk blogs I like, don’t be alarmed if I like a bunch of posts at once!! In fact, be happy!! I love you!!!!!

If you want to talk to me please do!!! I want more friends. Just keep in mind I am a 15 year old minor!

You have been warned!

DNI:

racists, homophobes, sexists, etc. general dni criteria ig

people who just hate for no reason!! (anti-furry, just hating on certain fandoms, etc. ticks me off!)

proshippers

frans/fontcest

exclusionists

radqueers

radfems

pro paras. go to therapy

nsfw (also sorta related to above, pro cnc/ageplay. go to therapy)

WIPS:

Wilting Flowers - My actual baby. My pride and joy. It’s imperfect but that’s okay.

The actual grim reaper falls in love with a mortal. I can’t do it justice, you’re just gonna have to trust me.

don’t break my heart - Shameless Sans fanfic. All of the self indulgence ever, but it brings me joy :) semi discontinued, might come back!

I love it man. It makes me so happy. Basically yn is an awkward dumbass and so is Sans and they fall in love and stuff :)

Fandoms:

My main fandoms are Twilight and Undertale (obv), but I’m in a bunch more!! :D

The Arc of a Scythe by Neil Shusterman

Harry Potter by Daniel Radcliffe (JK…)

Steven Universe by Rebecca Sugar

Doki Doki Literature Club by Dan Salvato

Omori by Omocat

Arcane by Riot Games

The Walten Files by Martin Walls

The Amazing Digital Circus by Glitch Studios

The Phantom of the Opera by Andrew Lloyd Webber (the book’s by Gaston Leroux but i haven’t read it lol)

Deltarune by Toby Fox (is that an anagram???)

Meet the Robinsons by Disney

And more that aren’t off the top of my head!! Just ask bros :)

I’m kinda obsessed with UTMV, soooo….

Fav AU - Insomnia (link to chapter 1)

Fav Sans - Dust by Ask-Dusttale and Geno by LoverofPiggies

Music:

Ranked by popularity, with my fave songs from each! Just like the fandoms, it's all over the place.

Taylor Swift - Haunted

Hozier - In The Woods Somewhere

Muse - Soldier's Poen

Mitski - Last Words of a Shooting Star

Will Wood - Suburbia Overture/Vampire Culture/Whatever the hell the name is idek anymore

Dazey and the Scouts - Maggot

The Oozes - I Still Adore You

Lemon Demon - Action Movie Hero Boy

Tally Hall/Miracle Musical - Misery Fell

Teddy Hyde - Terry’s Taxidermy

Destroy Boys - Crybaby

The Crane Wives - Little Soldiers

Steam Powered Giraffe - Malfunction

Writing Requests:

HEY SO HERES A FUN FACT: I WANT YOU TO ASK ME TO WRITE THINGS FOR YOU!! LIKE I LOVE THAT!!! I WILL WRITE YOU LITTLE ONESHOTS IF ITS A FANDOM IM IN!!! OR I CAN WRITE ABOUT MY CHARACTERS IF YOU’RE INTO THAT!!! JUST PLEASR PLEASE PLEASE ASK ME AAAAAAA

Things You Might Want to Be Aware Of:

i tend to isolate myself when i’m having a Big Sad™️ moment. please do not be mad if i act cold!!!

i’m a very empathic person and i get really upset around negativity. please do not send me or mention me in anything political or controversial.

i get in my head about disturbing/sexual things. once again, don’t show me this stuff. don’t ask me to write about it, either!!

i am uncomfortable around religious discussions. i get enough of them irl!!! please keep them away from me :')

i’ve got adhd and possible ocd so yeah and also my auditory processing sucksssss so if we ever interact on call or *gasp* irl then i’ll say “what?” every five seconds

books. @bunny-on-a-bookshelf for books.

i’m just a silly little girl who is also a boy. we have fun here

Tags:

(new so they haven’t been used much)

#mootie patooties - mutuals

#irl alice - real life shtuff

#reblogs - self explanatory

#alice writes sometimes - my writing!!!!

#skeleposting - undertale/utmv

#is that an anagram??? - deltarune

#sparkly - twilight

#im aspec BUT - simping, fangirling, i do a lot of it

#liveblogging homestuck - reading homestuck and making vague comments about it.

#ALL HAIL - welcome to nightvale stuff!!!

#rock n robinson - meet the robinsons

#musical automatons - steam powered giraffe!!!! the best band ever btwwwew

Moots:

I literally love you guys 😭😭

@donotreleasemeintothewild

@livforlive

@last-herondale

@hiro-doodlez

@sneakyfox55

@junessillywachingcorner

@popiollie

@toka-san

@wishtale-blogs

@italic-does-random-shit

@ghostboisonly

@just-let-me-call-myself-arson

@pizzatowne

@ghosttoastx

@thenocturnenarrator

@lelitachay

@paraska00

@tundra116

@blurboppz

@flesh-archivist

@matzahstein

@paranoid-radio

@martinibass

@drrobotnic

@sandwich2451

@blaster-fagot

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Come Out, Come Out

Warnings: noncon and violent elements. Warnings are not exhaustive. Please curate your reading accordingly.

Summary: you get an unwelcome visitor.

Based on this anon ask:

That reblog about Seb's hair: a dark simp character with a hair pulling kink? He purposefully keeps it long because he loves when you pull on it. Even if you're physically fighting him to get away, he'll be disappointed if you don't pull. About this post.

As always, please, please, please, send me your thoughts and feedback, horny and otherwise! Love you all so much 💗

You keep a hand over your mouth, your other arm wrapped around your knees as you huddle down in the cramped space. You listen to the footsteps only a few rooms over. The slow, deliberate pace taunting you. Searching, searching, searching, until you don’t hear any at all.

“Doll,” Bucky’s voice startles you, closer than you could’ve expected, “I know you’re here.”

He lets his steps make noise again. The light on the other side of the door flicks on. You cower as you stare at the yellow line slipping in from beneath the wood.

His soles scuff on the hardwood as he makes a patient progress around the room. The subtle shift of something being lifted sets your skin alight. You swallow down a gulp as you quiver in the dark closet. He clucks loudly and hums.

“I’m just checking in, like Steve told me to,” he says, “making sure you’re okay. How can I calm his worries… if you won’t show yourself?”

His irritation hangs in the last syllable. He sighs as he waits for you to wilt. Wait for you to give in and show yourself. But you can’t. You won’t. You shouldn't have let him know you’re there at all.

“You should’ve let me in when I told you to,” Bucky snarls, “now I gotta explain the tripped alarm to the blonde bozo.”

You push your knuckle into your mouth and bite down. Why can’t he leave you alone? Please, just go away.

“Tell you what, sugarplum, I’ll count to ten and if you come out before then, I won’t be mad.”

The threat is plain. It’s too late for all that. He’s already angry. You know better than to fall for it. It doesn’t matter if you come out now or later. He’s here and he didn’t come without a mission.

He laughs and claps his hands, “you’re really going to make me count?”

You curl your arm around your head as you slouch your shoulders. You keep your palm cupped around your mouth and steady your shallow breaths. Please, please, please.

“One,” he begins and punctuates it with a step, “two,” another, “three–” a third and his soles squeak as he turns sharply, the legs of a chair scraping on the floor. “Ah, of course, sugarplum, you’re too clever for that trick, aren't you?”

You push your lips together as your nose tingles. A tear spills out and rolls down your cheek, a salty line crisp along your skin. You close your eyes and make yourself as small as you can.

“Four,” he says louder than before, “five,” his tone takes on a mean lilt, “six!” A bang as the table jolts against the floor, “seven!” A chair sent into the wall to clatter back with a crack, “eight… doll, you’re playing a dangerous fucking game with me.”

Your throat clenches painfully and your eyes burn. Your horror streams down and pools along the bend of your fingers, curved around your mouth to hold in your fear.

“Nine,” his voice is shaky with rage as his march continues across the floor.

He laughs again. The air grows stolid as your ears prick and you listen. You don’t hear him. Nothing. Not a sound.

The knob wiggles and suddenly the door wigs outward. Yellow lights pours over you, quickly blocked out by his black silhouette. You squeak and hug your legs tight as you shake your head in helpless denial.

“Ten,” he announces in victory, “sugarplum,” he squats down before you as you keep your eyelids shut. A thin shield from his invasion. “I could hear your heart beat from the fucking gate.”

You wince as his metal fingers brush over your hair. He tuts and grabs a fistful, dragging you up as he stands. You exclaim as you hang from his grasp, on tiptoes as you brace your head and try to ease the fire in your scalp. Your eyes flick open and meet the deep valleys where his should be.

“Please,” you beg, “please, I was only scared–”

“Of me? Sugarplum, you know me.”

You whimper and grasp his wrist as you snivel, “you’re hurting me–”

“You made me,” he rasps, “hiding like a bad girl.” He backs out, bringing you with him into the light as he clicks his tongue again. “What am I gonna tell Steve, huh? That his best gal was so mean to his best pal? You know he doesn’t like it when you act out.” He caresses your cheek with his other hand, his real hand. “He cares so much about you, sugarplum, he sent me all the way here to make sure you’re behaving.”

You pout as you peer up into his bottomless irises, so deep and blue. His hair is floppy as it falls apart in the middle. He looks as if he’s only just woke up. Even in only a hoodie and jeans, he makes a formidable figure.

“I am–”

“Shhhh,” he puts his thumb and index around your chin, “don’t lie. I’ll have to tell him about that too if you do.”

You press your other hand to his chest, feeling the firm muscle through the thick layer of his sweater. He purrs at your touch and looks down, poking his tongue out as he takes in your desperate attempt at resistance. He smirks and his eyes meet yours again, a growl creeping up his throat.

“Don’t be too sad, doll, I like playing with you,” he purrs as he wrenches you away and spins you to face the table, “I love it when a little kitten shows their claws.”

His hand slips down from your hair to the nape of your neck. You plant your palms against the table, arms shaking as he puts his strength into you. His metal grip pinches cruelly as his other hand crawls lightly along the hem of your nightgown, toying with the little ruffle there.

“Did he pick this? Or did you?” He leans forward to exhale across your crown.

You whimper as you fight to keep yourself standing. He shoves you and your arms collapse. You land on your elbows and cry out again.

“You don’t gotta say it, we both know he tells you what to wear and you do it like the pretty little doll you are, huh.”

He keeps you bent and slaps your ass, groping you through the thin cotton, his thumb rubbing the print on the outside, “strawberries, mmm, so sweet.”

He pushes the fabric up slowly and slides his boot between your bare feet. He tickles along the curve of your ass and purrs. Bumps rise on your naked skin as he shoves you down further, crushing your arms beneath you until your face is against the polished wood.

His touch follows along the shape of your ass to your cunt. You quiver and clench as he rubs along your folds. Your feet arch as you struggle to keep your toes on the floor. He flutters his fingertips further and delves between your lips, rolling over your bud firmly.

You murmur and reach an arm across the table. You curl your nails against the wood and whine as you turn your head, weeping freely as you kick a foot against his calf. He squeezes your neck until you still, another sob heaving from your chest.

“Please,” you claw at the table as you beg, “please, let me go–”

He snickers and ignores your pathetic pleas. He plays with your clit, slides two fingers around it and squeezes. As the pressure thrums in your bud, he dips back and brings his roughened fingertips against the pinpoint of nerves. You moan as his touch sends a current of electricity coursing through you.

You slap the table, your palm squeaking across the polish. You try to drag yourself higher, try to free yourself from him, but the vice of his fingers only tightens around your neck. You gurgle and gulp frantically as his irritation shows in the motion of his fingers.

“Be sweet for me, sugarplum,” he sneers as he pokes along your entrance, “hmm, I know you can be.”

He dips two fingers into you, stretching you to his knuckles. You walls clench him as you mewl. He wiggles his hand, keeping his fingers buried deep inside you. Your breath hitches and a shaky moan escapes your lungs.

“Mm, feels like ole cap’s been taking it easy on you,” he slides his fingers back slowly, hovering them just along your entrance as he lines up a third.

He pushes against your cunt, inch by inch he stretches you. You throw your arm back blindly, your fingers dancing fruitlessly along your ass as you try to stop him. You lift your head as far as you can as he works his fingers deeper. You arch your back as your thighs flex and quake.

He kicks your feet further apart and rams in to his knuckles. You yelp and drop your head, retracting your hand to bring a fist against the tabletop. He tilts his hand, rocking harshly against you as he jerks your body with each thrust.

“Look at that pussy. Clinging to me… desperate for me,” he gloats, “fuck, he’s barely gone a week and you’re tight as fuck.”

You sniffle and cover your face. You bend your arm over your head and rest your hand on his metal one, another pathetic attempt to push him away.

You can hear it. Hear how your body reacts without your permission. How he steals what he wants from you.

He drags his fingers out of you, smearing the betrayal up your ass and giving a mean pinch. He rescinds his touch, shifting behind you, boots set against your feet.

He bends his knees and you feel the naked graze of his tip again you. A new chill ripples up your spine. You grit your teeth as he rubs up and down your cunt, tapping along your entrance as if to mock your futility.

He centres himself and prods at you. Leaning in only to relent, basking in your weak whimpers and hollow whines. He frames his dick with his fingers and pushes into you. You can't help but sob louder as he invades you.

You gnash your teeth as he rocks himself deeper and deeper. You groan and once more claw at his hand against your neck. He slips it away to gather the fabric of your nightgown behind your waist. Twisting it taut as he carries a steady rhythm with his hips.

Your muscles rack as your cheek presses to the table and your arms fold helplessly at your sides. He grunts as he sinks to his limit, snapping his pelvis so you yipe. He chuckles and speeds up, goaded on by the disparity in your strength.

He releases the knot of fabric and trails his hand up your back. He hooks his hand around your shoulder and bends over you, rutting harder as he puffs against your hair.

"If you let me in, I don't have to break down the walls, doll," he snarls.

You moan and fling your hand back, latching onto the lock of hair that tickles your ear. He grunts as you tug, trying to hurt him anyway you can. He leans in and nips the back of your ear.

"You like it," he pants, "I grew it out so you got something to hang onto."

He laughs again. The derisive snicker turns your blood to ice. You can't hurt a man who feels nothing.

He slams against your ass mercilessly and you grasp his hair tighter. He fucks you without measure, frantically pumping into you as his head drapes down beside yours. His metal fingers dig into your shoulder tighter and tighter as his other hand frames your hip.

You yank the tangled strand again as you heave. It's not about hurting him any longer. It's about getting through it, that is until he's back again.