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freuleinanna · 10 months

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trials (and errors)

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | AO3

Chapter 5: Bonds

The afterthought. Of cold creatures, scarce friends, and inevitability that comes with it.

Welp....... As you might have noticed, I suck at consistent writing. I wouldn't blame you if you have no idea what was happening in the fic before :D Maybe it's even a plus. I struggled with this chapter so much, because I think it's kind of abundant, and then it kept growing longer and longer, and I'm sorry in advance if it's over-explaining or simply not good. I like parts of it, though, so I'm posting it to have it all there. Let's have the last look at Marisa - and see the aftermath of a bloodbath that was love.

Asriel walks out of the court that day stripped of all status, lands, and money, yet still somehow a free man.

She walks out a widow and a pariah with her husband’s estate still hers, with her money untouched, and a gnawing feeling of being flung into oblivion.

The car is moving, but she sits immobile: shell-shocked in a way, staring out of the window and not really seeing a thing behind the glass. Inside her, something spreads. What Marisa initially thought to be an exhaustive after-wave of tension, accumulated up to a breaking point and then suddenly released, continues to grip her in a far less decipherable manner. Head tilted in curiosity, she’s tracking an unfamiliar presence. Come to think of it, it’s been there the whole time. The presence appears alive, conscious even, and cold – cold enough to raise concerns with little icy snakes slithering through her limbs. So much so, it makes her frown and collect herself for confrontation.

She never does confront. In a similar way, victims of a shipwreck know it’s over when the last crumbs of their warmth succumb to the glacial sea. A tragedy, yes, but also a salvation. As the same coldness crawls between Marisa’s ribs and over the devastated lands beneath, a sigh escapes her, for at that moment she starts to feel preciously,

mercifully,

less.

Parts of her resist, fighting to keep the pain. Her daemon becomes restless. There’s turning and chattering, and looking around, and clawing at air as though he senses some vague threat but cannot locate it precisely. When his little paw brushes against Marisa’s elbow, she almost cries out, so hot it gets in her chest. She thinks of volcano eruptions: mountains of earth convulsing lava out of their smoldering depths, wailing in pain. No wonder it happens so rarely. It must be terror for volcanoes to erupt.

Marisa Coulter, née Delamare, cannot afford terror.

With her bankrupt nerve, she can hardly afford anything anymore, so she invites the freezing touch further in. The monkey zings away from her. It feels like discovering breathing for the first time. No one discovers breathing and then gives it up.

Questions of right or wrong do not entice her while busy streets outside grow emptier and wider, dissolving into landscapes. Her womb still aches, and her heart does too, and she is, simply put, tired of things constantly aching. She wishes for a relief.

Then, of course, the house. The car door opens, inviting the raindrops to draw a haphazard pattern on Marisa’s dress. She hesitates, locked in her metamorphosis. Funny, how colors get darker with water. Blue grows dim, as if across her knees miniature bottomless trenches appear, like those on a sea floor. Something’s coming from them. It is rising,

flowing,

entering her,

filling her to the brim.

Water is licking embers off the ground.

And then – it spills.

‘Madam?’

‘Yes.’

Snapping out of it, Marisa draws cool air.

She steps out with flooded lungs.

Raising its mighty roof into the drizzling skies, the house looks a living creature, a nightmarish one. It opens the hungry gates to swallow her, and rearranges the corridors, and prepares for a long, long digestion. A few lit windows could pass for unevenly placed eyes, the gravel – for the voice. Exile, exile, it whispers in the rain. What the house doesn’t notice, however, is the change occurred in Marisa, for a creature that came forth within her is strong, stronger than masonry walls, and much more twisted in its nature than their elaborate floral moldings. When she walks in, a spark of indigo against the muted shadows, she’s not afraid of being consumed.

She may be stuck with the house, but the house is just as much stuck with her.

From there, it’s fast.

Whatever isolated hermit life she was leading is rushing at her from every corner. Sinking into it was gradual, but sinking back after having got out is a plunge. A dive. A jump into abyss, now dreadfully deeper if Marisa cared to feel dread.

Instead, she–

Well.

She spends her days locked up in countless rooms with a maid that hates her and acid burning her insides. She drinks, and goes insane for a while. She wears the most extravagant dresses and demands dinners to be served in the dining hall. She tortures the help into submission. Whether it’s a part of her defense or something she was born with, Marisa doesn’t bother herself with contemplations. She contemplates very little at all, but enjoys contempt in Hilda’s eyes. At least it’s a feeling, a mark of her existence. Marisa struggles to feel properly alive. At the same time, she undeniably is.

That vicious mind of hers sits right between her eyebrows day and night, always hateful, always painfully alert. She drags it around like an anvil. Perhaps, it is the tragedy of brilliant people: their mind never truly sleeps. It studies everything with a probing interest, assessing and categorizing, analyzing and synthesizing, seeing in perfect clarity all the vulnerable spots to attack, everyone a subject, including the carrier.

So Marisa wanders, and watches, and keeps silent except to wound with words. Then wanders some more. Always an enthusiast for shadows, now she downright rejects having sunlight seep through heavy drapes. Oftentimes, she forgets to eat, or eats a pick or two out of whatever feast she makes the kitchen staff come up with, so she grows thinner, scrawnier. Maternal roundness slips off of her, no more missed than food leftovers she doesn’t think twice about. It gives her a girlish look. It gives her a girlish look in a sense of there being multitudes of girls who burn their woman’s grief like fuel to keep running.

Time is stealing around without causing too much disturbance to still waters.

There’s one particular day when Marisa spends hours staring at her reflection. Not for vane reasons, and not for philosophical ones – she merely stumbles across the mirror and feels drawn to it, exploring herself as a scientist would. To her genuine pleasure, she discovers that, when she makes a little effort to hide the monsters, she still looks extremely attractive, with the kind of allure that can easily be used as a weapon.

‘Why, yes, Your Excellency, I’ll gladly resume my work,’ she laughs, training the dry cracking out of her voice. ‘It truly takes extraordinary people like yourself to look beyond the old ways and welcome the scientific potential.’

Sounds flow lighter than a melody, equal parts fluttery and charm. Marisa tries a few more phrases. They all come out just as perfect – silver bells chiming in the wind, waiting for a listener to enchant. She winces in anger, at once losing her appeal. Words are just words until she has something substantial to offer, an actual line of research, because empty-handed beggars, however pretty, receive nothing.

Her mirror self returns a heavy look. She has a weary face now. That’s unpleasant. Around her mouth the lines have deepened, etched into her skin, adding elle-ne-sait-quoi to the appearance. Something monkey-ish, it feels. Animalistic in the worst form. Marisa stands miming violence at the mirror, conjuring the most horrible expressions in complete silence, biting air, so close to the glass that her reflection all but disappears under the foggy trails of breath she leaves on the surface.

Her daemon sits nearby, engrossed in picking at a loose thread of a curtain. In his crafty fingers it slowly, but inevitably, comes out, sometimes tearing the cloth when he tugs too hard. A hole appears then, and some growling is heard. The thread is golden, shiny. Beautiful. He undoes it for however high he can reach from the floor, then jumps on the table to continue.

To Marisa, he doesn’t pay attention. An unforgiving daemon he is and a proud one, and rejected things are prouder than any. When Marisa hisses him away, the monkey chatters aggressively over his shoulder before fleeing to the other side of the room. She throws a comb at where he sat. The ivory thing bumps against the drape and falls hanging on gleaming zigzags caught helplessly in its teeth.

Where there was a crack, now is a canyon. They never speak, yet he never resists another digging into his fur: the pain is excruciating, outweighed only by its intimacy.

Marisa thinks they still look impressive side by side, which is enough for whatever purpose she might pursue – a perfect mask to hide the holes and loose threads barely keeping them together.

She thinks she’d like another daemon.

She thinks no other daemon could match her.

She thinks, sometimes, that it is yet a question to be answered: whether it’s her who flooded him with darkness, or the other way around.

She thinks – she thinks. The process never stops.

She thinks of Asriel, too. The more time passes, the more within Marisa grows dissatisfaction, vague at first, then fully-fledged and poisonous. More and more she finds herself haunted, revisiting that day in court in her memory and boiling over her own stupid generosity. Generosity – for lack of a better word, although dozens of better words crowd her mouth, she’s just too embarrassed to even spit them. That brewing keeps her awake at nights, making her grunt into the pillow thinking: Asriel got it easy. His life wasn’t shattered, he hasn’t truly lost anything.

He continues his research, Marisa learns from the Institute’s monthly print, timely delivered to her a few weeks after the trial. She reads every word about harnessing Aurora energy and shrieks like a furious cat, because didn’t they both use to agree that that kind of research lacks zest? That it’s laughable at best, below their pride? Yet here Asriel is, obsessing over scientific expansion, resource control, wilderness, witches, and, somehow, spreading the holy teachings – all at once – still managing to make sense of it. She knows that kind of writing. That kind of writing attracts serious money, grants. He’s after the sponsorship, and he knows exactly what to promise to the high and powerful to become irresistible.

Pages are flicked through until they bulge in the middle of a thin print. Marisa has to burn them to stop reading.

Her own research article, the one she fought for getting published under her name, gets mysteriously pulled the last minute. It is a minor thing, considering. Still, the unfairness is driving her mad.

She could have crushed him. She should have. Even her daemon couldn’t pick this obsession loose.

So Marisa chooses the next-best thing. She grows colder still. Where this cold was used for mere bone-structure, it now thickens. Where it sent little snakes across her veins, she now feels rivers, oceans. No temperature is too low. No depths hold little enough life.

Every day, bit by bit, the swirling pool of scorching, messy emotions inside her starts to solidify under a crust, much like a pond in winter. Frostbites spread from the edges to the center. Waters become heavier to stir. Drowning in them, everything Marisa wants to rid herself of: the longings, the painful recollections. Nothing breaks into emptiness, she learns. There are always shards to graze and cut your fingers on, and she’s a walking bag of them – so out, out with everything that hurts. North has nothing on ice settling in her blood. Radical, youth is. Never thinks about what’s going to happen, when that numbing pool is drained, and emotions, shivering, half-forgotten, claw their way back into the chest. For now, Marisa finds not feeling to be quite liberating.

Thus, on her own will, she keeps sinking.

Further.

And further.

Yielding as much of herself as possible.

Excited for someone else to take over. Someone whose rage has cooled down into calculation and pain become productive, allowing her to wait and play the necessary part.

Roaming the empty halls in the shadows, Marisa is listening to the steps. To each of her own, there is another. The sea creature is following her closely, and very soon the little pauses between their steps disappear. She and Mrs. Coulter walk as one, talk as one, feel as one, until finally, at the very end of ends, become one.

Time keeps flowing.

***

Survival, scientists agree, is an instinct. All living beings have it. There is, however, a regrettably thin line between taking drastic measures for the purpose of self-preservation and repeating them beyond reason to keep up the illusion of salvation. In simpler words, a wounded animal gnaws through its own leg to escape the trap. A wounded person, already out of the snare, continues gnawing through the remaining limbs to recreate the feeling of escaping. No research is needed to say who stands a better chance at surviving.

It could have gone very wrong for Marisa at the time. She almost reaches the coldness incompatible with any life, her own included. Her predator mind almost starves on insufficient prey. It almost eats through itself, chained to the prison walls and slowly getting used to it.

What saves her, peculiarly, is Hilda – for none other reason than her being, thank heavens, human and petty, and fed up to her neck with Marisa.

‘A visitor for you,’ the maid announces shortly, voice no softer than a stale cracker fallen on the kitchen floor and forgotten there for days.

Marisa chooses to ignore her. A rather early morning escapes her worldview. Her sleeping habits have deteriorated so, it’s a wonder she still has any internal understanding of the time passage. Nights spent reading, or sometimes staring at the pages for hours without turning them, melt into mornings of withdrawal when the help starts clanking around the house with the usual noise of steps, chores, and rare conversations. Marisa prefers to avoid them altogether.

A thud comes – the monkey lands on the back of a sofa across from her. Behind him, bookshelves tower. Anbaric lights are gleaming off two black voids where nothing reflects but vicious animosity. Instantly, the house cat daemon bristles up. Ears twitch, flattened. The monkey leans forward: his tail rises straight to the ceiling and hooks a little over his head, long fangs silently bared. He hates that fucking cat.

Marisa feels his hatred as a deformed clump in her side. It moves, pushing at her insides like an unborn child. She grimaces at the sensation.

Her daemon, the purest, physical part of her soul, a faithful friend and companion, a confidant, a keeper, screeches like a common animal. Even Hilda is unsettled. Her eyes dart to the golden creature as she takes a step sideways to protect the cat. The monkey paws at the upholstery, scrutinizing them both. He doesn’t sound like a daemon. He doesn’t even look like one with his lustrous fur dusty and dimmed to a mere memory of gilt.

He appears a wildling with no consciousness.

A deformed clump, somehow forever attached to her.

Enough!

The book is slammed shut. Around the four of them, air sizzles – or, perhaps, it’s just the humming of the lamps making itself audible. Without saying a word, Marisa looks up.

Enough. Go.

The monkey is staring at her. She knows that stare very well. The feeling of it, rather: a tingling at the back of her neck following her around the library. A rustle of careful steps overhead. Beady eyes shining in the dark. Like a twisted game of hide-and-seek all children play with their daemons, only he’s the one both hiding from her – and seeking. Oh, how he seeks her.

Her things go missing at times: a ring, a bracelet. A hairbrush with a few hairs still stuck in it. There must be a pile of treasures somewhere in the house. Sometimes Marisa wonders if her daemon sleeps among them, and if so, if he’s doing it for comfort or bites on an old earring of hers, pretending to sink teeth into her flesh.

As if catching on to her thoughts, the monkey squeals a shredding sound, then quickly turns, and the next moment he’s gone. A spot of dirty-gold flashes on top of the bookshelves, and the dusty kingdom of neglect regains its ruler.

Marisa opens the book again. A different page, not that she’s noticed. The humming continues.

Has it always been this loud?

Symbols cluster in unpredictable ways, mocking her with gibberish. She might as well be reading in a made-up language, but she’d rather die than show it. Scanning line after line of outdated research – and badly composed at that – takes a considerable willpower on her side, yet Marisa feigns utmost concentration. Something about Hilda discovering that her pastime has been reduced to staring into space feels especially humiliating. Marisa couldn’t say exactly how it happened. There’s plenty of literature to go around, she’s just lost… interest. Prospects. Purpose. Whichever makes more sense.

Every seven lines or so, the lower humming switches to a high-pitched one that continues for another one or two lines of text. By the end of the second page, that’s all Marisa can focus on.

‘Did you want something?’ she snaps finally.

The hovering figure by the door scoffs, earning itself a hostile glance.

‘Well?’

‘As I said, Madam,’ if only politeness could kill. ‘There is a visitor to see you, waiting in the East Room.’

‘I don’t accept visitors.’

‘I am well aware.’

Oh, are you.

It is a pattern they have, admittedly, fallen into. Competing species in conditions of forced coexistence always do. When the mood is right, it even entertains Marisa to poke at the maid’s patience and see what insults her bitter mouth can produce. She is a fighter, that one. Never runs out of things to say.

Tell the staff to keep quiet, Hilda, they’re giving me a migraine.

Everything is, Madam, comes the response.

Or even: That would be the brandy.

Now is no such time.

‘Send them away,’ she waves a dismissive hand.

That’s usually enough to get the situations resolved. They tend to disappear when Marisa stops looking – a useful trick she’s applying to the world. Her mind wanders to having a half-glass of something and sliding into bed. Maybe sleep will come. Maybe, sleep will last. There’s hoping.

‘I had, on five different occasions, which is neither my responsibility nor a way matters are handled in respectable houses.’ An arrogant tight-bunned head is sitting so proudly on Hilda’s shoulders, there’s no denying how little of that respect pertains to Marisa personally. ‘If you want him gone, Madam, you can tell him yourself.’

It takes some restraining to not hiss an attack. Not hiss, in general.

What a rotten inheritance Edward left her.

‘Him?’

Marisa moves in the armchair. The eyes opposite of her are steel-colored and steel-hard. She, too, can be steel-hard. Her wrists limp in perfect arches over the armrests, whereas the features of her face sharpen. It’s almost a muscle memory at this point. A grimace she learned in front of the mirror – to warn, to scare.

Yet she forgets.

‘Don’t flatter yourself. His daemon is no snow leopard.’

She forgets that her bleak, unforgiving inheritance knows her too well to be afraid.

Meteors fall. A series of steady hits, one for each word, ruptures the surface. As loud and terrifying as it is, that’s not the worst. Stones keep sinking, driven by sheer combination of mass and catastrophic speed. Then: a series of quakes. An underwater impact. A shock wave of such magnitude, it pierces through miles of breathless, half-frozen space in a matter of seconds, exploding the sea outwards. Causing hands to shake with anger.

‘You are forgetting yourself, Hilda, darling.’

Marisa presses palms together. Tsunami almost breaks her fingers. There isn’t one imperfect note in her chiming.

From the library darkness, laying an undertone to it, a distant snarling comes. The cat daemon looks up. As does Hilda, for a moment. She steps from one foot to the other, clearly cautious of the malicious creature lurking nearby. And yet it only adds to her spite.

‘I suggest you hurry,’ she nods. ‘He did mention he’d be leaving shortly.’

‘Do you have any idea what I could do to you?’

Snarling is creeping closer. This time, the old maid doesn’t bat an eye. She pulls her apron down, demonstrating a remarkable resilience. The cat arches his back at her feet.

‘The East Room, Madam. If you can’t navigate the house in daylight, just ask the help for directions.’

On that, she leaves. Well-oiled hinges purr.

Humming, humming, humming.

Marisa imagines herself throwing a book at the lamps. Then going after Hilda with a pistol from Edward’s study. Both options feel unnecessarily dramatic, although the latter amuses her– but no, no. She’d have to stand another trial. The thought rips a laugh out of her lungs. It sounds sick. She feels exhausted.

It’s pleasantly dark when her forehead touches the smooth silk of the robe, and her hair streams down. Fingers are digging softly into the ribs. Marisa presses. Bones are right there, somehow unshattered by the rippling. The other thing is there too: that un-dissect-able part she drowns, and freezes, and can never fully extinguish. It flames underwater. In a palpable, scientific reality, it takes aluminum and something else to flame underwater. Finely powdered, set afire at the highest temperatures. What was the other thing?

Smoldering pieces fly out and continue burning brighter than day.

Did she see that somewhere? She couldn’t have, not in the Magisterium. Before Marisa’s eyes, a dozen of suns are exploding at the bottom of – what, tank? She must have seen it.

Well. She doesn’t want to see it now.

Dim lights attack her eyes. Reality is slowly fleshing itself back. A visitor in the East Room. Couldn’t be Hugh, could it? She ignored enough of his letters to earn a house call, but in no scenario would he have let an old hag to turn him around. People like him don’t. Not once, certainly not five times.

Actually, none of the people she knows would. Certainly not… but it isn’t a snow leopard. The snow leopard one (don’t flatter yourself) wouldn’t come.

The sensation of being watched tickles her skin, and as soon as Marisa notices it, she also realizes it’s been present for some time. From beneath the ceiling, her daemon is peering at her. They exchange a long look. The monkey doesn’t move. He resembles a statuette, an alarming little monstrosity placed on top of the bookshelf as a practical joke on those whose eyes drift up – and then forgotten, left to gather dust. His gold barely shimmers through it.

Just minutes ago, he was a wildling. Now some clarity has settled over him, knotting Marisa’s stomach. Her soul; unkempt, unloved. She would have preferred him an unintelligent beast. Unintelligent beasts are easier. They aren’t attached to people by umbilical cords, drawn to emotions like parasites, shining consciousness from their eyes until the chest boils. Marisa jerks a shoulder. The monkey shows teeth. At least, that part hasn’t changed.

I dare you.

He blinks. Two glimmering sparks hover in the dark.

Then they disappear.

Marisa hears herself exhaling. Proper ladies in proper dresses shouldn’t look for excuses to torture themselves, but she isn’t a proper lady. She’s not even a properly dressed one, which brings her back a little. She winces.

Right.

The visitor.

Marisa rises from her chair, half-suspicious that is she waits any longer, Hilda will bring him right to the library and lock the door from the outside.

The hallway light is way more irritating to the eyes. Daylight, that is, not the flickering lamps. Somewhere in the house heavy drapes are open, the air brings sounds of the help going about their daily routine. Marisa makes it exactly till the second door on the right and has a split second of pride to enjoy, when punishment comes. A brutal tug. She sways, clawing at the doorknob. In the library, her other part presses itself against the wall and growls in pain, scratching at the wooden panels. Ancient instincts yank their hearts back to the safety of blissful togetherness, but ancient instincts have never fought Marisa Coulter and her daemon before: each angry and stubborn, each pulls in their own direction.

The next few steps are a nightmare. Her chest feels raw. Every breath swishes right through, cold as a blizzard on the open wound. Nausea comes in waves. The damned monkey resists. Without seeing him, Marisa knows exactly how heavy the risings of his chest are, how sweaty the forehead; how clenched the teeth, threatening to crush from the force. How terrified, and pained, and longing he is. She’s all that too, but someone has to be stronger.

She has to physically drag herself forward until finally, there’s a release. Threads fall loose again, stopping the horrible stretch. A squeal in the back of Marisa’s mind mixes with the rattling in the air ducts. She smirks, panting. The little demon never wins. In equal measures he can’t stand seeing her – and being apart from her, so he’s taken a habit of following Marisa around through the ceilings. A smart solution, save for the dust. Most of the time, she can’t stand seeing him either.

Her dress of choice is jade-green. The color is as sharp as she needs to be, and, by coincidence, only a shade darker than splashes of Aurora lights.

When she leaves the room, her daemon is already glooming in the corridor. He’s evidently cleaned himself. Patches of old web have disappeared. His fur breaks scarce sunlight into a ripple of glints across the wall. He is beautiful, audience-ready, except when Marisa looks, the golden elegance crumbles to reveal the same dirt-coated creature, always hissing and snarling around. They walk down the corridor together. The care placed in keeping the distance might have reminded somebody with a keen eye of a crowded room where every soul treads just as carefully, stepping and flying around paws, hands, tails and shoulders, avoiding the forbidden contact to the best of their ability. Between two beings joined since birth, it looks oddly repugnant. Unnatural, one might say.

Marisa would put it differently. She’d recall coming back to their floral-molded prison. The burning feeling she got from her daemon’s touch, the piteous cry of him recoiling when coldness sprouted. She’d call it self-preservation.

One of the hallways she walks twice. Not that Hilda could pry it out of her, that stuck-up old if-you-can’t-navigate-the-house-in-daylight witch.

The East Room welcomes them with a closed door.

Marisa pushes it, and goes blind.

The light.

Winter sun is flooding the space. There are no drapes here, no peaceful twilight. Everything is hard, bright, and aggressive. Two nocturnal creatures withdraw, seeking shadows. Something golden is flitting around the space: floor – the fireplace – windows – floor again. Something green is standing frozen, tearing up against the cold shining. The hasty getting-up and the turning of another figure escape Marisa, taking away her chance to prepare.

‘Madam,’ a voice rises to her ears. What a curious voice it is. A male one, for sure, marked with slight roughness of age. There’s a quality to it that makes Marisa hesitate. An unexpected care, almost… respect. She got unaccustomed to hearing genuine respect.

Light keeps pouring in. As does her uncertainty.

‘Allow me,’ the man says.

Promptly, and with nimbleness of step that betrays years of excellent training, he walks to the window. Sunlight seems to collect around him for a moment, as if he was the source. Then a drape slides over, cutting the flow in half. Marisa blinks the blindness away.

Her daemon stops pacing around and settles beside her. Even before the man turns, they recognize the bolding head, and a winter coat, and the sleek black fur of a pinscher daemon.

‘Madam,’ Thorold repeats with a slight bow.

His pinscher follows the example. Marisa can’t answer. Her lungs get overcome with the urge to cough up ribbons of air, thickened and shredded by at least a dozen of invisible knives. The monkey crawls forward. His golden tail is rising in a warning. There’s a flash of surprise on Thorold’s face, one he is quick to hide, but not quick enough for Marisa to miss.

Good, then. That’s settled.

She makes an effort to miss sorrow in that surprise.

‘What does he want?’ A demand, not a question.

Thorold looks up. His shoulders shrink a little, even though a minute ago he was demonstrating the perfect posture. He’s obvious in searching for words but his own thoughts, apparently, are giving him a battle too. A mixture of indecision and half-concealed sadness boils into a real suffering across his face.

‘Have you completely forgotten speech?’

A beat of pause.

‘No, Madam, I have not.’

‘Be useful, then. He must have sent you for something.’

The pinscher daemon brushes against the man’s leg. The simple comfort of the gesture frustrates Marisa. It could be jealousy. Could be disappointment, because at least with Hilda, she always knows when cruelty hits. Counterstrikes never leave her guessing.

‘I’ve come on my own behalf,’ Thorold manages at last.

‘Is that so?’

‘Yes, Madam.’

Well, a man of few words and fewer answers. Her expression darkens. She would have understood Asriel sending his servant: reasons may differ and still remain plausible – but that? She hardly knows what to make of it.

And the way he says ‘Madam’. Like he’s asking a storm not to rage, soothing waters into clarity. Despite herself, Marisa catches a shiver. People who haven’t received a lot of compassion cannot abide the warmth it brings, thinning the numbness of detachment where their hearts plunge to heal. Survival is an instinct. All human beings have it.

‘Then what do you want?’ Anger clangs inelegantly in her voice.

‘To return something of yours. If I may?’

He hesitates for permission. Marisa, frowning, just nods. She watches Thorold approach a set of sofas: there, on a chair next to them, sits a leather bag she’s seen countless times before. Its worn-out patterns haven’t changed, still keeping in themselves a mystery. A reminder of home, perhaps. Half-illegible words of a half-forgotten language breathe northern air. On the side, a flock of birds, always just about to fly off the leather on spirit-borne wings. Marisa used to admire the birds. They never flew anywhere, but they looked free.

She moves closer, her steps drowning in a ridiculously thick carpet. The golden shadow follows in a distance. His observant presence tugs at Marisa’s side. She wishes for him to disappear in the air ducts again. It is a passing feeling, but the precise thing is, she doesn’t want to feel. It gets harder when her soul is wondering around.

Thorold turns.

‘Here it is, Madam.’

He hands her a book of sorts. A smallish one, and the first thing Marisa registers is that something’s wrong about it. Her frown deepens. She takes it with caution: not exactly alarmed, just confused. Thorold lets go – there’s a glimpse of his fingers with white calloused tips. Then his palm disappears, and the mystery of the book holds no longer.

It’s badly burned, that’s what’s wrong about it. The cover’s all bulgy, melted in random places. Patches of coal-black mix with the remaining tints of color but there’s no logic in it, no structure. Just a hardened, deformed leather flesh, curled from the heat. The bottom corner is the worst. Something burned through the cover there, leaving a crescent-shaped edge with brown contours. Pages underneath are burned in the same exact fashion.

The other side is nearly intact, save for a few spots blooming here and there. It’s been burned the front side down. Besides that, the examination offers very little.

Marisa has never owned anything of the sort. She almost says as much. Then it occurs to her to look inside. She sits down, book on her knees for convenience, and tries to open the smoldered brick. Pages refuse to give in: their fire-licked edges stick to one another. It takes Marisa a minute to part them. When she does, however, realization comes at once. She’d recognize her own handwriting anywhere. Line after line is filled with it, neatly arranged statements bursting in cascades of notes on the margins. Beginnings of phrases on one side and endings on the other have disappeared in flames, but it doesn’t stop Marisa from reading a whole paragraph, tracking her own ideas and filling the gaps with words that have once been written.

She recognizes now not a book, but a research journal she kept at Asriel’s house. Sea depths heave. A sharp sensation knots her stomach. Marisa blames it on her daemon approaching, taming an overwhelming urge to kick him away. Her mouth is aching with words she can’t spill.

‘Why?’ she croaks.

Thorold takes a seat, too. His plain wooden chair can’t be too comfortable, but it allows him a space next to Marisa without the inappropriateness of sharing a sofa.

‘I thought you might need your work back,’ he simply says.

She shakes her head impatiently.

‘No, why come five times just to return this?’

‘Madam?’

The old man looks so sincere. His daemon is tilting her head in attention. Marisa catches her eyes: brown they are, but nothing close to burned paper. More like almonds, or sunlight dancing on fresh earth. Brown kissed with gold. She never knew golden things can be warm. Somehow, right now, it’s Thorold’s fault, too.

‘You could have left it with my maid.’

‘She seems a good woman,’ he nods respectfully.

‘A treasure,’ Marisa sneers.

The journal rests on her knee. Thorold glances at it, appearing again to be choosing his words. He doesn’t resemble someone to whom the trick of conversations comes naturally, least of all with Marisa, but the effort brings out a heartfelt sympathy in his eyes.

‘If you pardon my saying… Madam,’ he adds, like he wanted to address her differently but didn’t allow himself the right, ‘I thought you may want to talk with someone.’

‘Talk?’

‘Ask questions, is what I mean.’

‘Questions.’

‘If you wish to… to know of…’

He struggles finishing the phrase without letting the ghosts in. Fails, too. Unnamed hauntings surround them, as if woven out of light. The pinscher flaps her ears and yelps quietly. Daemons are intuitive like that.

From the shadows, the monkey is prowling forward, his little face twisted in a grimace of pure hate. Marisa smiles. The scent of heated metal hangs in the air. It’s going to betray her emotions for years. She’s going to think everyone can notice. In fact, there’s only going to be one person who will, probably because mothers and daughters have a connection that, in human measures, is just as sacred as the one with their daemons.

Lyra will always associate metallic scent with menace, but will never learn to understand that it comes not from steel, of which her mother, an masterful self-deceiver, deems herself made, but of fires flaming underwater, where it’s the darkest and the coldest. Where human feelings shouldn’t survive at all.

Extinguishing those fires is something Marisa will never be able to do.

‘No, Thorold,’ she objects softly, softness honed to a sharp edge. ‘I don’t wish to know. Spare me your old man sentiments. If you thought we’d be shedding tears over your stories, you’re an even bigger fool I took you for, and you never learned a thing about me.’

See? Self-deception.

That is easily the moment when Marisa finally combines both sides of the mirror: the loud, perceptible beauty mixed generously with ferocious instincts of an animal hiding in deepened lines. It will cause her few allies and all of the enemies to address her respectfully as Mrs. Coulter even in her absence, barely restraining the urge to look behind their backs in case she’s there – or worse, her spying daemon is. High Magisterium officials and children will both learn the danger of pretty gleams dancing in those wonderfully blue eyes that make you think of frostbite. Marisa is quite happy with the image. It’s got enough claws to keep her safe.

She sees a change in Thorold’s expression as he’s watching her. The pictures must not be aligning: he’s searching Marisa’s face as one does when trying to uncover familiar features, match them with something from memory, but cannot. The pinscher nuzzles against his hand. The man hardly notices. A look of regret settles over him. He’s watching, and watching, and then his shoulders sink a little, and the kindest sorrow spills all over his wrinkles.

‘Oh, child,’ he says. ‘So very young.’

Just that – just that.

And suddenly, the pool is drained.

‘Copper?’ she asks, somewhat disgruntled by the eagerness, with which a golden lightning zings around the laboratory, fetching equipment for Asriel.

Asriel glances over, so incredibly smug she wants to both kick him and watch him forever. His investment in this stupid experiment is driving Marisa insane. It’s not even science, just a… well, a party trick, at best. His beloved professors at Jordan must be showing it to a bunch of 10-year-olds to gain their attention.

He just laughs, mixing a brown-red powder to the aluminum one. When he laughs like that, new universes spring into existence.

‘Watch.’

A strip of something white goes in. Magnesium burns silver, then – then everything is bright orange, and the little ceramic pot is submerged into a tank, and the fire is flaming all hells underwater. Resilient, absolutely magnificent.

Oxygen, Marisa realizes. An oxide, that is. Next to her, Asriel, a world-class scientist in the making, is looking incredibly proud of himself for that silly amusement. He’s always doing that, showing her something she missed out on. The same is true about their whole relationship.

‘Iron oxide,’ she exhales. Then nods, ‘Beautiful.’

Asriel chuckles. He looks at the blinding, raging fire shooting pieces of molten iron to the bottom. A corner of his lips curls up, but the eyes remain serious, full of furious admiration. The one Marisa often notices directed at her.

‘There’s beauty in corrosion, don’t you think?’ he says.

Iron oxide. Corrosion.

Rust.

The second part of that volcanic combination that keeps igniting the living day out of itself until the flames eat through. No wonder her fires keep burning.

She’s made of rust.

A steel carcass inside Marisa shudders and gives way. Down below, in the pool drained of mercifully numbing waters, the longings and feelings she pushed in have re-emerged. Shards sharper than glass and pain sharper still – she can see it all rusted, layered so thick with corrosion, the blazing is going to persist for years.

A barely audible whimper catches her off-guard. Marisa turns before realizing: the monkey is standing beside her. There’s not a single wretched line on his face. His hand hovers mid-air, reaching out. In his eyes, a plea for consolation. An offer of one, too. The brainless thing doesn’t seem to understand what he’s offering.

It is terror for volcanoes to erupt. Her chest, where the damage of connection grows, pulsates with it.

Making a conscious effort, Marisa twists her heart, watching her daemon flinch. He resists for only a second, and then drops to all fours, backing away from her slowly. The further he gets, he more hunted his expression becomes, until familiar sparks stare at Marisa, and it’s the same wild, ill-tempered creature that hides behind the sofa. She wonders if he would have touched her hand. She wonders if he wonders how badly her cold would have burned him.

She wonders how people breathe without pushing away their soul. Aren’t they choking on it?

‘I am… truly sorry, Madam.’

A voice holds her in embrace. Marisa does her best to reject it. Her teeth clench. Facing kindness feels unnecessarily cruel, so she avoids looking at Thorold, staring at the journal instead. Her fingers slide across mountains and valleys of disfigured leather, tracing the non-existent patterns. Every peak is whispering its own story, and yet none of them has sufficient answers.

She imagines Asriel. Was it morning, day, night? What was he wearing? What was he thinking? Did Stelmaria try to talk him out of it? Or was throwing the damned thing away simply not enough for his hatred?

‘Why would he burn it?’ Marisa whispers.

Her eyes stay low. She’s not waiting for a reply, but when it comes treading the air, her whole body listens.

‘I don’t think…’ Thorold pauses, starts again. ‘I think he was trying to do something else, Madam.’

‘What, then?’

‘Well…’

‘Well?’

Despite herself, Marisa glances. Sharp winter sunlight falls onto the old man’s shoulders. Where it touches his coat, light seems to lose its cutting quality. Gentle streams of gold float around.

Thorold sighs. His palms open, as though he’s trying not to grip the words too hard, afraid of saying anything too much, too certain.

‘I can’t speak for him, Madam. His thinking is of heights I could never follow, but I suppose… The way I see it, he was breaking a bond.’

Words are laid carefully on the air. Elusive to the grasp as they are, their shadows are heavy and fall into Marisa deeper than she can recognize at the moment. Another pinch of rust and aluminum to burn later. She just nods, not trusting herself with speaking. There’s nothing left to say anyway – or ask, or confess. Even coarse leather stops singing under her fingers.

Was it singing under Thorold’s? His hands are still open, fingertips calloused and hard. Mostly on the right hand, Marisa realizes. The placement is so uneven, it doesn’t look like callouses at all. Pinker streaks run from under patches of thick, pale skin. Like scar tissue. Like old burns. Those permanent kisses from burning coals and melting leather, pressed to the naked skin of hands that were hurrying to salvage something they cared about.

Palms curl, hiding the injury. Marisa looks up. Thorold is looking back with an apologetic smile which only makes his eyes sadder and warmer. He doesn’t say a word. There’s nothing left to say – or ask, or confess. It’s all there, between an old man, whose heart has softened for the sea, and a young woman with sea in her name. Both of them understand it is the care she cannot afford to accept. Both of them grieve it a little.

Any reasonable timing has now passed to continue the conversation. Marisa draws a long breath. She’s never been the one to avoid the inevitable.

‘Go now, Thorold,’ she says quietly. Thorold has no idea of knowing it, but that moment makes him the last person to ever hear Marisa’s actual voice – at least, for the next twelve years. There’s no silvery smoothness in it. Just cracks all over.

‘Madam.’

He gets up, takes his bag. A flock of northern birds flies in front of Marisa’s face. Buttons of a winter coat take Thorold’s attention for a few moments as he meddles with them. Just then, Marisa remembers what Hilda said: he’d be leaving shortly. She wonders, where. Is Asriel’s research finally taking them north? She concludes so. She also concludes that Asriel must have left earlier to set up, leaving his servant to oversee the last preparations here in Oxford. Otherwise, Thorold wouldn’t have come looking for her. A strange fondness moves in her.

He stands now, pinscher daemon by his side. Two heads bow courtly. With the last exchanged look, their shared grief stings a little, knowing it’s probably a farewell. Marisa just nods. When Thorold leaves the room, the light leaves with him.

At least, it feels that way to Marisa.

She wipes the sudden tears away. The gesture is nervous, angry. Embarassed. Her breathing sounds incredibly lonely in the emptiness of surrounding space.

‘Get away,’ she hisses, sensing the clump in her side twitch as it always does when her daemon approaches.

A golden shadow stops on the floor in the corner of Marisa’s vision. Thoughts and feelings, awakened so inconveniently, are buzzing worse than a beehive. His presence amplifies them. Flooding fires with water won’t make a difference now because he who is responsible for this madness is too close.

Leave me alone.

No movement. Marisa raises her eyes. She sees the hideous creature swing his tail. A hypnotic stare is burrowing into her, reaching where threads are caught in their warlike endurance of each other. He won’t go. There’s no place for him to be except between her ribs, leeched onto humiliation that is her feelings. The truer they are, the more powerful, and the harder he’s drawn. The closer he wanders, searing Marisa from the inside by simply drawing breath. She wishes desperately to cut whatever’s sewn them together.

She throws a cushion, and doesn’t look where it lands. She senses her soul clear enough to know it’s not as harmed as she’d want it to be. Maybe then he’d learn.

The monkey only growls, when she refuses to acknowledge his attempts at connection and opens the journal again. As far as choices go, hatred is a preferable one. Better hatred than constant self-pity. Pondering over half-eaten lines, Marisa recalls that thing Thorold said, about Asriel breaking the bond. Asriel, it stings her suddenly, seems to have succeeded. In fact, while she spent months sleep-walking through wall-papered corridors, Asriel kept himself busy.

Blood rushes to her head, throbbing in such an agony, her temples all but explode. Masses thick and hot come breaking against the eardrums. They seem possessed to pound their way out, tearing the thin veins. Asriel would have laughed at her.

She bites on a nail. A stupid habit.

Another habit is cold-ing herself down as soon as she hears paws coming nearer. Her daemon hesitates. Then turns. Marisa sits peering into space, gnawing on her lip until it swells. She doesn’t want to sleep. Not anymore.

The thing is, predators are not designed for prolonged sleep. They wake up hungry. Quite newly to herself, Marisa feels hunger for something to do.

Pages crust as she’s flicking through them slowly. Hard edges cut her fingertips, hardly even shifting her attention.

She thinks.

The process has never stopped.

‘Breaking the bond,’ her whisper ripples the air. It tastes like something. The golden silhouette jumps on the sofa across from its human in crisping, snow-fresh Aurora color. Sunlight remembers of there being winter. Chilly coolness spreads. ‘Breaking the bond.’

Something’s stirring in her mind, though what it is, Marisa cannot fully formulate yet. The idea, however, is strangely fascinating. Her eyes lay on the daemon heavily.

She’s made of bonds. One with Asriel, another with their child – she may resist it, but it’s handwritten all over her body, and the handwriting it hers. A bond with her own soul, too. The one she hasn’t yet succeeded in dissecting in order to understand and control. Cutting it should feel miraculous.

Perhaps, if she were still a child, she muses. She’d give anything to go back and nick those annoying threads that got handed to her as a given. She remembers questioning why they existed at all – not in words, certainly not in scientific terms, but he knew she thought about it. Always digging deeper than children do in glorious self-understanding. There seemed to be the answer there. Why she was so restless all the time. Why her behavior never satisfied anyone. Why she was doing every wrong thing, why she loved Asriel, why she needed Lyra. The answer might still be there, only there’s no way of harvesting it now –

But a child. A child could answer those questions in all their childlike innocence. Marisa could learn the answer. She could steal it.

She could learn how, where, and when to cut.

The air is freezing now. The monkey is anxious. Marisa sits very-very still, like predators do. Much like an image, her fate comes to its fullest, cleanest form. It’s not a grand, heroic fate, and there’s no description to it yet, only anticipation. It is, however, going to be more befitting one for a woman, young with the cruelest of youth, with punches and heartbreak and blood on beautiful hands from hitting a wall, than anyone could have imagined.

She will spend her short life trying to break the three most powerful bonds she’s ever formed – and fail, miserably.

Marisa Coulter, née Delamare, walking to her late husband’s study with full intention of making it her own, is a long way from knowing it yet. The irony will unveil itself twelve years and a war later as she leaps off the edge of an abyss. Those three sacred bonds she could break however hard she tried, they will all weave together to save what she cherishes most. For now, she’s too enthralled by a monstrosity that will eventually lead to the silver cages, and lacks serendipity.

Youth, people say, is arrogant. It’s wrong emotions at the wrong time, it’s thinking that love can be left trampled to the ground. That love can be examined, prepared, dissected and understood. That it hides logic.

That it ceases to be if you just deny it enough.

As Marisa ravages through Edward’s old papers, three things occupy her mind. One, is that rattling air-ducts are a small price to pay for a chance to function productively instead of being crippled by emotions.

Two, is that she’s going to need a place somewhere else, perhaps in London, because these walls are making her sick.

And three, she hopes she succeeds.

After all, breaking a bond shouldn’t be that hard.

Just a simple process of trials and errors.

#SURPRISE BITCH I BET YOU THOUGHT YOU'D SEEN THE LAST OF ME #phEW #so it took me a few weeks over the span of 6 months to write the whole story and i love-hated it #there could also be a LOT of typos cause I grew tired of editing it and basically got MAD EVIL ARGGH and just finished the whole thing #but but but BUT BUT #to those who appreciated it and asked and kinda poked me about it?? and remembered i was even writing it some time ago for that matter??#THANK YOU YOU ARE SO NEAT #💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛💛#i canNOT express myself in any way other than howling to the moon but I'm just !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! every time #hope you guys find something to enjoy in this last chapter #i basically felt self-indulgent and wrote all my fav ideas #oh #and the scene from the gifs isn't random #thorold is there alright #he's the MAN he truly is #oOOF #alright i'm done #hdm #hdm fic #his dark materials #trials and errors fic #masriel #young masriel #marisa coulter #asriel belacqua #marisa x asriel #asriel x marisa

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cinisemperium · 1 year

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closed starter for @h3artsablaze

muse || solas

Their fragmented silence spoke louder than shouted voices ever could. Framing the narrow dirt pathway from the small, humble cottage all the way up to the towering Chantry, the humans simply stood, nothing more than soft spoken gossip slipping from their shaking lips as the one who had just saved them all dared to walk past.

Dalish, they whispered amongst each other, a word wrapped in venom and aimed like a weapon to strike as if it were a curse. The Herald of Andraste, a dirty, heathen forest elf? Their small minds couldn't fathom the thought that anyone other than a human could possibly be worth anything, let alone the blessing of their beloved goddess. The whispers grew as she passed, concern fliting across the small village as they realised the rumours to be true. It was impossible, that she did not hear them, and yet she walked with her head held to the sky, black winding vines of Mythal etched like flowing ink across her bronze skin, gently framed by wisps of falling snow.

She was beautiful, fractured being as she was, walking brave and bold as she silently proclaimed that which she knew the shems feared most. She was Dalish, yes, and she was proud of it. So when she approached Solas later, the only other elvhen in the camp, he could not say he was surprised. He blustered about being a hedge mage, free from the confines of the Chantry and the barbaric treatment of the Circle mages at the lyrium soaked hands of the Templars. And when she inquired about his unmarred face, he lied straight to hers. The crude practices of the Dalish and the simple way they were now forced to live disgusted him to his very core, but he knew better than to let that particular thought slip out. So he gave her the same backstory he had given them all, and hoped that would satiate her curiosity.

He wanted to tell her that he admired her, in a small sort of way. Maybe help her understand her misguided notions about what her peoples really were and how tragic their history really was. But he could only take the role of Hahren so far before she became hostile, an unfortunate fact he had learned long ago. The Dalish did not care for others outside of their clans, and took great offense to any insinuation that their way of life was nothing more than a mere mockery of their ancestors. So he held his tongue, and carefully shifted the conversation back to Morwyn. "What of you? I noticed you have the markings of Mythal upon your face, so you must be Dalish. How is that you came to be so far from your clan?"

#( solas || let me wrap my teeth around the world. i feel like i could eat it raw )#h3artsablaze #( main verse || solas )#\\ phew this man is tiring to write

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holylulusworld · 10 days

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Every Breath You take (1)

Summary: There is a shadow following you. He doesn’t know what he got himself into.

Pairing: Stalker!Bucky Barnes x fem!Reader, Bucky x Alpine (platonic)

Warnings: stalking, being stalked, loneliness, a man out of time, bitchy boss, secret admirer trope, voyeurism

A/N: We start slowly to get to know them and their backstory. In this part, we will get to know Y/N better.

A/N2: You all made me do it! Here’s the series to this random idea: Stalker Bucky & Crazy Reader

Catch up here: Every breath you take (Prologue)

Every Breath You Take Masterlist

You’re chewing on your lower lip, humming at something your boss said. He’s boring as hell and so demanding. With his hands on his hips, he glares at your lunch as if he wants to turn it to ashes.

All you want to do is tell him to leave you alone during lunch break. You’re just too polite and nice to do so.

He can bug you during work time, but not in the precious moments you use to catch up on the latest gossip on your phone.

You were about to read about an affair Tony Stark had with an intern. Fake news, you’re fairly sure, but it’s still entertaining reading all the furious and stupid comments.

“Sure,” you nod and make a mental note, hopefully not forgetting about his next demand before you reach your desk to write it down. “Right after my lunch break.” You point out and give him a fake smile.

“You better hurry,” he snaps at you and storms off. “If not, you can look for a new job.”

He cannot fire you per se. Your boss is not as important as he thinks he is. One word to the HR and he can kiss his ass goodbye.

You’re just indifferent when it comes to your boss and his antics. You prefer to ignore his sometimes nasty comments.

The world is cold and unfriendly enough. You don’t want to be the kind of person adding more hatred to this world.

Bucky aimlessly strolls through the streets. He prepared everything for tonight, and now he’s a little lost because you are still at work.

It became his obsession to make sure you came home safely. He’d kill the time, window shopping or imagining how’d feel to hold your hand.

Time. Bucky needs more time to prepare himself to meet you for real.

He wants your first date to be perfect. Therefore, he must watch you a little longer to get to know you better. – At least that’s how he justifies he’s following you like a shadow for the better of three weeks.

Bucky stops in front of your favorite bookstore, he looks out the window, wondering if he should buy you a book and gift it to you this week, or wait a little longer.

He shakes his head. No. Bucky will start with the usual gift. Flowers. He saw you carry flowers inside your apartment over the last weeks more than once.

You love flowers, and he will find out which ones you love the most. Bucky doesn’t want to gift you the wrong flowers and disappoint you.

He already has a plan. According to your schedule – which he knows by heart – you will go to the little café close to your home. The perfect opportunity to sneak inside your apartment and get to know you even better.

Bucky will take any chance to make you see he’s more than his bad reputation. To the people out there he’s still the Winter Soldier. He doesn’t want you to think the same about him.

All he wants is to keep you safe and happy. Bucky’s new mission is the most important one he ever had.

For today, he will wait patiently to follow you home, making sure you’re safe. There are many dangerous people out there, wanting to hurt or take advantage of a lovely person like you.

“Phew, home sweet home,” you sigh and plop down onto your sofa. You’re tired, and hungry and would kill to have someone to massage your shoulders. “What a shitty day.”

You hate to get back up, but you need a shower and search your fridge to find anything eatable. Your boss made sure you were working overtime, and you didn’t have the energy left to buy groceries.

Slowly getting back up, you sigh. You’d love to fall asleep right here on the couch, but it won’t do you any good.

Instead of sleeping, you walk out of the living room to have a shower. There’s still enough time left to watch your favorite show and eat leftovers from your fridge.

“She looks tired,” Bucky worriedly watches you with his binoculars when you walk back inside your living room. You yawn and rub your tired eyes. “She’s wearing cute pajamas, Alpine.”

Your secret admirer swoons. “Isn’t our girl beautiful?” He dips his head to look at Alpine sitting on his lap. The white cat meows and rubs his cheek into Bucky’s shirt. “She’ll be such a good mommy for you.”

Bucky pats Alpine’s head, gently murmuring the cat’s name. Alpine is his only companion, and he wants the cat to love you too.

“Don’t worry,” he whispers while lifting the binoculars to his eyes again, “she’s a wonderful and kind person. Y/N will love you too.”

Bucky inhales deeply as he presses your shirt to his nose. He’d love to take it with him, but for now, the top and panties he found under your bed must do. Bucky cannot risk taking more of your things right now.

In due time, he will take more of your things to bring them to the house he plans to buy for you and him. He’s already ahead of his plans, but Bucky never felt like this again. Not since Hydra turned him into a monster everyone still fears.

“Soon,” he hums and walks around your bedroom. Bucky takes his time, and even risks lying in your bed for a moment. He sniffs at your pillow, inhaling your scent deeply.

Bucky sighs. He can’t risk leaving his scent on your sheets and must slip out of your bed too soon for his liking.

Time. He needs more time. Bucky tells himself all over again. He cannot risk scaring you off, or that you’ll be afraid of him.

He’s a protector, not a villain.

Bucky slowly walks out of your bedroom and inside your bathroom. He wants to know more about the products you like, and maybe sniff at your perfume too.

You’re still at work, and he has all the time in the world before he will pick you up from work and bring you home. In his mind. – He cannot turn up at your workplace and offer you a ride home. Not yet.

Bucky lurks around the corner to watch you walk out of the building. You’re angrily wiping your eyes and even cussing. Something you never did before.

“Who hurt you, doll?” He asks himself, and the person delivers the answer on a silver plate.

Your boss storms after you, calling you a dumb bimbo while throwing a tantrum like a man-child.

Bucky squares his jaw. He clenches and unclenches his metal fist, ready to beat your boss into a bloody pulp.

No—not now. Not here. He will bring you home first and come back. Bucky will avenge you, and make sure your boss will never dare to raise his voice around you again.

Every Breath You Take (2)

Tags in reblog.

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader #bucky x you #stalker!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes x female reader #x reader #Every Breath You take (1)

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bitterpotionn · 9 months

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Johnny Slaughter - Dirt Road

Phew, okay my first ever x reader...ever! I've been so obsessed with Johnny that I had to add my own take on his character. Bear with me, I normally don't do this type of writing. However, I hope to continue to improve. Any feedback or constructive criticism is welcome!

This idea randomly popped into my head and I'm not even sure how to characterize it. A night with Johnny pulled over on the side of an old country road. I experimented with a more hesitant, nervous reader. Again, this is all new to me.

Warnings- Dub-con, unsafe sex, semi-public sex, Johnny's mean, nervous/unsure reader, cunnilingus, focuses more on the reader's inner thoughts, unhealthy dynamics, light slapping, a lot of neck grabbing, Johnny is a litterbug, smoking, name-calling

Red, orange, and yellow streaked across the sky as the sun set deep into the flat horizon. The dirt road he drove down kicked up dust that swirled in circles, disappearing behind them just as quickly.

She laid her head against the seatbelt dispenser, looking out of the rolled-down window. His old white truck hummed as they drove farther and farther out of town. She counted each passing house, fantasizing about the lives of the people who lived in them. What did they do? How many people live there? Do they have kids? What-

"Darlin'" a deep voice cut through her hazy thoughts.

She turned her head to the man driving the old white truck. His right hand was gripping the steering wheel with a bit too much force, while his left lay loosely on top of the stick shift. He was smirking, like usual. He reminded her of a wolf like he could eat her up at any second.

"Are you alright?" his accent thick, the words lazily slipped from his lips.

"Yeah…I was just thinking" she said, turning back to the open window. Allowing the cool wind to hit her face.

He frowned once she looked away, rolling his eyes a bit. His left hand moved from the shift to her thigh, giving it a firm squeeze.

She didn't look at him after that, getting lost again in her wishful thinking. Counting each house one by one by one.

—

She gasped slightly opening her eyes, the sky was dark and she could hear the crickets and frogs chirping. She must have fallen asleep. They were stopped on the side of the road. She could only see vast fields that stopped at the dark tree line. The only light was from the moon and the dull headlights of the truck.

She turned toward the driver's seat. He was out of the car, leaning against the closed driver-side door.

"Johnny…" she said quietly. She knew he couldn't hear her, she almost didn't want him to. But nonetheless, she opened the passenger side door and walked around the truck to stand next to him. He was smoking a cigarette, Marlboro Reds, his favorite.

"What are you doin? Why'd we stop?" she asked looking up at him. He was so tall, that sometimes she felt like she had to crane her neck just to look into his eyes.

He looked down at her and smirked. "Just stopped for a smoke. Got tired of drivin'" he said, grabbing her waist to pull her into his side. He blew the smoke in her direction.

Coughing, she nuzzled into his side, shielding her face from the smoke. She always hated the smell of cigarettes. Recently, though, they were almost a comforting smell. It clung to her clothes, hair, skin, a small reminder of him.

He leaned against his truck, his head tilted up towards the sky. He stared at the stars, expressionless.

"So…how far are we from your family's house?" she asked, breaking the steady silence, craning her head up to look at his face. She held the hand that was gripping her waist, rubbing small circles into his rough skin.

He hesitated. Something he never does, she even took notice. After a long pause, he grunted. "I dunno, maybe another day's drive?"

She didn't pry after that, she didn't want to make him upset. His family was seemingly a very touchy subject, despite him bringing up the idea of taking her there to meet them.

After a while, he threw the butt of his cigarette on the ground stepping on it. He looked down at her, she was still nestled into his side, her eyes now closed.

He chuckled a bit and grabbed her waist leaning her against the driver's side door. Her eyes flew open. "Now hun, I don't think it's fair I'm drivin' all this way and you get to sleep" He hummed out, leaving a trail of kisses down her neck.

"H-hey! I offered to drive you said no" she pouted, wrapping her arms around his waist, pulling him closer to her.

"I can't trust you driving my truck." He scoffed looking down at her. He moved his finger under her chin, pushing it up so she was staring directly at him. "You're just a dumb little girl huh?" He chuckled. A wolf smirk adorned his lips. His words were always laced with degradation. Like he got off on hurting her feelings.

She gave him a pout and stared at him. She was always starstruck at his sharp features. So classically handsome. He reminded her of James Dean. She loved watching those old movies with her dad back home. What was her dad up to? She made a mental note to call him once they arrived at Johnny's home.

He must have noticed her drifting off, he gave her cheek a rough pat. "Focus darlin', I'm not done with you just yet." His hand drifted under her white tank top, his hands stopped just below her breasts.

"Jo-Johnny…" she stuttered out, shivering from his cold hands. "N-not here… It's dark. What if someone sees…" her voice was laced with nervousness.

He scoffed and pulled his hands away. "You're no fun. C'mon…we can go back in the truck, no one will see I promise" He opened the door and lifted her into the truck, so she was sitting with her legs dangling off the seat, facing the outside. His hands were on either side of her, caging her in. She was now looking down at him.

She bit down on her lip slightly, nervous playing with her hands in her lap. She looked into the darkness behind him. Nothing but a cornfield.

He scoffed a bit and played with the buttons of her shorts. "How bout this…" he stopped, smirking up at her before he continued "I'll be a gentleman and help you out first huh?" his calloused hands yanked down her shorts, his arms hooking underneath her knees pulling her closer to him.

She gasped a bit and grabbed onto his shoulders for support. Her eyes were blown wide, and she frantically looked around, worried about someone seeing her in such a vulnerable position.

He grins widely at her nervous state. "You're too cute" he said mockingly as he leaned down, kissing the inside of her thighs. His hand traveled up to her soaking cunt. He gave it a firm slap before looking up at her face.

Her eyes screwed shut as she began breathing heavily. She felt a warm pulsing in her lower belly. "Now look at that…" Johnny gave a low whistle looking at her wet cunt. "Soakin' wet and I barely even touched you" his words were harsh and mocking. He gave her a long lick up her weeping slit.

She gasped, her back arching into him. "F-fuck…m-more…" she whined out, her hands finding their way into his thick hair. His eyes narrowed and he looked up at her pulling away. He grabbed her neck and glared at her, first warning. "Is that any way to ask me, hun?" He smirked at her "Beg nicely, slut"

"J-Johnny please…" her words trailed off, her eyes tearing up in embarrassment, She felt his grip tighten around her neck. "Please! Please…I'll be good!" He hummed slightly, seemingly satisfied with her half-attempt at begging. He began licking and sucking on her swollen clit. Keeping her steady by gripping her thighs.

She cried out as his tongue traveled into her. Her eyes shifted down to him, his face buried in between her thighs, his eyes shut as he worked her. He was eating her with such force. He hummed a bit as he plunged his tongue deeper into her, creating a vibration that made her shake.

He looked up at her, her eyes were shut again. He reached a hand up and grabbed her throat, all while his face was buried in her cunt. Her eyes shot open. She noticed his glare and her breathing hitched. Second warning. "Eyes on me" he said, his voice muffled.

His frantic sucking and licking continued once her eyes were fully locked on him. He reached his hand down and slipped two fingers into her. He curled them up into her rapidly. She felt a blazing sensation in her lower stomach, and her legs began to shake at the sudden entrance. "I…I'm gonna cum!" she moaned out loudly and flew a hand over her mouth in an attempt to quiet her moans. He let out a muffled chuckle as he felt her come undone in his mouth.

He slowly pulled back. His mouth and chin glistened from her arousal. She stared at him and let out a breathy laugh, her eyes hazy and unfocused. He looked so handsome like that. He stared back at her and grabbed her neck, pulling her in for a rough kiss. She could taste herself on his tongue.

He broke the kiss and gripped her chin "What do you say darlin'" His smirk was wide. "Thank you" she breathed out, laying back, trying to catch her breath.

Johnny grabbed her waist and set her back into the passenger seat. He climbed into the truck and shut the door. She panted and laid against the window staring up at the stars. Her mind felt misty.

Johnny stared at her and rubbed the bulge in his tight jeans. He hardly ever worried about just her pleasure. He always needed something in return. He grabbed her thigh "Aren't you forgettin' something doll?" he said leaning back, his hand fiddling with his belt, trying to undo it. She stared out the window, ignoring him. She couldn't look away from the millions of stars lighting up the night sky.

He scoffed a bit and grabbed her neck, yanking her towards him, into his lap. "I'm gettin' tired of you not listenin' to me" he growled out pulling out his throbbing cock, final warning. He set her in his lap and glared at her. She gasped, staring at him, her eyes wide with fear. "I'm…I'm sorry-"

"Show me that you're sorry" he stroked himself a couple of times before easing her down on his cock. Her eyes widened at the feeling of him filling her so suddenly. He didn't let her adjust, he just began thrusting up into her, while gripping her neck. Keeping her in place.

She held onto his shoulders, her head kept hitting the top of the truck as he thrust into her. She whined out and tried to move her head into the crook of his neck but he stopped her. "Nooo you're gonna look at me while I fuck you, slut" he snapped pushing her head back.

Her head hit the roof, over and over again. Each thrust burned. She stared at him, his eyes were so dark, she could barely even see him due to the darkness of the surrounding country road. She knew he was smirking, getting off on her discomfort. She was lucky he even decided to pleasure her first, she should be grateful, right?

“Fuckkk” he groaned out lowly as he continued his brutal thrusts into her. “You’re my good girl huh?” His hands traveled to her face, pulling her down to kiss him roughly. She whined a bit at this but kissed him back anyway. The stretch of his cock was becoming too much to bear. She prayed he would finish soon.

She found herself focusing on the scar that ran down his face, subtle but there. It was a way she feigned eye contact with him, she found that keeping unbreaking eye contact with him was almost impossible. His thrusts became jagged and sloppy. A small moan escaped his lips that he quickly covered with a loud chuckle. “I’m gonna fill you up real good darlin’”

Despite the intense burning, she felt herself coming close to the edge as well. She was able to sneak down a hand to rub her clit, Johnny was too worried about himself to stimulate her like that. “Please…please…” she begged, tears streaming down her face. She didn’t know if she was begging to finish or for him to stop.

With a loud groan, Johnny thrust back up into her one more time, releasing his hot load deep inside her sore cunt. She let out a loud moan as she came undone as well, shivering at the feeling of him filling her up. She collapsed into his chest, the top of her head aching.

He let out a laugh before setting her beside him, he cleaned himself off with some napkins from the glove department, tossing them carelessly out the window.

She shook as she looked out the window again, looking up at the stars again. 1…2…3… she counted, trying to distract herself from the sickly feeling of his cum dripping out of her. Without another word from him, she felt the soft rumble of the truck as he started it back up. Continuing, farther and farther out of town.

#johnny slaughter #texas chainsaw massacre #johnny slaughter x reader #tcm game #tcm #smut #johnny slaughter smut #johnny tcm game #bitterpotionnfics

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megamindsecretlair · 4 months

Note

First of all Happy New Years and how’re you doin?? I really hope you’re doin well and thriving and your loved ones are doin the same❤️

Second of all I had a thought while high that I needa get out:

Imma mess for domestic Taine. Just takin care of his woman an shit. He likes takin care of her mental load and just truly makin her feel relaxed an shit. Which brings me to his hands….he’s so beefy wit protective ass arms and he’s just ugh🤌 like imagine you had a trash ass day (school, work, family, etc) an he just caresses and massages you, tryna soften you up so youn gotta gts upset or stressed. Lights candles, brings out ya favorite oils/lotions, he even rolls a blunt for you both. He’s givin you deep tissue booty/thigh rubs and ik for a fact his strength channeled through his fingers would make me all mushy an shit….

Along that thought, he can’t help (an youn stop him) but spread ya cheeks a bit, just ta peek at ya folds, only ta see em all gushy an shit. That was a mistake because now he reeeally can’t help himself. You’re all pliable under him and he dips his fingers into ya folds “just ta taste” he tells himself. But he’s dippin into you again…and again…and again till he just says fuck it and devours you from the back. I’m talkin the messy, droolin, beard shiny a shit typa pussy eatin. You just cease to exist cuz he feels too too good. Taine is just maneuvering/manhandling your body any which way and you’re loving it, you’re loving your man. And What were you upset bout again? It’s out the window now.

Phew, glad I got that outta my system🤭

Happy New Year! Many blessings to you and ya fam! I'm getting over Covid. That is the literal devil and I'm glad to be on the other side!

And secondly...why you aint on here writing with the rest of us? Tuh. This was hot and complete all by its lonesome, you don't need me for this one, lordt!

Re-reading and re-reading all night because I, too, want that gorgeous man's big mitts on me.

If You Please

Word Count: 691

A/N: Finally a little drabble! I still write a lot but ya'll caught me on a feral night. There's no big warnings besides oral (fem receiving) and Fontaine being a horny mess. This ask was everything. Not sure if you wanted me to add to it, but couldn't help myself! Excuse me while I go re-read and re-read and re-read.

Taglist: @planetblaque @dayjlovesromance @sevikasblackgf @melaninpov @amyhennessyhouse @henneseyhoe @honeyoriginalz @justheretostan @black-fairy3 @superhoeva @jarfulloftears @hereformiles @montysstuffs @westside-rot @blackerthings @blowmymbackout @euphoric05 @miyuhpapayuh @nicolexnight @8ttached @judymfmoody @notapradagurl7 @wakandas-vibranium @soft-persephone @justabovewater20 @mcotton0928 @soapjay @heyauntieeee @theyscreamsannii @mybonafidefeelings @eggnox @honeytoffee @thadelightfulone @tranquilfandomer @kindofaintrovert @l-auteuse @browngirldominion @sunkissedebony97 @lovedlover @issahyland @nerdieforpedro @longpause-awkwardsmile @insburner @slippinninque @thecookiebratz @we-outsiiiide

And Fontaine is the type to take his time because HE wants to take his time. Because HE can't keep his hands off of you. If you had a bad day? That's okay, he'll work that shit out. Had a good day? He wants to pick you up and taste the happiness from your lips.

But a particularly bad day? Oh, he already had the bath running and candles lit while you talked to him on the way home. How you wanted him to show up with a helicopter and transport you home because you were dog tired. Tiredt!

And after your bath, he does all the work. He dries you off and lays kisses all over your face and body while he towels you down. Leads you to the bed where he lays out a fresh warm towel from the dryer. Makes you lay on your back first so he can rub lotion and smell good into your deep brown skin.

Take his time to work the body cream onto your arms, shoulders, stomach. Smooth it around your breasts because he just can't resist touching you. He rubs the top of your legs, really working his thick fingers into your thighs and finding all these tension knots you didn't know were there.

Then he asks you to flip over and you are putty in his hands. Free to mold you in his arms. To play with your hips and valleys and treasure the canvas God gave him. He rubs your back and your legs. But your ass.

Fontaine is an ass man. Nothin' sweeter than seeing those two big ol' cheeks begging to be claimed by those hands of his. It's so much he can't hold it all. But he loves trying. He loves trying to cup each cheek to see how much he can hold before your ass spills over. He loves to massage your ass.

He loves to watch the grooves and dimples he makes in your ass. The little glimpses of your pussy when he spreads your cheeks are a torture all their own. Got him bricked up and mouth droolin' just from that alone. His tongue glides over his golden grills as he can remember the last time he ate you out, just last night. How pliable and verbal you were.

One little taste won't hurt right? It's your body, he wants you to feel good all over. What better stress relief, right? He wipes his hands on the towel. He can't resist digging his fingers in and suppressing a groan at finding you wet as hell. He knew his hands on you turned you on, but not like this!

Now he really can't resist bringing your sweet essence to his lips and licking his fingers. He can't stop at one taste. Once he tasted you, he had to keep diving in for more. And more until you were sighing and moaning just the way he liked.

"Too tired," you mumbled.

"Too tired to lay there, mama?" He asked.

You couldn't argue with that logic. He didn't need anything back. He just wanted to make you feel good. Making you feel good, made him feel good. And he already got his reward. He was lifting your hips, spreading you wide, and placing his mouth against your pussy and suckling like a starving man to nectar.

He couldn't help groaning and rocking his own hips into the bed, wishing he could flip you over and fuck you. But he wasn't going to be that greedy. He could give. He could give and give until you were a shaking, trembling mess beneath his tongue. Hands splayed on your ass, spreading you open and wide for him.

His nasty little slurps filled the air. His desperate pulls for air blowing against your dripping pussy. Your weak arms grasping the pillow and pulling it close while you came in his mouth. Gushing and dripping all that succulent arousal.

Well, you weren't that tired anymore. As much as you left your job bone tired and weary, unsure how you could possibly go another day, you always found solace in 'Taine's arms.

The Secret Tyrone Files - there's always more!

#Megaminds Secret Files #The Secret Tyrone Files #Fontaine x Black!reader #Fontaine x Black reader #x Black reader #Fontaine x Fem!reader #Fontaine x Fem reader #Fontaine x plus size reader #Fontaine x you #Fontaine imagine #They Cloned Tyrone smut #They Cloned Tyrone fanfic #They Cloned Tyrone fanfiction #They Cloned Tyrone fan fic #They Cloned Tyrone fan fiction

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hugsandchaos · 11 months

Text

Stray Cat Danny (Flash)

@evandarya , @fluffen-spooky , @shorterthanaverage , @nottmuchtopost , @killercranberries , @cmstars2 , @amecurio , @scythgal , @writer-extraordinaire , @waitimdissocaitingagain , @imaginationmademanifest , @chrysanthemum9484 , @rasberry-muffin , @jaguarthecat , @dannyphantomphan , @starmee-lodurrson , @thefearfullone , @decisively-o-indecisive , @nifeout , @sailor-goddess , @the-legal-shipper , @ollietheotaku , @lov3ly-pain , @robinmedea , @viyatrix , @markus209 , @kyrianclawraith , @newgraywolf , @the-church-grimm , @scribbiesan-main , @bruh-incoming , @sunflower-sovereign , @britcision , @spooky-fm , @phoenixdemonqueen , @latheevening226 , @avenlfear , @starscreamlover , @undead-essence , @emiwritesthings , @jaytriesstuff , @calcifina , @bun-fish , @luffyrose , @potatoeofwisdom , @thegatorsgoose , @markus209 , @may-rbi , @mothman-the-mothman-87 , @dannyisababyking , @soul-lime , @elvesandlanterns , @bahfev , @blackroserelina , @love-has-no-labels , @deepslumberworld , @lesling123 , @peachpopprize , @moons-cat , COME GET YA’LL’S DINNER!!!

Phew, that’s a lotta tagging! Did I miss anyone? https://www.tumblr.com/evandarya/704385509175312384/stray-cat-danny

Link to the original

Iris picked up the phone from her pocket soon after she heard the cheerful ringtone. She only needed to look at it for less than a second to know that it was Barry and pressed the green button to answer. To make sure it stayed up while she typed away on her laptop, Iris placed the phone between her head and shoulders.”Hey, Barry.” She greeted.”You coming back soon?” She asked. Allen was out a bit later than usual tonight, which isn’t common enough for her to worry too much -- especially since he’s also a young adult like herself --, but definitely not often enough for her to not worry at all. His breathing was labored and pretty tired.”Hey, Iris, you mind making a bit of room on the living room couch?” He asked.

That was a bit odd.”Uh, sure, just let me finish up my writing. Why? Does a friend need to come over or something?” She asked. She heard another voice yawning, which was even weirder.”Uh, not exactly. We kinda have an emergency guest.” He replied.

Barry carried the exhausted boy on his back as he walked down the rather empty sidewalk. He wasn’t all that heavy, Barry was just pretty tired himself. The boy’s head rested on his shoulders, making his dark hair brush against the side of Barry’s head a bit every time he took a step, and despite his best attempts to stay awake, he was quickly falling asleep.

His grip was slipping and growing weak, but every few seconds or so, he’d suddenly regain his grip a little or try to mumble another “thank you” or “just one” to the older man, the second indicating he only intended to accept his offer for only one night. Barry lowered his phone a little and slightly turned to glance at the kid’s head.”No problem, kid. Just get some rest now.” He said. He heard a grumble, but couldn’t understand what Danny said. Judging by the tone, though, it was probably a pouty “No!” meant to be a joke.”Barry? Who is that? Is someone with you?” Iris asked through the phone. Barry brought it back up and put his focus back on the path ahead of him and in his mind.”A kid named Danny, he was looking for a place to sleep in the alleys. He’s not in too much trouble, just really tired from what he’s told me.” He replied. Probably not the best way to explain it, but it could be worse.

Iris was now closing her laptop and heading towards the living room couch.“Why won’t he go to a shelter?” She asked. The couch wasn’t dirty or littered, but a quick brush wouldn’t hurt, and neither would a blanket. She already knew what he was going to ask if the answer to her question was no.“Too far, apparently. Is it okay with you and Joe if he stays the night, and I try to help him out in the morning?”

That was something I had no issue with, but Joe might. She also knew he would welcome it if he had no choice, though. He did the same with Barry, after all.”Sure, let me ask dad.“ She said, wiping a few stray crumbs off the couch. She put her phone on the small nightstand next to the couch and rushed upstairs. Iris went to her dad’s door, which was the second door down the hall on the right, and knocked. She didn’t even have to wait ten seconds for it to open and her father, who had been allowed (ordered) to go home early, to open the door.

“Iris? You need something?” Joe asked. Iris cut straight to the chase.

“Long story short, Barry found a kid looking for a place to stay and the shelters are full. He wants to know if he can stay here for the night.” She somewhat explained. Joe reared his head back a little bit in surprise and blinked. He was obviously as taken aback as she expected, telling her dad that her brother was bringing back a homeless kid to sleep on their couch.

“This is all of a sudden,” he started with a small step back, ”but if there’s not a lot of other options, then sure.” He shrugged. A small smile formed on his face, as if asking “how could I say no?”. Iris sighed in relief and soon found her own smile. Joe walked past her.”Thank you so much, dad.” She said. Joe glanced back at her, still smiling a bit.”Helping kids is part of my job, as an officer and a father.” He stated as they both descended downstairs.

Iris picked up her phone, hoping Allan was still on the line, and held it to her ear as Joe opened a closet to grab a spare blanket.”He said yes.” She said. She put him on speaker, just in case Joe wanted to talk as well.

“Thank goodness.” Barry breathed out.”I’m really sorry to spring this on you guys.” He apologized. He rounded the corner, ignoring the double glances people took before they kept walking. They were most likely assuming that he had somehow gained a little brother or son.

“It’s alright, Barry. Do you know if he’s had anything to eat or drink?” Joe’s voice asked on the other side of the line. That caught him off guard, but only for a millisecond, maybe even faster since his brain barely registered it.“Yeah, he told me he’s not hungry.” He glanced over at Danny’s head on his shoulder, noticing his eyes are closed and his breathing was slower.”I think he’s asleep.” He said. The lack of grumbling or some quiet form of arguing proved his theory.

“How far away are you? Do you need me to pick you up?” Joe asked. Barry, out of instinct, quickly surveyed his surroundings. Though he already knew where he was, which was kind of stupid or weird.“No. We’re about two minutes away, walking distance.” He replied.

“Alright. We’ll get the couch ready.” Joe said. Barry heard the phone beeping from his adopted dad hanging up and promptly put it in his pocket so he could use that hand to make sure Danny was being carried properly.

When Barry arrived back, Iris had opened the door for him since she saw him coming up and quickly guessed he’d struggle a bit to get his keys without dropping the kid. Once he managed to get through the door, Joe came over and carefully helped him get Danny off of his back and onto the couch, both trying to make it so they didn’t wake him up. He stirred a bit from the movement, but his eyes barely cracked open before he fell right back asleep. Danny simply laid there, and Iris quickly tucked his unconscious body under a blanket as the other two began a quiet conversation.

“Anything about his family? Friends?” Joe asked in a hushed tone. Barry shook his head.”No, he just said he’s not sure where he is or how he got there, and he can’t remember his address or any phone numbers either.” He whispered back. The two turned their heads when they noticed the light being turned off and saw Iris next to the light switch. She used the light on her phone to light up the floor and walk up to them.”We should let him sleep.” She piped in quietly.

“Yeah. I say we ask him about his situation in the morning, when we’re all well rested.” Barry agreed.

“Sounds like a plan.” Joe nodded. And with that, they went upstairs, but not before Barry gave their guest a confused glance. Something was just odd about him. He brushed it off as the sudden turn in events that had happened in the last hour confusing him and carried on upstairs.

In the morning, Danny was gone.

The blanket that had been draped over him the night before was stacked neatly and placed on the opposite end of the couch as the pillow, which was also slightly fixed so it’d appear nice for decoration.

The windows and doors were still locked from when Joe remembered to take care of that before bed, and the alarm hadn’t gone off at all throughout the night. Nothing was taken, everything was tidied up.

Except for a single sticky note placed on the wall.

Thank you so much for letting me stay the night. Hopefully, we don’t meet again under those same circumstances. — Danny

BTW, I did a load of dishes, woke up feeling productive and wanted another way of saying thanks :D

#dc x dp #dc x dp crossover #dc x dp fic #dp x dc #dp x dc crossover #dc x dp fanfiction #dc x dp prompt continuation #Stay Cat Danny #flash #Barry Allen #Joe #iris west #flash meets Danny #Danny phantom #Danny Fenton #stray cat danny

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sissylittlefeather · 4 months

Text

How the Web Was Woven: Chapter 7

A/N: PHEW this is a tough series to write, folks. But I promise if you hang on to the end, you won't be disappointed. This is another chapter in my time travel/soulmate AU with Elvis and a fem!reader. I hope you all like this chapter. Please don't give up on us. It's gonna get so gooooood.

Need to catch up? Here's my masterlist.

Warnings: 18+ minors DNI, kissing, cussing, fingering, oral sex (f receiving), p in v penetrative sex, unprotected sex, creampie, angsttttttt

Word count: ~2.5k

Will he ever see you again?

******

You sit in your bed staring at your left hand and the diamond ring nestled there on your finger. Jeff is asleep next to you snoring quietly. You knew the proposal was coming, since you've been together for almost a year and a half, but now that the ring is on your finger there's only one thought in your head: you have to tell Elvis.

Even though you ended on difficult terms, you feel like you owe it to him to let him know that you're okay and that you can live the rest of your life without him. You know he can and will live the rest of his without you. You're not sure why, but a single tear escapes and slides down your cheek. You haven't seen him in 2 years and pushing him through the portal was the hardest thing you'd ever done. Would he even want to see you? How on earth would you make a portal to get back if he hates you?

Still, you have to risk it. Something is telling you that you need to let him know. Whatever the thing is that binds you together is screaming at you to try to find him. You pull your phone out and start doing research to figure out where he is in the spring of '62. He's filming Girls Girls Girls.

"You okay, baby?" Jeff rolls over and notices that you're awake.

"Yeah, yeah I'm fine. I just... I need to go to Hawaii."

"Hawaii?!"

"Yeah. Just trust me. I'll be back in a couple days."

"Whatever you say, babe." He rolls over and goes back to sleep.

There's a distinct squeezing feeling in your chest and you hate to admit it, but you miss Elvis.

******

Elvis gets back to his hotel room at the Hawaiian Village in Oahu after a long day of filming and lays on his bed fully clothed. Out of nowhere, you enter his mind. He's tried so hard not to think about you over the past two years, but when he's especially tired, he just can't help it. The same old wondering about whether he'll ever see you again hits him and he wants to cry. After the way you literally shoved him away last time, though, he's pretty sure you won't come looking for him again. Still, he says a quick prayer that you're okay, wherever you are, and squeezes his eyes shut so that the tears that have gathered there slide down the side of his face into his hair. For the first time in a while, he lets himself miss you.

******

On the plane, you nervously fidget with the new ring on your finger. You think about the last two years, about graduation, starting to date Jeff, getting your job, and everything else that's happened. The six months after you forced Elvis to leave were a dark time for you. And then there was Jeff. You'd met him that same night, but you didn't expect him to come crashing back into your life like he did. He dragged you out of your depression and made you go to counseling. He helped you cut back on your drinking and really actually saved your life. You don't feel about him the way you felt, or feel, about Elvis, but you love him. He's a good man and he'll be a good husband.

But he's not Elvis. And your stomach flutters at the thought of seeing him again.

******

Another day of shooting is over and Elvis falls back onto his bed again. For some reason, he's thinking about you again and he's starting to get annoyed with himself for not being able to focus on what he's actually doing. Why are you back in his mind? He shakes his head and goes to take a shower.

When he steps out, towel around his waist, his jaw damn near hits the floor. The old familiar buzzing sound is there, complete with the wavy air.

******

You step through the portal and it closes behind you with a pop.

"Hi Elvis." He stands there unable to speak. A lump has formed in his throat and he's not sure whether he should kiss you or yell at you.

"What are you doing here?" He finally gets out.

"I-I... it's a long story." The tension in the room is so thick you'd need a hell of a knife to cut through it. He walks past you to the bed and sits down on the edge of it in an effort to keep himself from passing out.

"I never thought I'd see you again."

"I know. Do you hate me?" You ask tentatively, not sure you're ready for the answer. He's dying to run to you and wrap his arms around you, to feel your skin against his and press his lips to you finally after all this time. But he doesn't.

"I wouldn't say hate."

"But you're not happy to see me."

"How many times am I supposed to let you hurt me before I can stop being happy to see you?" His words cut through you like a laser and you feel the tears well up in your eyes. He's not wrong. You have hurt him pretty badly twice now. You look down at your feet to hide the tears that are now sliding down your cheeks. All you can do is whisper.

"I'm sorry."

He can tell you're crying and it breaks his heart. He knows it wasn't easy to push him away like you did, especially with the state you were in without him. After a few more minutes, he can't stand it anymore.

He stands up and takes three steps to you, wrapping you in his arms and holding you tightly. You cry into his chest and he strokes your hair soothingly.

But you're not just crying because you've hurt him in the past. You're crying because you know you're about to do it again. For a wild second you consider just staying with him in 1962. To hell with not changing the past and with your own future. You want him. But you can't. He matters too much. You can't take that away from him or from the world.

"Now, honey, why don't you tell me why you're here?" He backs up and takes both of your hands in his. That's when he notices your ring. "What the hell is this?"

You take a deep breath and close your eyes for a second before you answer him.

"It's the reason I'm here, Elvis."

"Y/n, did you get married?"

"Not yet. But I'm going to." He stumbles backwards away from you and sits down on the edge of the bed.

"Who is he?" You sit down next to him and he gets up and walks away. He goes to the closet and pulls out a pair of pants, putting them on a little more aggressively than necessary.

"It doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't. I need to know who's taking my woman."

"Elvis. Seriously? Do you think I don't know about Anita? And Sandy? And Priscilla?" He stops and it's like someone has dumped ice water down his spine.

"Y-y-you know about them?"

"I know about all of them. And I know who you will marry and it's not me. Did you think I was gonna sit around in my time pining over you while you lived your life?" He pulls a shirt over his head and sits down next to you on the bed. He turns and looks at you with a sad look in his eyes.

"No. I don't know what I thought. I guess I just hoped... but no, you're right. You should be happy in your time. Do you love him?" You manage a weak half-smile.

"He's good to me."

"That doesn't answer my question. Because I couldn't let you go to anyone that you don't-"

"I love him." You want to tell him that you don't love Jeff the way you love him, but what purpose would that serve?

"So I guess this is it, then?" You look into his eyes and try to keep yourself from crying again.

"I guess it is. Will you kiss me one more time. Like you mean it?"

"Honey, I do mean it." He leans in and kisses you deeply, his tongue brushing against yours tenderly.

"Make love to me like you mean it."

His hands roam over your body and he kisses down your neck.

"I mean it more than anything. Honey, if this is really the last time, I'm gonna make it count."

He lays you down on the bed and kisses the skin he can reach on your chest. Then he runs his hand under your shirt and lifts it over your head. He undoes your bra in one try and throws it to the side.

"You're so beautiful. I love your body. I just need to say that." He kisses down your chest and licks and sucks each of your nipples. He kisses back up to your mouth and groans into your mouth. His hand makes it way down to your center underneath your pants. But he stops before his fingers slide inside you.

"Would he... can I?"

"I want you to. Please." He nods and pushes his fingers into you. You moan and throw your head back in pleasure. No one will ever be able to bring you such pleasure with just his hand. He kisses your mouth deeply.

"We need to send you home. We need a portal."

"And I want you one last time."

"One last time."

You choke back tears as he moves his mouth from your neck down to your center. He pulls your pants down and off and kisses the inside of your thighs. His tongue moves up to your core and he licks over and around your clit skillfully.

"God, yes, I need it one more time."

"One more time, baby." He whispers into you as he continues to lick your clit. You feel the coil of your orgasm tighten in your lower stomach as he works between your legs.

"Yes, baby, please." You moan, running your fingers through his hair. Nothing Jeff does turns you on like Elvis does.

"Come for me honey. One last time." It doesn't take much more for you to slide over the edge into oblivion with his tongue moving on you as the electricity runs through you from your core to the tips of your fingers.

You squeeze your eyes shut tightly as he moves up your body, unbuttoning his pants to line himself up with your entrance.

"Hey. Is this what you want?" He kisses your cheek and waits for your answer before moving.

"Yes. Yes, god, I want it more than anything."

"Then look at me." You open your eyes and meet his deep blue ones in anticipation. He puts a hand on your cheek. "I will always love you. But I understand. I know we can only have this moment and nothing more. I don't love you any less because of it."

"Oh, Elvis." He presses his forehead to yours and then pushes into you slowly.

"Tell me you love me."

"God, you know I do."

"Say it anyway, so I have something to remember forever."

"I love you with all of me. Always and forever." He moves inside you, picking up speed with each thrust.

"That's my girl." He moves faster and faster, moving closer and closer to the end. Neither of you wants it to be over, but you both know you have lives waiting for you on the other side.

You wrap your legs around him in the hope that you can keep him closer for even just a moment longer. He grunts with the change in sensation and lays his head on your shoulder as he fucks you.

"I don't want you to leave me."

"I don't want to leave you." He captures your lips in a deep kiss and continues pushing toward the end. His cock slides in and out of you rhythmically and you want to cry with the intensity of your passion. Finally, he shudders and you feel his warmth fill you. His shoulders shake with the depth of his affection for you and you hold him close as you both weep. It's not long before you hear the buzzing sound and you have the insane urge to stay again.

You push his head up off of your shoulder and run your fingers through his hair.

"What if I stayed?" He pops his head up and looks at you.

"You know you can't. He's waiting for you." You sob openly. He's right. Your fiancé is waiting for you and his life is waiting for him. He holds you tightly as you cry for another couple of minutes. Then he kisses your forehead.

"You have to go, honey." You nod and slide out of the bed. You slowly gather your clothing and dress enough to get back through the portal. He stands up and pulls you to him one last time. "I will always love you. I hope he makes you as happy as you deserve to be."

"I love you, Elvis."

"I know, honey. I know." You grab his hand and kiss his fingers one last time. Then, you walk through the portal away from him toward your future. He watches you walk through and decides it's time to move Priscilla to Graceland and move on with his life.

******

It's 1966 and Elvis is knee deep in filming another stupid movie that the Colonel signed him to. He's ready to walk off the set and never come back to Hollywood. His whole career is a farce and his life feels like a joke. He finds a bathroom and is just about to seek some quiet time inside when he hears it.

The buzzing sound.

He looks to his left and sees the wavy air. It's been 4 long years and so much has changed. Why would a portal appear now? He was pretty sure that when he saw you in '62 it was the last time he'd ever see you. Still, the portal is undeniable. It tempts him with the possibility of seeing you and getting a break from his tedious and impossibly irritating schedule of filming. Even if it is a mistake, who cares at this point? Anything is better than the mind-numbing movies and soul-crushing reality of his current life.

He walks through the portal cautiously. When he does, he's shocked to find you on the floor. You have your knees folded and your whole body is shaking as you sob.

What the hell has happened to you in the 4 years since he's seen you?

******

Until chapter 8!

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Taglist:

@ccab @elvisfatass @elvisalltheway101 @aliypop @18lkpeters @dkayfixates @your-nanas-house @deniseinmn @joshuntildawn13 @lookingforrainbows @60svintage @littlehoneyposts @epthedream69 @that-hotdog @eddiesgirlforever @helen06dreamer @returntopresley @rjmartin11

#elvis presley fanfiction #elvis presley #elvis fanfic #elvis smut #elvis presley fic #elvis presley x reader #elvis x reader #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley smut #elvis fanfiction #elvis x you #elvis x y/n #elvis presley x you #elvis presley fanfic #how the web was woven

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heongiu · 1 year

Text

Kim Goo x Reader

"More than a secret friend ♥︎"

Warnings: NSFW, sexual content, anything else that isn't meant to be said out loud ;)

(A/N: first of all thankyou for the Goo requests! Second, It's my first time actually writing a whole ass smut fic so if there's some parts that might need to be corrected please do tell me 😭 I know fs this fic is shit- anyways hope you like it... 🥹)

“Hey!! So we meet again Y/N!!~” Goo spoke to you, waving at you whilst he sat down a chair. “ah hello" you spoke, you sounded down, well since you were tired from all these errands your voice would automatically sound gloomy.

“Oh cmon! Why are you all down?~" Goo taunted

"Ah it's.. Nothing" you replied, eyes examining the area around the blonde.

Looking around the place, for a second this made you remember the first time you had met him.

Which obviously, didn't go as planned.

~~~~~~

“Jeez.. I’m glad I walked away from that maniac..” You stood at the top floor of the 4th affiliate’s building, you walked around to find Samuel’s room where you had to meet someone, and search for something important of course.

“Why is it so dark here? Is the power out?” You looked around for a while. “Phew this is gonna take me a while" you wanted to get out of the room but suddenly an object tripped you, and you fell into a chair. Well it felt weird,

and.. it was a man.

“AHH WHO IS IT?!” You got up immediately. The power returned and the lights were on, finally you could see his face, he had a smug grin on his face, blonde hair, he had a blue Gucci suit on, with a yellow tie, all which seemed to compliment his complexion. You would've thought he was some celebrity if he didn't act like an idiot quite literally.

“I’m so sorry I couldn’t see you sitting on the chair-“ you apologised to the man

“Oh oh~ well, I’ll forgive you for that I suppose” he laughed though from his expression he did seem to have enjoyed that. “I suppose you are a VVIP as well?” He further questioned. “Yeah.. I just got here to see how the 4th affiliate is working but, it seemed something had happened a day or two ago”

“Whats your name? I never heard about you from anyone” he asked

“its y/n l/n" You replied “well you’ve got a pretty name huh?~” he remarked to which you simply smiled

“My name is Kim Jongoo, Perhaps you’ve heard of me before?” He asked,

intrigued by you “Yes, I know of you sir” “sir?! Don’t call me that honey, you can just call me Goo~” something about his honeyed words was so mysterious, he just seemed like there was so much more to him.

Slowly you were getting tired from standing too long, you wanted to sit down but to your demise there was no other chair around. “You looking for something to sit on?” He asked

“perhaps”

"well here it is” he teased you signalling to his lap. the blonde seemed proud of his joke, you felt more embarassed and guilty than ever “I suppose I’ve found what I was looking for, I’ll leave soon-“

"Oh? well I thought I had some company but it seems you’re busy as well” Goo said with a noticeable frown on his face.

“Well then, bye, see you agai-" you spoke, hurrying out of the room. “wait!!!” The blonde gave you his business card.

“since we’re friends now, call me anytime you feel like you’d want to sit on me~ haha!”

he laughed at his lame joke again, you murmured a few curses under your breath, walking away from the place. You could still hear him yell from the background “dont forget me honey!!” He yelled at you.

“What a strange man.."

~~~~~~

Well to be honest after the incident you had only met him 3 times but not really at the 4th affiliate, he just seemed to be everywhere you were.

----

"Y/N?!! ARE YOU LISTENING?" He yelled at your face as you immediately unfocused your gaze, you realized you had zoned out for a long period.

"Sorry.. I zoned out a bit" you rubbed the back of your neck, as you stood there uncomfortable and in an awkward pose.

"You sure do look uncomfortable, something wrong?" He asked, slightly tilting his shades to have a better look at you. "Aah not really, why do you care?"

He laughed "why shouldn't I? You're my secret friend~"

"when did I agree to-"

"Anyway so I was telling you-"

And you tripped again on him. But he was quick enough to catch you.

"Hey, you seem to have quite a thing for my lap or some?" He cackled.

You did get a lot of second hand embarassment from this

But.. Why won't he let you go?

"Um.. Are you gonna let me go?" You asked, face red from embarassment.

"Do you want to be?" He asked, this time it was a joke or anything, his tone was kind of, serious.

Your voice won't come out.

"Fuck fuck!! Whats happening to me?!? Y/N SNAP OUT OF IT YOU ARE JUST HERE ON AN ERRAND, ahhh I'm getting distracted.. Fuck"

You thought to yourself. You thought for a second, his features from up close were indeed beautiful, this man was a heavenly creation of God himself, but God did miss out on his brains.

"Ah ah, caught you staring~"

"Ah n-no I wasn't-"

He brought his face close to you, examining your already embarassed expression and now your face had just turned 50 shades of red.

"You sure look cute when you blush" he laughed, flicking off some locks that laid in front of your face.

"I-"

Words wouldn't come out your mouth.

"Shh you don't need to speak" He grabbed your body to shift you even more closer to him, he kissed you, his light fingers traveling up and down your body. Your hands rested upon his chest.

Oh how his kiss was just as sweet as his words. You wished he didn't pull away so soon.

"Whaa~ You want me to kiss you more?~" he teased, but from your expression the answer was so evident.

"You sure do seem to enjoy it huh?~"

Yes, yes you did, and a lot. And honestly, who wouldn't? Definitely not you

You had come here to get some work done, but now that things have turned out this way, you really don't regret it. This is much fun isn't it?

He stared into your irises, examining ever feature you've got to show, slowly his hands began to undress you, piece by piece, inch by inch.

"Doesn't this feel exciting?~"

He asked you, once again. You responded with a soft 'yes' as he rewarded you with humble kisses on your neck, fingers fondling with your breasts gently.

His hands grabbed and massaged every part he could possibly see, which was, well untouched by him. He kept undressing you until you were entirely bare.

"Oh look at you princess, you look like you were made for me~"

You were indeed made for him, melting into his soft and firm touches like a lit candle's wax. The way he caressed every part of you like you were a sculpture. He was really into it.

He kept kissing you passionately, your tongues colliding with eachother. His hand slowly but smoothly slipped under your skirt, into your panties, and to your slick, throbbing cunt. He was sure to very slowly massage your clit with one of his fingers. His member rubbed against your bare ass, making you whimper.

Goo was a flirty man, the way he touched your body like it was his last day, but he took his sweet time enjoying you. He really fucking loved it

His slow, but teasing movements made you let out all your suppressed slutty moans. All which you wish nobody else would hear.

"Since you're being such a good girl, let's reward you mhm~?

He took off his pants, revealing his hard cock.

He picked you up and laid you down on the table nearby, your legs wrapped around his torso as he slid inside you without giving you a second to adjust, making you moan out loud.

"F-fuck.. Ngh it's too big.." You felt weak, so weak in front of his cock. It could undoubtedly obliterate your insides. And just the thought of it made you throb even harder than before.

"Shhh I know you can take it"

He caressed your forehead gently, slowly thrusting into your pussy. Now you could really make out he was a very experienced man.

You held an intense eye contact with the blonde. he started to thrust into you faster, you struggled to take him in at this point, but to him your struggle was quite an entertainment.

"Aww~ Can't take me?"

Fuck you didn't want to admit it, but you were downright and completely dominated by him. You were a woman who naturally didn't like submitting to a man, being under his rule, giving in into their control. You hated it, but the fact that you were letting a man you only met for a few days fuck the daylights out of you was improbable.

Goo grinned at you, your poor attempt to take him in. This sight of you might had just become his favourite.

"Fuck..fuck you look so goddam pretty when you're struggling like that"

He placed your legs on his shoulder, adjusting himself even deeper inside of you, he brought himself even closer to you, hitting your sweet spot even harder, grinding himself deep inside of you.

"Fuck do you like that? Yeah?"

You moaned loudly, throwing your head back at the speed of his gruesome thrusts. Your brain was completely lost in the pleasure of this building orgasm.

"Ah..f..fuck b-bouta cum" you whimpered, he kissed your collarbone, gently sucking on your breasts, your supple nipples, his tongue moving around in circular motions, you felt so dizzy and so sensitive.

"Aha? Yeah? cum on my cock princess, come on you can do it"

His hips moved even faster than before, the table started making a creaking sound, added to this was the sound of your skin slapping and the wet noises your pussy made. The room ringed with such lewd noises, but this all never really mattered, you wanted to cum.

"So close hah.."

Fuck, the fact he moaned pretty, his moans were like music, not all men moan like this.

And then you came, legs trembling in the extreme pleasure. You tried to muffle your moans with your hands but still they were loud enough for everyone to hear.

And it didn't take him long to cum too, hot thick cum filling your insides to the brim, he held you in his arms, kissing you, your neck, your ears, Everything.

So it was all over... Or was it?-

"Ah Ah Princess, I'm not done with you yet~"

~~~~~~~

(OMG I was so nervous writing this I hope you guys enjoyed it even though it's half baked, reblogs and likes are appreciated, thankyou so much <33 ~ Kira)

#kim goo #kim jongoo x reader #kim jongoo #lookism #lookism x reader #kim goo x reader smut #heongiu writes #Goo x reader smut #lookism smut #kim joongoo x reader #kim joongoo

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