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sanguineterrain · 5 months

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Could we please get a drabble in which Jason and his partner have a fight and the partner walks out of the apartment to cool off and doesn't think the fight was something detrimental but Jason is actually terrified his relationship just ended?

anon?? are we sharing a mental connection?? i literally had this thought a month ago 😳 it fits him so well too :(

jason todd x gn!reader. tw fighting, jason thinks you broke up with him, misunderstandings, happy ending.

****

"You're not being fair."

You scoff, and pinch the bridge of your nose.

"Fair? This is what couples do, Jason! God, I'm not saying we have to go out with other couples every week, but can't we do it at least once in a while? What's wrong with going to one wedding?"

Jason scowls from the kitchen. His arms are crossed, jaw tensed. "Why aren't you happy with just going out together? You're not in a relationship with your friends."

"Because it's good to do new things, and you're someone I want my friends to meet. And I want to meet your friends too!"

"My friends are aliens and Roy. You don't wanna meet them, trust me."

"Yes, I do, Jason. Don't tell me I don't. And I know this relationship is new for both of us, but I don't want it to be that we never go out with people, never meet each others' friends. You don't even have a good reason not to go!" you say.

"I do have a good reason," Jason says. "We don't know them."

"I work with the bride! She's not a criminal—"

"We don't need to go to someone's wedding we don't know," he continues. "Too many variables. Too many things could go wrong."

You shake your head. "That is so ridiculous, Jason. It's not spycraft, it's a wedding!"

"I said no," Jason says sharply, like he's handling a Crime Alley thug.

You take a deep breath.

"Okay." You close your eyes. "This isn't going to work. I need some air."

You grab your wallet and keys and walk out of his apartment. The train station is only a block from where you are; you'll go to the city square, have some lunch, and go back after a few hours. Jason doesn't respond well when he's pushed.

****

It's close to 5pm when you get back to Jason's apartment. He hasn't texted you, but you didn't expect him to; no contact is best for a few hours anyway.

You unlock the door. The apartment is dark.

"Jay?" You put your things down on the side table. "Jason? You here?"

Had he gone on patrol already?

There's a bump in the bedroom, then the door creaks open.

Jason stands in the doorway, clothes rumpled. You turn on a lamp, and he squints. His eyes are red; the skin of his lips are chewed up. He blinks at you, shoulders going to his ears.

"Are you here for your stuff?" he asks quietly.

You frown. "What?"

Jason points tightly to his room. "Your clothes and stuff."

"Why would I get my clothes?"

He takes a deep, shuddery breath, then swallows.

"'Cause we-we broke up," he says, and his eyes become glassy again.

Oh.

"Oh. Oh no, Jay. Jay, baby. No, no."

You walk to him and wrap your arms around his neck. He plants his face in your shoulder, hands going from your hips to your back and down again. He sniffles.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. We can go to the wedding."

"Wait, hang on. Jason. Baby, look at me."

Jason picks up his head. His eyes are wide, his breathing is fast.

"Why do you think we broke up, Jay?"

He rubs his eye, pulling the skin so hard it turns red.

"'Cause we fought and... and when I fight with people, that means things are over."

"Things aren't over," you say gently. "We move on. We talk. We forgive."

"Don't deserve it."

"Oh, Jay." You pull him back into your arms. He bends so he can rest his head on your chest. "Sweetie, we're not going to break up over one fight. Certainly not over something like this. We can always talk things out."

He sighs. "I was stupid anyway. We should do normal couple things. You don't deserve my bullshit."

You stroke his hair. He hugs you tighter.

"Jay, being anxious about going someplace new isn't bullshit. And I don't want you to go to the wedding just because you're afraid we'll break up if we don't."

He pulls back to look at you. You're no more than a couple inches from each other.

"I don't want to go to the wedding," he says. "But... maybe we can start with something smaller? Less people? Dinner with another couple?"

"Are you sure?"

He nods. "Yeah, sweetheart. I'm sure. I wanna do that stuff, I just—one day at a time?"

"Yeah, Jay, of course." You kiss him. "Always."

#jason todd x reader #jason todd x y/n #jason todd x you #jason todd x gn reader #red hood x reader #red hood x you #red hood fanfiction #jason todd fanfiction #batman fanfiction #dc fanfic #inbox #blurb

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kiss-me-cill-me · 2 months

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i’m not sure if anon has already requested a character for that song but if ur up for it CAN WE HAVE THAT SONG WITH JONATHAN CRANE. also i just listened to that song for the first time in like 3 years and got major deja vu lmao 😭

also ps i love u and ur writing !!!

This is related to another ask from an anon, requesting a fic based off of Katy Perry's song, The One That Got Away. I am so sorry to both of you that it's taken me forever to write this, but thank you for your patience and support <3

Now We Pay The Price | Pt. 1

Pairing: Jonathan Crane x Reader

Word Count: 2.8k

Summary: Life hasn't turned out exactly the way you wanted it to. Isolated and distraught as you watch time slip by while you sit, trapped in Arkham, your only wish is to recapture the way that things used to be.

Warnings: Angst, whump, sexual themes but no explicit smut, mental health themes, obsession, unhealthy relationship dynamics, mention of needles, mention of sedatives, unrequited love, established past romantic relationship, ambiguity

A/N: I hardly ever write angst, so please be gentle with me lol. But with the song inspo, I couldn't help but go in that direction. Slightly nervous to post this, but also happy that I've branched out from my comfort zone a bit!

***Please read the warnings before continuing. Minors DNI***

Lying on your stomach, feet in the air, you stretched the thin cotton sheets with your hand. Just enough to give them the tension you needed to glide a ballpoint pen over the fabric, scratching over and over the same mark to make it appear complete. This was far from the perfect medium for doodling - but sheets were what you had, and so they were what you used.

Even the pen was contraband. You knew you weren’t supposed to have it. What anyone thought you’d do with it… honestly, you had no idea. As if you could use a pen for anything other than what you were wrapped up in doing now - carefully and determinedly drawing hearts.

You stopped to rest your head for a moment on the pitifully thin pillow. Across the room, blank white concrete stared back at you. Day in, day out. Endless. The same room with the same walls.

Picking up the pen again, you placed the tip right in between the lobes of one of the many hearts. Scratch, scratch, scratch. A messy, zig-zagging line bisected the doodle.

Broken.

You sighed, and started to color a different heart, filling it with blue ink that didn’t seem very inclined to stick to the bed sheets. It was slow going. The deep azure tint reminded you of deoxygenated blood, like you would see in a textbook diagram. Once the heart was completely filled, you moved dutifully on to the next.

A rustling at your door made you jump. Quickly, you stuffed the pen under your pillow, and turned up the sheets to hide your drawings. It wouldn’t be very good for you if anybody saw them.

You sat up, arranging your rumpled jumpsuit as neatly as you could. Leather straps hung off the sides of your bed, and you spared them a glance, bristling at the memories of having them lashed over your body.

The metal door slid open slowly, until you could finally see…

Him. Your heart skipped a beat and a half as he stepped stiffly into the room, pulling the door shut behind him. He didn’t make a show of locking it, but it was still all too hard to miss the way his hand stopped short at the keyhole, before slipping into his pocket.

“Jonathan. I’m so glad-”

“Don’t call me that,” he bristled. “In here, we don’t know each other. Please. You always forget that.”

“...Dr. Crane,” you corrected yourself.

His tone was so bitter that you could feel it in the very back of your throat, trying to claw its way down to your heart. You swallowed, trying to bite back the taste.

“I’m sorry. I was just happy to see you.” You smiled, pushing through your discomfort, for his sake.

Crane was clearly agitated. He took a few steps into the room, before turning around and facing the door. For one brief moment, you couldn’t see his face, until finally he turned back. His eyes were ice as they stared down at you.

“Do you have any idea how difficult you’ve been making things for me?” he spat.

The accusation hurt, of course. Though you knew very well what he meant. You had been acting out, more than usual, as of late. And although it wasn’t without a purpose, you could see that it was wearing him thin. But… how else were you supposed to see each other?

Arkham Asylum wasn’t exactly known for its model patients. It took a lot to get Dr. Crane’s attention.

“If we spent more time together, I wouldn’t be so difficult,” you replied, trying to keep your tone even.

Crane pinched the bridge of his nose, in that way that you were well acquainted with. He’d always had that habit. Back when you’d first met, you had loved making him get frustrated - just enough for a laugh. Some things never changed.

“You’re really backing me into a corner,” Crane sighed. “And I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Let’s talk,” you offered, patting the bed. “That’s what you’re here for, right?”

Crane, reluctantly, sat down. You could sense his exhaustion in the way that he almost collapsed onto the bed, hands gripping the edge for support. You inched a bit closer, enough so that your knees touched briefly. Crane pulled away.

You wanted to reach out; put a hand on his shoulder, just like you’d done so many times before. He used to like it when you touched him. Sometimes, you liked to think that yours was the only gentle embrace that he had ever known. Maybe it was silly, but the thought of it always made you feel better.

Now, Crane’s eyes held nothing but menace as he glared over at you, as if you were a stain on the bed sheets. You wondered, vaguely, what had happened to change things.

So much. So much that had led you to this place, where you could be so close to him and yet felt more separated than ever.

“I hate to say it, Doc, but I think I’m going crazy in here,” you joked, trying to lighten the mood.

He barely had a reaction; a deep sigh the only hint that he’d heard what you said at all.

“And why do you think that is?” he asked, finally.

The psychiatrist in him always came through to shove even more distance between you. Like a shield, put up just when you’d started to press through the fog of tension that hung heavy in the room. You swallowed your frustration at being kept out, and tried to answer him honestly.

“Because I barely get to see you,” you replied.

That was the wrong answer, and Crane’s shoulders swung abruptly to face you.

He was scary like this. Almost scary, anyway. If you didn’t know him better, the look in his eyes would have sent you cowering.

But you did know him, so well, and you remembered with sudden clarity that he’d always been bothered by feeling inadequate. You felt awful; you hadn’t meant to imply that he wasn’t doing enough.

“I’m sorry,” you soothed, before he could say anything. “I know that you’re busy, but-”

“But you continue to make yourself into a problem,” he hissed. “You know the only reason you’re in here instead of rotting away over at Blackgate is because of me, right?”

You nodded, too shocked by embarrassment to speak.

“Then for my sake, why don’t you act like it?”

“I’m…” You paused for a moment, sharp tears welling up in your eyes. “I’m just… lost without you,” you whispered. “You know that. I always told you I would be.”

The first tear fell, and you tried to hide your face.

“Don’t cry,” Crane sighed.

You could hear the harsh tinge of annoyance in his voice, and wished that it was anything else. Even his pity would have been better than knowing that your feelings were now nothing but inconvenience. You choked on your own throat, trying to stifle a sob.

“Please don’t cry,” he mumbled, slightly softer this time.

But now that you’d started, you couldn’t make yourself stop. If anything, the tears were only coming faster, and you felt yourself start to shrink into your own chest. The little black pit that always seemed to sit there, now swiftly opening up to swallow you.

With a deep and lingering exhale, Crane pulled you close. Suddenly, you were back where you both had been, so many years ago: one person’s cheek pressed into the other’s shoulder. Tears soaking into fabric that seemed to be stained with sadness. You let out a half-laugh, half-sob, and nestled into the crook of his neck.

“Remember when I used to do this for you?”

Crane stiffened slightly beside you.

“Things have changed since then,” he muttered.

Your memory suddenly flashed back to the first time he had used the words “dysfunctional attachment” to describe you. That had hurt worse than anything else. Even more than all of the other occasions to come, when you’d heard those same words and worse fall from his lips. They could never truly compare to that first time, when your whole world had come crashing abruptly to the ground.

His arm dropped away from you, but you kept your face pressed into his shoulder.

“Things haven’t really changed,” you said. “I still belong to you.”

“You don’t.”

Two words that stung worse than hundreds of needles. You tried to pretend that the wind hadn’t been knocked out of you, as you replied.

“I do. And I will. Always.”

You looked up at him with wet eyes, a trace of the old life that you’d shared together still evident deep within your pupils. Even if only the memories of it lived inside of you, they still lived. They were still something.

“You need to move on,” Crane said flatly. “I know it’s not easy in here, with me…” He sighed. “I did what I could to protect you, but maybe it would have been better if I had just stayed out of your case. Blackgate would have at least given you distance.”

“I don’t want distance,” you whispered. “I just want to be with you.”

“You can’t be.”

Always so stubborn.

“I could be, if you’d help me get out.”

Confusion flashed across Crane’s face, quickly replaced with raw terror.

“Escape Arkham?” His eyebrows furrowed, nearly knitting together. “You can’t be serious. Do you even realize what-?”

“I know, I know,” you hummed. “But just think - we could run away together, just like we always talked about.”

“Stop.”

“Don’t you remember? We promised-”

“Things. Change.” Crane’s voice almost shook as it thundered.

You brought a hand up to his face, gently coaxing until he looked at you.

“But they don’t have to,” you breathed.

Your eyes drifted down to your wrist, to the space just below your thumb, and over the little tattoo that was etched into your skin. A heart - just like the ones littering your blanket, hidden carefully from Crane’s view.

“Remember when you gave me this?” you asked, holding up the tattoo in front of him.

“No; I remember you doing that to yourself.”

“At first, sure,” you chuckled. “But then, you helped me to finish it, ‘cause-”

“Because I didn’t want you to hurt yourself,” Crane muttered. “Just like you always seem to. Even now.”

You ignored his remark as your hands drifted down to collect one of his pale wrists, then lifted up to your face. The sleeve of his suit jacket slipped back, revealing the spot where once, long ago, you had given him the same mark. Just with a felt-tip pen; he would have never allowed you, even back then, to deface his own body in the same way you had yours.

At the time, the impermanence of it hadn’t seemed to matter. You’d been too distracted; elated by the way that his and your matching blossoms of ink had pressed up against each other as you’d held hands.

Now, you pressed a kiss to the blank space.

“Us against the world, Jonathan. Remember?”

Suddenly, his fingers pressed into your face, digging into the sides of your chin as he forced you back into focus.

“Don’t call me that,” he warned, once again. “How many times do I have to tell you? That life doesn’t exist in here.”

Your hands still dangled from his wrist as he continued to crush your jaw, not letting you look away. But this was the one part of him that you didn’t want to face. The part that didn’t need you anymore.

“Jonathan. You know the reason I’m in here, don’t you?”

“Are you asking if I know about your case? All of the crimes you committed?” he huffed. “Because yes - I was very involved in the trial, and it was nearly impossible to keep everyone else in the dark about…”

Us was the word that he couldn’t bring himself to say.

“That’s not what I mean,” you said. “I mean, do you know why I did those things?”

“Stop - please don’t tell me this again.”

“I did them for you,” you cried, your emotions getting the better of you again. “I do everything for you. So don’t you dare pretend you don’t need me, when really the only fucking reason you’re not stuck in here with me is because I always-”

“Stop.”

Crane’s hands tore away to grab you by the shoulders, wrenching you back to reality. Somehow he always managed to do that. To pull you straight out of the riptide, just as it was about to sweep you away.

“I never asked you to do what you did,” he hissed, articulating each word between clenched teeth.

“But I did it anyway,” you spat. “Because you always get into trouble. Because I told you I’d be there for you, no matter what. And because I always keep promises.”

“I don’t need you to anymore.” Crane’s hands squeezed you uncomfortably. “I don’t - I didn’t need you to ruin your life for me.”

“My life isn’t ruined if it’s for you.”

“Jesus Christ…”

Crane’s hand came up to rake through his hair, but before he could pull away fully, you caught him. Fingers clenched tight to the front of his suit, you pulled back and forced him to fall with you. Your back hit the bed, and Crane scrambled to catch himself before his full weight could slam into you. His body perched just above yours, caging you in his arms.

“This. You must remember this.”

Your words were a whisper, barely loud enough to pass from your lips to his ear, despite how close he was. Your legs frantically came up to tug at his waist, trying to force him closer.

“This was the only time I felt alive,” you continued. “When we were like this. You remember.”

How could he not? You could still live in that moment, if you tried hard enough. As if it had been only yesterday. Both of you nervous and fumbling, nearly falling off of the bed as he hovered over you and you clung to him.

The way that your bodies had melted together, almost desperately, in a way that had made you feel certain that neither one of you would let go. Letting go then had meant something worse than death; it meant a life that dragged on without you and him together.

The stale echoes of passion still rang in your ears as you looked up, silently begging for him to rekindle the spark that had been there.

Crane’s expression was all but impossible to read. His face half-hidden beneath bangs that fell into his eyes. The two-second pause was like a lifetime as you awaited his answer.

“Of course I remember.”

Your heart soared, flying recklessly up.

“But that doesn’t mean it’s the same now.”

Broken. Smashed hard against the cold floor of your cell.

“I don’t believe that,” you breathed. “I can’t. I-”

“You need to,” he interrupted. “Because it’s the truth.”

You stayed stock still on the mattress as Crane briskly pushed himself up, disentangling himself from your limbs. He exhaled as he tugged at his jacket, trying to make himself presentable.

You weren’t sure how he could find the nerve, after ripping your whole world apart.

“I’m upping the dose on your sedatives,” he informed you, still not meeting your gaze. “But I would prefer if you could find it within yourself to behave so that I don’t have to. I don’t like to do this, but-”

“Appearances…” Your voice drifted through the room. “Have to be kept up.”

He had told you as much, probably dozens of times. Just like he’d told you the old life between you no longer mattered, or even existed. If it ever had.

“I’m glad you understand,” he said shortly.

His back was already turned, but you looked up to watch him drift out of the room, quickly pocketing the keys on his way out.

Your head fell back, hard, but the sensation did nothing to ground you. You felt all too lost and adrift; trapped in a situation you had created. This wasn’t how things were supposed to end up.

Your hand drifted silently under the pillow, and wrapped around the barrel of the pen that was still hidden there.

Suddenly, grotesque understanding of all the reasons why no one would want you to have such a thing flooded into your consciousness. The possibilities were many and bleak, but they all led back to the same conclusion. It was just like you had told Crane earlier.

If your life together didn’t exist in this place, then the only solution was to leave.

You smiled. With resolve swirling dangerously inside your veins, you vowed to make sure that nothing like this ever happened again. You were going to be together, no matter what.

There would be no getting away.

This fic now has a Part 2! Read it HERE

#jonathan crane x reader #jonathan crane #cillian murphy x reader #angst #LemmyFics

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blackshadowswriter · 1 year

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hi I wanna request where matt is about stressed out from work and his night activities and the reader (she/she pronouns) tries to help him out by riding him but she can't since he's so big, so matt says stuff like "what? can't even ride a cock? you dumb slut need me to fuck you?". and he just absolutely ruins her, hope you have a good day, thanks:)

Destressed┃Matt Murdock

Summary: Matt is stressed out about work, so naturally you do the one thing that helps him unwind. You ride him until he fucks you himself.

Warnings: smut: oral sex (male receiving), rough p in v sex, dom!Matt, degradation, bit of a taste kink, choking, dirty talk, and all the good stuff

Words: 3,068

AN: After like a month of not posting, I present this utter whore of a fic to all you thirsty bitches (it's me, I'm those thirsty bitches). Thanks for the request, anon, and I just want to let you know that I spat out my water when I got it.

You found him on the sofa with a pile of braille papers scattered around him and his computer on his lap. He had a frown edged on his face, the absence of his shaded glasses exposing the tightness around his eyes. Wound up with stress, his shoulders were squared as he slumped over several stacks of paperwork along with more on his laptop.

"Hey," you called out to him, gently shutting his apartment door behind you, dropping your bag by the door and making your way over to him.

"Hey, sweetheart," Matt murmured, looking distracted as he lifted his head from his work. "What are you doing here so early? I thought you weren't coming by until later."

"I brought you dinner," you explained, setting the takeout bag on his counter before padding over to him.

"I could smell that," he said, picking up a few stacks of paper and setting them on the side table to make room for you on the couch next to him. "But I thought you didn't get off work until later tonight."

You shrugged, settling down on the couch besides him and reaching over to kiss him. An eager groan rippled from his throat into your mouth at your touch as you lightly ran your hands through his soft, dark locks. "Got off early," you said when you pulled away to examine Matt in more detail, frowning at the terseness of his form. "You looked stressed."

He huffed out a humorless laugh. "I am," he agreed. "We had three more clients come in today. That's only adding to the pile we already had."

"Can I help?" you asked sympathetically.

Matt shook his head. "It's okay, we'll get through them. We always do."

You sighed, leaning over to kiss him again. "I don't like it when you're stressed," you admitted. "It's not good for you."

He shrugged, and you had to admit telling the man who beat people up every night that stress was not good for him sounded kinda stupid. "I'll be fine," he said, looking very much not fine. The dark circles under his eyes told you he hadn't been sleeping much. His shoulders were tight as though his workload were a physical weight on them. He hadn't shaved in a few days, so you could run your fingers along his jaw and feel the scrape of his stubble against your hand.

It was utterly unfair, you decided, how Matt could still look so gorgeous even when he was tired and stressed out. You didn't look half this hot when you were stressed. But this scruffy, slightly rumpled look on Matt had you so weak in the knees, you were lucky that you were sitting. He was still in his white dress shirt from work, the top few buttons of it undone and his tie loosened around his neck. He looked so entirely fuckable.

You blinked, surprised by your own thoughts. Jesus, where did that come from? Well, it wasn't your fault, not when Matt was sitting there looking like that.

As if sensing where your thoughts had turned, Matt tilted his head towards you, a little smirk lifting the corners of his lips up. He reached over, sliding his arm around your waist and pulling you towards him. "What's gotten into that pretty little head of yours, hmm?" he asked, grinning at your hands tugging at his tie.

"I think I know a way I can help you destress," you said sweetly, dragging your nails down his hard abs, half drooling at the way his dress shirt stretched across the muscular expanse of his chest.

"Yeah?" he murmured, his large hands sliding up your shirt to glide along your skin slowly. There was a hungry gleam in his dark eyes as he licked his lips slowly. "What's that?"

You smiled coyly, reaching over to pluck his laptop from his hands and place it on the side table before climbing onto his lap. "Oh," you giggled, dragging the word out even as your hands swiftly unbuckled his pants. "I don't know."

Matt groaned when you unzipped his dress pants and slid your hand down to palm at his hardening length. "Careful, sweetheart," he warned, his grip tightening on your waist. "You might just get what you want."

Worming out of his grasp, you sank down to your knees in front of him, biting back another laugh. Keeping your eyes fixed on Matt's blank ones that were focused somewhere around your lips, you carefully tugged his pants and his boxers down to his thighs, wrapping your hand around his thick cock. "Maybe I want that," you replied sweetly.

Before Matt could reply, you licked a stripe up the underside of his cock, and his hips jerked up eagerly, a whispered curse falling from his lips. You swirled your tongue over the head of his cock and the precum dripping from the tip, licking the taste of him up into your mouth. In no mood for your teasing tonight, Matt groaned harshly, his hand knotting in your hair to push your head down towards his cock.

You obeyed, giving him what he wanted and taking as much of his throbbing length into your mouth as you could manage. The throaty moan that Matt let out at the wet, hot embrace of your mouth went straight to your dripping cunt, making you squeeze your thighs together tightly.

The slick noise of your mouth sliding up and down his cock echoed through Matt's living room like a filthy melody in his ears. He panted, rolling his hips up eagerly against you as you took him deeper until he was nearly down your throat. You kept up the pace, dragging your mouth along his cock and swirling your tongue around the head, sending thick molten lines of pleasure arcing down his spine. Rough groans and stuttering pants fell from Matt's mouth when you sped up the slick motions of your mouth along his deliciously thick cock.

"Ah! F-fuck," he stammered, his hand tightening in your hair, the hot pulses of pleasure up and down his cock coming dangerously close to his climax. "Fuck," he hissed again, tugging your head back off his cock. "Get up here, sweetheart."

You hurried to obey, climbing up onto his lap and straddling him. Left in only your panties, you slowly ground your cunt against his cock, dragging the soaked fabric against the burning line of him. Matt moaned with you, his large hands sliding up your body to cup your breasts, flicking his fingers over your hardened nipples. You whimpered quietly, your rhythm stuttering for the slightest moment.

Matt tugged at your panties. "Get these off," he growled.

You hasten to obey, peeling your wet panties off your legs and tossing them aside, uncaring of where they ended up. When you straddled Matt again, your dripping cunt hovering just inches over his thick cock, he stopped from sinking down onto him and dragged his fingers along your slit in a slow, aching line that had you whimpering and bucking your hips into his hand at the way his fingertips just barely grazed your clit. But after just one stroke up your cunt, Matt pulled his fingers away despite your desperate whine and brought them up to his lips.

And oh, you nearly collapsed as you watched him drag his tongue along the glistening slick from you on his fingers, watched the way his eyes rolled back into his head at the taste of you, watched his face morphing into one of utter bliss, the filthiest moan falling from his lips as he sucked your wetness off his fingers.

"Oh my God," you whimpered, trembling at the sight in front of you.

"Sweetheart," Matt rumbled when he removed his fingers from his mouth. "You taste so good."

"Fuck," you panted. "Shit—y-you have no idea how fucking hot that was."

A sinful smirk curved along his lips as his hand found its way back to your waist. "Yeah?" he murmured, brushing his thumb along the inside of your thigh, the minimal contact driving you insane. "Why don't you show me then, hmm? Ride my cock for me, pretty girl."

You didn't think you had ever obeyed an order faster in your life. Hurriedly, you were grasping his thick, heavy cock in your hand, lining him up against your entrance, and slowly sinking down onto him. A ragged moan was all either of you could manage with the slick, deliciously hot pleasure pushing into you and engulfing him.

An embarrassingly loud moan slipped from your mouth at the way Matt filled you up so perfectly when you sank all the way down on him. He was panting too, nothing but blazing fire and heat burning in his eyes as you took every single inch of his cock. The stretch of him felt so deliciously good, finally satiating the ache in your core.

"Matty," you gasped, unable to move for a moment as you tried to accustom yourself to his massive girth. "I—ah!—fuck, you're so big—"

"Thought I told you to ride my cock, sweetheart," he whispered, his voice dark and low when you didn't move for another few seconds. He leaned forward to brush his lips against your ear, hot breath drifting over the side of your neck. "Don't you want to be a good girl for me?"

"Y-yes," you whined. "God yes, please Matty."

His hand slithered up and grasped your chin in his large hand as Matt smiled, slow and dangerous as a predator. "Then ride my fucking cock," he ordered.

With a low whimper vibrating along your throat, you forced yourself to move even though your legs felt like jelly. Lifting yourself off his throbbing length as far as you could, you sank back down quickly onto him, moaning eagerly as you tried to ride him faster and harder.

But fuck, he was so big, and each time you ground back down on his cock, he stretched you open until you felt impossibly wide, nearly split open in the best way possible at how fucking thick he was inside of you. Your hips stuttered with your shaky rhythm as shuddering moans racked your body.

Matt's grip on your waist was almost painfully tight as you fucked yourself on his cock, his plush lips falling open slightly with each rock of your hips. He groaned out stammered praises of your name, the syllables rolling off his tongue like a sweet melody.

"Fuck, sweetheart," he panted. "That's it, you're doing so well for me. Riding my cock so well, baby."

"M-Matty," you whimpered when you rolled your hips down onto him again, and the tip of his cock grazed against something overwhelming inside of you. A broken moan spilled from your lips as your pace faltered on shaking legs, trying to accommodate his thick, aching length. "I-I need you to—to fuck me, please."

He let out a rough laugh at that, gripping your chin and yanking your head down to look at him, eyes dark and burning with liquid heat as Matt bared his teeth into a feral smirk. "What? Can't even ride my cock? You dumb slut, need me to fuck you?" he snarled.

His harsh words startled you for a moment, but what was even more startling was the way your body responded to him. A shameless moan tumbled from your lips without your permission as you clenched around him, shuddering as another gush of your wetness coated his cock.

Matt laughed again, letting go of your chin to slid his hand down to your throat, loosely wrapping his hand around your neck. "You liked that, didn't you, hmm? You like it when I talk to you like that, pretty girl? I can feel how wet you get when I call you my dumb little whore."

Another shaky whimper from your throat vibrated against Matt's palm holding your neck. You gripped his broad shoulders as you trembled on top of him. "Please," you choked out, grinding down on his cock even though Matt was fully engulfed in you. "I need it, Matt, please."

"What do you need, sweetheart? Use your words for me, and I'll give you what you want."

"I need you to fuck me," you nearly sobbed, aching and desperate for him. "God, I need it so bad, Matt—please, please, please—just fuck me—I need your cock, I need you to—"

You didn't even finish your sentence before Matt was surging upwards, flipping you around so suddenly that the world spun around you until your back hit the seat of the sofa beneath you. Matt was on top of you, kneeling between your legs where he was still completely sheathed inside of you with your legs locked around his waist. There was a single moment where he brushed his thumb against your cheek tenderly, and that was it.

He dragged his hips back slowly, and you almost cried at the feeling of him leaving you—and then he was slamming back inside of you, and the next thing you knew, Matt was fucking you into the sofa with brutal, powerful strokes reaching so deep inside of you that you could have sworn stars exploded in the corners of your vision. You would have screamed if you had the breath, but the way his cock was pounding into you absolutely punched the air out of your lungs. The most you could manage was a strangled shout before you were gasping and clawing at the worn leather underneath your fingers, trying to find something to hold onto while Matt utterly wrecked you.

And then Matt was pulled you even closer to him, never mind the fact that you were already trapped between his strong arms, and the slight change in position was enough for his cock to drive into you at a whole new angle. His next thrust ground the head of his cock up into something earth-shattering inside of you, and your body jolted underneath him as though you had been struck by lightning. A hoarse moan, bordering on a scream, tore from your throat, followed by stammered gasps of Matt's name, falling over and over again from your lips.

Your smaller hands grasped at his forearm of the hand that was wrapped around your throat, blunt nails digging into the hard muscle of his arm as your eyes squeezed shut. Each one of his hard, fast thrusts was driving up you further and further towards your peak like a wave receding before it crashed.

Groaning in sweet delight with each slam of his hips, Matt stuttered out our name between his primal grunts as he fucked into you. "Sweetheart," he slurred, sounding as drunk on this pleasure as you were. "Fuck, honey, you feel so good—so fucking good."

"Matt," you gasped out, unable and unwilling to move from underneath him where he had pinned you down with the sharp, driving rhythm of his hips. He seemed to have realized that he had found your g-spot, and now he was just pounding mercilessly into you there, the pleasure of it so sharp and overwhelming it completely stole your breath away. Fire was coursing like liquid lava through your veins, going straight to your brain and making your head spin. Choked, ragged moans were all you could squeeze out from your throat, constricted from both Matt's hand around it and this utterly devastating pleasure ripping through you.

"So tight for me, sweetheart," Matt grunted. "Fuck—I can feel you squeezing me like that—ah!"

A strangled sob echoed through the room as you dug your heels into Matt's hips, encouraging him further. His pace picked up until he was fucking you so hard, the sofa was slowly sliding across the floor in small, stuttered skids.

"Such a good girl," he praised. "Taking my cock so well, baby."

You cried his name out again as he drove his cock up again, slamming straight into that spot with brutal accuracy, and then you were shouting—screaming—hoarsely as orgasm suddenly surged up over you, burning hot and furious as it scorched its way through every single nerve in your body. Your hands clawed uselessly at his forearm as you sobbed and twitched around him, clenching hard around his cock still pounding into you even as your vision went completely white for a few moments. That bone-deep pleasure was blazing deep inside of you, searing and branding itself on your fucking soul.

"Oh my fucking God, Matt!"

Matt's pace grew rough and frantic as your cunt continued fluttering around him even while the tendrils of orgasm were slowly receding from your limp form. He was panting and groaning your name, but the sound of it was muffled by the blood rushing in your ears. He drove into you once—twice—three more times, and then he was moaning brokenly against your throat where he'd pressed his face against your neck. You hadn't even noticed when he had he removed his hand from there, too caught up in your own bliss.

He buried himself inside of you to the hilt, and his body shook on top of yours as he finally let go, weeks of stress melting off his shoulders as he emptied himself in you, hot spurts of his release filling you up until he had nothing left to give you.

With a satisfied groan, Matt dropped his head into the curve of your neck with a low, almost reverent whisper of "sweetheart." Even though your arms, along with the rest of your body, were practically putty, you reached up to gently run your fingers through Matt's damp hair.

"Mmm," you hummed lazily. "I might have to thank whichever client got you so stressed because if that's what it takes to get you to fuck me like that...I'm sorry, babe, but I am going to refer Nelson and Murdock to everyone I know."

Matt snorted. "Sweetheart, I'll fuck you anyway you want as long as you don't do that."

"Oh well, in that case..."

You felt his lips curve into a smile against your neck. Matt lifted his head up and kissed you warmly, his pretty dark eyes focused on you. "Thank you for that, sweetheart."

"Oh absolutely. I'm always here if you want to just, you know, ruin me again. Totally down for it anytime."

═══════ ∘◦ ❈ ◦∘ ═══════ ∘◦ ❈ ◦∘═══════ ∘◦ ❈ ◦∘ ════════

AN: Apologies for the very inconsistent posting schedule, I've just been writing whenever I can between work and life and classes and shit, so thanks for bearing with me, yall <3

If you enjoyed, please remember to like, comment, and reblog! 🖤

Matt Murdock Masterlist

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intheorangebedroom · 11 months

Note

please i am on my knees share your thoughts on frankie's thighs please i am BEGGING you

I’m approximately a thousand years late to answer your ask, sweet Anon, for which I immensely thank you 🧡 and sincerely I apologise. Trust me, it’s not for lack of Frankie thoughts… Especially not on his thighs…

Explicit thoughts below the cut 🔞

At first, you didn’t really pay attention to them. You’re always so… focused… Ok, no, obsessed, if you gotta be honest, with his eyes and dimple and neck and chest and shoulders and arms…

After all, you can map the freckles dusted below his collarbone with closed eyes, you’ve studied them for hours, for entire nights… You like to trace them with the soft tips of your fingers, and the way his skin instantly reacts to your touch, it’s intoxicating.

So it’s no wonder you remember with precision the first time ever you noticed his thighs.

Curled on the living-room couch, tucked into his side, reading a book with your hand resting lightly on his right thigh. When he leaned forward to grab his can of beer from the coffee table, you felt the strong, lean muscles rippling under your palm.

Your mind was done with the reading, but you still put up a good fight. Your hand wandered along his leg of its own volition, a feather-like caress, spanning his inner-thigh and you saw him looking from the corner of his eye, his jaw cocked to the side, plush lips curled into a mischievous smile.

From that moment on, you paid attention. You realised. His body as a whole, furiously in love with all of its parts.

The press of them when he comes up to stand behind you and pecks a kiss in the crook of your neck, while you’re making your morning coffee.

How they play into his assertive, swift gait. That particular stance of his, when he’s intently listening as you recount your day, hands on his hips, knee popped to the side.

How solid they feel, how safe, when you sit between them on the beach on a hot summer day, as you sit between them to watch a movie on a cold winter night, when they wrap around you, limbs intertwined, as he helps you find sleep at night.

You realised, you remembered, the first time ever he made you come, you were riding his thighs.

You realised, you remembered, his broad, solid body, stepping out of the shower, water dripping down the sturdy muscles of his legs, and that oddly shaped birthmark on his inner-thigh, standing out in a dark shade of brown, that birthmark is all you can see, now.

You realised, you remembered, every time he flipped you over on the mattress, his large hands spread across your lower back, pressing you down, propping up your ass, every time he lined himself up at your entrance and shoved himself in all the way down, and it’s always so much, the heft of him, the blinding stretch that has you moaning into the rumpled comforter, fingers scrambling for purchase, his thighs pushing up the back of your thighs to make more room for him inside your wet, tight warmth.

And now you’re lying on the bed, where he has you pinned on your back, an arm banded across your belly, his lips wrapped around your clit and you already came twice but he hasn’t had his fill, does he ever?

But you realise, you remember, and so you ask, a breathless plea, a sudden desire.

“Make me… make me make you come, Francisco.”

It’s one last dip of his tongue inside your cunt to gather your taste into his mouth, and Frankie sits up. His movement slow, measured, deliberate. Smacking his lips, wiping your slick off his chin and licking his palm, dark eyes strained on your face, god he looks like a fucking menace.

He gets off the bed and goes around it to stand behind your head, and you’re too limp, too sated, but you still twist your neck around to watch him walk, his hard cock hanging heavy between his strong thighs.

And when he climbs back onto the bed, oh when he climbs back onto the bed you're in heaven, your head, heavy and dazed, caged between his thighs. You turn to the right and bite hard at the birthmark, the hissing sound he produces already so satisfying.

His fingers wrap around your nape to arch your neck. Docile, pliant, you tilt back your head, pressing the crown of your hair into the mattress, greedily pulling your tongue out, mouth open wide.

He smiles, again, takes his length into his hand and swipes the fat round tip of it along your tongue. The tangy, heady taste of him like a hot stream running down your spine.

“Make me come, baby, make me come into your mouth,” he husks, and as he slides inside the warmth of it all the way to the back of your throat, you reach back, a hard grip on his thighs.

#presses post and runs into hiding #thank you so much for this ask 🧡#i hope you like it #did you get the Dio reference I hid in there?#francisco catfish morales #frankie morales #the pilot™️#frankie morales x fem!reader #frankie morales x you #frankie morales / you #frankie morales / fem!reader

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playedwright · 2 years

Note

buddie + “you’re crushing my hand” from the nightmare prompt?

one hundred years later i finished this sorry anon</3 (prompt from this list) read it on ao3

The worst one in a long time happens the night before he's due to start back up at the 118.

In a few hours, when Eddie thinks about it, that fact won't surprise him. But he wakes up gasping for air and digging his fingers into the blankets, half expecting to find mud caked under his nails and filling his throat, and in the moment all Eddie can think is these aren't supposed to keep happening.

He's in therapy now. Most days he's okay with it.

Other times he wakes up at four in the morning with the lingering sensation of the earth crushing his chest.

"Eddie?" comes a voice from the dark next to him, and it should startle him, maybe, except it's a voice he knows better than his own. A presence he'd find comfort in anywhere.

"Sorry," Eddie murmurs. He scrubs at his eyes and is unsurprised to find wetness on his cheeks. "Just. Nightmare. You know."

Buck props himself up, still-half asleep and rumpled-looking even in the low light. He peers at Eddie curiously. There's a soft downturn to the corner of his mouth that, more often than not these days, Eddie wants to press his thumb against. "You wanna talk about it?"

"Go back to sleep," Eddie says, a bit too sharp. Guilt rattles around inside him like the world's most fucked up pinball machine. It's not Buck's fault, after all, that he got woken up by Eddie's nightmare. It's not Buck's fault that he's a good person who, above all else, lives and breathes to help people. "Shit, sorry, I'm sorry."

"Hey," Buck whispers, voice quiet in the moonlight. He reaches a hand out blindly and doesn't stop until Eddie gives in and twines their fingers together.

Buck has been officially single for sixteen days and a handful of hours - not that Eddie's been counting, or anything - but he's been staying at the Diaz house for a few days longer than that. And he is beautiful, all the time, really, but especially bathed in the scant light illuminating Eddie's room, and especially with sleep-lines on his cheek and ruffled hair. Sometimes Eddie thinks that even if they could spend the rest of their lives together, it wouldn't be long enough for him to memorize every which way Evan Buckley can be beautiful.

"You're crushing my hand," Buck says lightly, and there's a teasing lilt to his voice but Eddie still burns with embarrassment anyway when he realizes he'd lost himself in thought while still holding onto Buck. "Hey, no, none of that. Hold on as tight as you need, alright? Just. Let me help, if this is how I can help."

"You always help," Eddie mutters, without thinking, but he relaxes his hand in Buck's and lets himself continue to be held.

It isn't the most comfortable - Buck still propped up on his free elbow and Eddie sitting up and curled in on himself as tight as he can go, but Buck doesn't let go. Eddie focuses on matching his breathing to Buck's and tries to control the fluttering in his chest when he realizes Buck knows what he's doing because their breaths begin to square out.

"Do you remember," Buck starts, and he swipes the pad of his thumb along Eddie's knuckle. "Do you remember the last time you held my hand like this?"

Eddie blinks slowly. "What?"

"Tight, like this," Buck explains. There's a smile in his voice that Eddie would kill to see. "It was, uh. Years ago. When the ladder truck crushed my leg and you wouldn't let go of my hand to go try and lift the truck with everyone else.

Jesus, Eddie thinks. His throat goes tight. "I didn't know if you remembered much about that night."

"Pieces," Buck murmurs with a shrug. "Most of it usually from nightmares. Then, uh. The last time I held your hand this tight is when. When, um."

"When you pulled me under the truck the day I got shot," Eddie realizes. It comes back to him like muscle memory; a sensation he'd forgotten until the exact moment Buck squeezed his hand that tight again. "Right?"

Buck can't hide the surprise in his voice when he says, "I can't believe you remember that."

"You saved me," Eddie breathes out. "You kidding? How could I possibly forget that? I remember all of it. Hell, look around you. These walls have been literally patched up by your hands, because you pulled me out of the wreckage. You carried me to safety. Your hands kept my blood in my body. Evan. Baby. You're always saving me."

"Eddie," Buck says, helpless.

Eddie squeezes his eyes shut. Its four am, and in a few hours he will clock into work as a firefighter-paramedic for the first time in six months, and in all the scenarios he imagined this he never thought it would happen like this. Still, he thinks, there's a chance to do it right.

Now more than ever, Eddie wants the chance. He maybe even thinks he deserves the chance.

"I'm not going to say it tonight," Eddie tells him, and Buck makes a sound at the back of his throat. "Because I don't want there to be any confusion when I do. I don't want there to be any implication that I'm saying it because you have saved my life more than I can count. And because when I say it, I want you to know that I mean it without conditions. I mean it without having to justify it. But I'm going to say it. Because it's true."

Buck lets out a wet laugh. "When?" he asks, because he's an asshole and Eddie is so, so in love with him that it consumes him. That it paints the walls of this bedroom, so painstakingly and lovingly repaired by Buck's hands. Eddie shoves at Buck's shoulder until he's laying flat in the bed again, no longer propped up by his elbow, and Buck tugs on their still-intertwined hands until Eddie's laying down beside him, too. Then, inexplicably, his face softens. He brushes a knuckle along the edge of Eddie's jaw, tilting his head just enough to press a gentle kiss to the bridge of Eddie's nose. He whispers, "Go back to sleep, Eddie."

"You go to sleep."

"Honey," Buck sighs, exasperated, and the pet name falls from his tongue sticky and sweet. Eddie closes his eyes again and lets himself begin to drift. "Go back to sleep, so that in the morning, I can tell you first."

Eddie had woken up with the feeling of the world collapsing on his chest - but he falls back asleep with his hand curled around Buck's, and all he can feel is the sunrise breaking through the dawn and reminding him he can breathe.

#buddie #911 fox #buddie fic #anon #answered #my writing #wrote this kind of lowkey in a rush but it's fine we move #ANYWAYS i kind of went sideways w the prompt but hopefully anon u enjoy it regardless :')

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priscilla9993 · 2 years

Note

Killian Jones: 3, 4, 11 , 22

😘

Oooh, thanks anon! Wasn't expecting any asks so this was a joy to recieve. ✨

3. Scars or painful spots

Killian has tons of jagged scars across his back from his time in servitude, from him talking back despite it doing him no good. Of course, there has to be the scar of where his left wrist ends. I don't think it'd be the most painful place to touch, but his phantom pains and nerve endings would make it ill advised. There's a difference between him touching it and others, only those he trusts. Killian has a facial scar from who knows where and the rest of his limbs are peppered with smaller scars from where he's gotten grazed or stabbed by swords, knives, daggers, and gunshots over his pirating years. I think his shoulders hurt the most from bearing the weight of his leather trench coat in pouring rain, at times, his arms from lifting wine/rum barrels and women that he brings onto his ship for a nightcap.

4. Best places to kiss on their body

I don't know how to answer this, but let's go for it! His shoulders and chest, very gentle caress. If he were to be kissed on his neck, he'd yell or growl in frustration about how he doesn't like it, but he doesn't stop the kisser, so he must love it. His stomach is great to kiss if you want him to be tickled. His hand if you're feeling courageous and want to turn the tables on him. This will probably make him more interested in whoever tried that.

11. Bad or petty habits

Killian is the king of pettiness. If one day he woke up early from a hangover to a noisy crew, he's for sure to spend the next few days getting up early just to bang pots and pans to ruin their moods for disturbing his sleep first. Much like his disdain for authority, a strain to his freedom, he despises hypocrites. If there's one thing he has in common with the Crocodile, it's that people should keep their word. So when someone goes against their bargain, he'll make sure they regret it, even if it's something as small as hiding someone's clothes for a few hours. A bad habit he has is drinking at any point of time when he's not sailing or manning his crew, for it must be "nighttime somewhere".

22. People who’ve influenced them greatly

If we were talking about Wish Killian, I could say so much. But for Killian Jones himself, I'd say Milah and Rumplestiltskin, giving him more purposeful reasons in life, one of love and one of revenge. I could go on forever about Rumple, so I'd rather not. Although we can't be for sure how much time Milah had to get close to Hook, she impacted him so much that he swore to avenge her, thought he could never love again, and got a tattoo of her name. We can't forget Pan, the manipulative and playful child who never grew up. Killian probably learned a lot of techniques and did terrible things under him.

Liam Jones, his older brother that was too arrogant to not cut himself with dreamshade and too trusting of their King. For all that his brother was in the end, to Killian, Liam was family, the one who didn't abandon him when he made dreadful mistakes or got drunk, who protected him even when he was just a rebellious youth. Liam made him believe in honor and who he upheld every bit of respect to. I'd also mention that in addition to him, his mother was a beacon of childhood trust and safety, how 'she tried to stay for as long as she could'.

David Nolan aka Prince Charming made a huge impact on him. I think through him, Killian gained a friendship that had no takebacks and advice on life. He regained what it meant to be honorable and how the right things weren't always going to be easy or a clear path, but it was going to be okay. They could talk to each other about so much, both serious and jokingly.

Lastly, when he thought he'd never find love again, he met Emma Swan. He saw a lot of similarities in her and eventually wanted to be the one she let her walls down for. I think she brought out from him the good and vulnerable parts that he thought he'd lost or swept away, having lost trust in humanity. Killian was an 'every man for himself' kind of survivor until he wasn't, seeing the things she valued and how he could just talk to her without being entirely joking. They brought out the best in each other and I'm glad they got their happy ending, along with a family they never imagined would come into their lives.

#ask and it will be granted #killian jones #character headcanons #ouat

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firethatgrewsolow · 1 year

Note

I got an idea for you. Robert performing mundane things like hygiene, his shower, washing hair and combing it. Why you don’t do this one please? By the ways, I love your blog.

Hey there, anon! Thanks for the kind words about the blog! Okay, so mundane Robert - two words not usually intertwined 😁, but I'll do my best. Thanks for the ask! 💕

Robert groaned as the phone jangled in its cradle for what must have been the twentieth time. He slung his hand over it, fighting the urge to end the poor object's misery. And his own. Shouldn't have had that last cider. Truth be told, he shouldn't have had the last four ciders, but who was counting? Certainly not him, as he'd been otherwise engaged. The reverie summoned a devious smile onto his face, one that was quickly dispatched as he reached across the cool, rumpled expanse beside him. Empty. He patted the bedding again, his brow wrinkling. Wait, not empty. His fingers curled around a small cardboard box, and he sat up, giving it a shake. What the fuck? He resumed his exploration, squinting to make out a plethora of items sprinkled along the formerly occupied space. What in the bloody- The blare of the telephone quashed the thought, and Robert jumped, snatching up the handset. "What?"

"Where the fuck are you?"

It was Bonzo. The singer rolled his eyes. "Where the fuck am I? You rang me!"

"We've been waiting for two fuckin hours. Pagey's bloody pissed off."

"Bloody pissed off? About wh-" Robert flinched as Bonzo's cackle filled his ear. "The fuck do you want?"

"D'ya get our little care package? Compliments of that bird you were with."

Robert tentatively glanced toward the array next to him, the needle of light slipping through the drapery affording him a more serious study. Good Christ. A box of Dial, tube of Crest, shampoo, and a hairbrush. He shook his head as Bonzo's laughter roared on. "Fuck off," he muttered, mostly to himself. He had to admit, though, it had been more than a short while since he'd last indulged in a bath. If you didn't count the pool, anyway. He tossed the phone on the floor, gathering his newfound trove.

What the hotel lacked in charm, it made up for in water pressure, and Robert arched back into the steaming stream, rinsing the final remnants of lather from his arms and chest. He clasped the shampoo bottle, inspecting the label. Pantene. Courtesy of Jimmy, no doubt. Pouring a generous dollop, he slowly massaged it into his scalp, his eyes closing as the heady scent enveloped him. It wasn't patchouli, but it wasn't half bad. For a Black Country boy, he could appreciate the finer things. Bonzo would take the piss, but then Bonzo always did.

Freshly laundered, Robert wrapped a towel around his waist and set off drying his hair with another. After a few quick tousles, he snagged the brush, plotting his next move. That's when he heard it. A quiet shuffle, a muffled giggle ... and something else. Something sloppy. He clenched his teeth as he crept toward the door, bracing for the worst. He wasn't disappointed.

#hmm what should it be?#any ideas?#this is fun #sorry anon - i kind of morphed your idea into something else #hope you don't mind #it's just what popped into my head #😊😊

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justmilah · 11 months

Note

For the ouat characters as mythical creatures thing I could also see Belle as a swan maiden 1) for much of the same reason Milah's a selkie but 2) it's different enough from a selkie that she's not just a copy of Milah and 3) it kinda fits her since swans are seen as very beautiful and elegant (and Belle is very beautiful (it's even mentioned in the name of her story - beauty and the beast) and has that kind of princess aesthetic and there kinda almost seems to be an aspect of some other characters treating her a little like a decoration (idk? it's subtle but I kinda see it?) which is what a lot of domestic swans are kept for) but swans in reality Can Fight You (and Belle is adventurous and not content being in a passive role all the time and actually is quite competent (at least... when the threat isn't coming from Rumple)). (And 4) one of my favorite Rumbelle songs (Writing on the Wall by Blackmore's Night) mentions swans (I mean what I'm not choosing this for superficial reasons not at all))

Okay so A) I'm used to getting anons and was having an existential crisis wondering how I was gonna tell someone I don't ship Rumbelle without coming across as 'SO DON'T SEND ME THESE' which isn't what I mean but 'I don't ship them so I hope I don't come across as hatey because I know how that feels please don't hate me' then I remembered how to read and saw your name and was all 'Omg good they already know how I feel! 8D' B) HI!! and C) I'm using letters since you used numbers :D

1) and 2) Oooo good points! (I know I told you how similar I find them, but yes, similar doesn't mean copy! So I like that idea.)

3) Ooo that IS fitting! (Yesss, I've always loved that, and that Belle means beauty, eee! Eight year old me's mind was BLOOOOWN when I was told that! It might have been the first time I actually thought about name meanings. I'd thought they were just sounds we called each other. Now I know better! For instance, apparently my name, Catherine, means pure! ...I was oddly offended when I found that out.) I can very much see where you're going with the comparrison and I can see it, too! Oh man, swans are scary. (One got aggressive with toddler me!) And sometimes Belle is scary. (Right?! (Right?!))

4) Oooo I haven't heard that song! I'll have to give it a listen to. (What I would never do such a thing either what do you mean.)

Thank you for your input!! And I agree, Belle is more suited to Swan Maiden than Selkie.

#answered asks #moonbeamnights #anti rumple #(Not really but just in case also kinda yeah)

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hearts-and-bodies · 1 year

Text

I posted 2,657 times in 2022

That's 2,657 more posts than 2021!

49 posts created (2%)

2,608 posts reblogged (98%)

Blogs I reblogged the most:

@valgal78

@mafaldaknows

@silvyysthings

@martinfreemanismyaesthetic

@thepossibilitiesofimpossibility

I tagged 98 of my posts in 2022

#armie hammer - 33 posts

#charmie - 31 posts

#timothée chalamet - 30 posts

#timmy/armie - 27 posts

#rpf - 20 posts

#fic - 19 posts

#timothee chalamet - 17 posts

#timothee/armie - 13 posts

#fic update - 10 posts

#reblogs appreciated - 9 posts

Longest Tag: 92 characters

#for smut writers there comes a point where it isn't so much the characters and it's just you

My Top Posts in 2022:

Koala

Series: The Lawyer and the Photographer

Timmy has a bad dream, so Armie makes him feel better.

* * * * *

Snip:

Timmy’s eyelids twitched, his fingers clenched and he awoke with a start. With his face smooshed into the mattress and eyes still mostly closed he reached blindly with one hand towards the other side of the bed. Finding nothing, he turned his head, cracked his eyes open further and stared blearily to find the other side empty, the covers drawn back. Timmy rolled onto his back, bringing his hands up to scrub over his face and push his hair out of his eyes.

Hearing movement in the apartment, Timmy swung his feet out of bed and got up. He pulled on a pair of rumpled boxers and padded out of the room and down the hall. He raked a hand lazily through his dishevelled bedhead, leaving his dark curls even more tousled than before.

Hearing sounds in the kitchen, he walked in and straight over to his boyfriend who was standing at the stove, fixing something in a frying pan. Timmy wrapped his arms around him tightly from behind, and pressed his face into his broad shoulder. “Umm,” he murmured, inhaling deeply, “that smells good.”

“Good morning to you too, sleeping beauty,” Armie said, smiling and turning his head to nuzzle his nose into his boyfriend’s hair and press a kiss to his forehead.

“Oh, yeah, morning,” Timmy mumbled, rising up onto his tiptoes and lifting his chin for a kiss.

* * * * *

Read on AO3 HERE.

21 notes - Posted April 15, 2022

fic prompt:- "you always look so much better after I mark you up" pls 🥺

So, this probably didn't go in quite the direction you were expecting, but, hey, I write* humour too.

Read on AO3 HERE.

(*try to write)

* * * * *

Also, while I don't officially take requests, I have been known to be... open to suggestions. I can't promise anything, but my inbox is open (and anon enabled, if - you know - it was that kind of prompt... 😉).

25 notes - Posted April 1, 2022

hearts-and-bodies Master List

The Lawyer and the Photographer Series

(Each fic in the series can be read as a stand-alone)

Date Three

Silk and Afternoon Sunlight

Like a Throne

In His Hands

Carry Me Home

Slice of Life

The Captain

Marks

Koala

Condensation Hearts

The AU Collection

Deny, deny, deny (College AU)

Bodies Entwined (Gender-swap AU)

The Naked Peach (Stripper AU)

Written in the Stars (Soulmate AU)

What’s in a blush? (Office colleagues AU)

A Short History of the Forever at the End of the World (Post-apocalyptic Omegaverse AU)

Other (CMBYN compliant)

Afterparty (Post-Oscars 2022)

Red Carpet Ready (Pre-CMBYN2 Premier)

Discovery (CMBYN-era and beyond)

31 notes - Posted February 28, 2022

Heaven…

“But I wasn’t fooling myself. I was convinced that no one in the world wanted him as physically as I did; nor was anyone willing to go the distance I was prepared to travel for him. No one had studied every bone in his body, ankles, knees, wrists, fingers, and toes, no one lusted after every ripple of muscle, no one took him to bed every night and on spotting him in the morning lying in his heaven by the pool, smiled at him, watched a smile come to his lips, and thought, Did you know I came in your mouth last night?”

André Aciman, Call Me By Your Name

43 notes - Posted August 31, 2022

My #1 post of 2022

Afterparty

Summary: Timmy attends the only Academy Awards afterparty he's actually interested in.

It's a party for two in a hotel room and the jacket stays on.

Word length: 3k

A/N: Adult content (18+ only please). This is fiction.

Snip:

They stumbled into the hotel room, laughing and kissing and fumbling, hands blindly pulling at clothes in their haste. Armie gently pushed Timmy back against the door, leaned down and attached his lips to Timmy’s neck.

“F*cking finally!” Timmy gasped, tipping his head back and frantically grasping at Armie’s broad shoulders.

“Dramatic,” Armie breathed heavily, his lips pressing kisses along Timmy’s jawline. He took the lobe of Timmy’s ear into his mouth and sucked hard. Timmy shivered and Armie grinned, grazing his teeth along the flesh before giving it a sharp nip.

Timmy gasped and clutched at Armie, raking his fingernails behind his ears and down his neck.

“It’s been six hours, Armie,” he whined, “six whole hours. I’m practically dying here. Dying of blue balls.”

Armie huffed a laugh. “What a tragically fitting end for Hollywood’s biggest drama queen.”

He pushed his hand beneath the lapel of Timmy’s jacket – Timmy’s f*cking sparkly lace jacket – and sucked a kiss into Timmy’s skin, just out of sight past the edge of the material. He ran his hands appreciatively over Timmy’s chest again, a secret smile twisting the corner of his mouth as his thumb ran over the faded purple mark he’d sucked into Timmy’s skin days ago. The one he knew had already been spotted by Timmy’s fans – their fans, he corrected himself – in the press photos already flooding the internet.

* * * * *

Read on AO3 HERE.

54 notes - Posted March 28, 2022

Get your Tumblr 2022 Year in Review →

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columboscreens · 2 years

Note

also peter falk literally just looks like a Normal Guy. like as someone who is a) a trans guy (sort of its complicated) and b) not that tall, i cant tell you how nice it is to see literally a normal fucking person of about my height in literally anything. and bonus points cause peter falk is from the same area as my dad and HIS dad are, so its EXTRA "he's literally just some guy" from my perspective

yeah i 100% agree with you anon, that's what i like about him! peter falk literally was just some regular-ass pencil pushing guy from suburban new york. his schlubby act wasn't a farce; this was a guy who thought acting was a fun hobby that he wasn't very good at until he was like 30. he started his theatre career when he'd already lived almost a third of his life doing random shit as Just Some Guy! in addition to having a theatrical background, his authenticity translated very strongly to his roles and it's always refreshing to watch.

like yeah he was certainly good-looking--the guy by all accounts fucked constantly--but it was in a somewhat unconventional way. his grin was lopsided, one eye cocked. you may have even heard the anecdote about how falk failed his first screen test because studio execs couldn't get over his eye. for every one of us who goes nuts over how hot he was, there are a bunch of people who think he looked like a lunch bag lmao.

tl;dr im sick of fuckin marvel CGI faces and wanna see regular people with character again, people with authenticity. besides, i'll say it, it's way hotter to be kind of busted.

on another note, though canonically he's a cis guy, i'm fascinated with the fact that columbo is indeed for many transmascs, and even trans/gender questioning folks in general, an idol. it makes you look more critically at his gender expression, which really is its own whole-ass topic.

he's short, not weak but not particularly athletic, keeps his hair long-ish, hides his shape much of the time in a rumpled overcoat. in terms of traditional 20th century western gender expression, his masculinity is unambiguous, but upon closer inspection, so is his femininity.

on the surface level, he never hesitates to pick flowers, go shopping, cook dinner, get a manicure, or put his arm around another guy. more importantly, he's calm, sensitive, caring, nurturing, and has a strong intuition to which he listens. he's a man, but he's the one who defines what that means to him, and he's the one who defines how he expresses that, no matter how many odd looks he gets. traits aside, that level of confidence and agency in his own expression is something to admire no matter your identity.

#sorry anon i word vomited all over your ask #god what a wall of text lol oops #columbo #peter falk #ask #text #misc #longpost

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solemnly-mischievous · 3 years

Note

HOLY SHIT RIVALRY WAS SOOOO F@&KIMG GOOD OH MY 😮‍💨😮‍💨 I was wondering you would be open to doing a jealous draco smut with breeding kink? Maybe you’re wearing a short sundress that’s riding up and getting looks from the guys and he pulls you aside 🥵

very glad to hear you enjoyed rivalry! read this request and wrote it in like two hours. here you go, anon, hope you like it too ;)

Contains: Breeding kink, jealousy, possessiveness (like... kind of a lot of that), large amounts of dirty talk, themes of exhibitionism (only mentioned)

Word count: 1.6K

-----

Of course you didn't purposely choose the smallest sundress you owned to wear that day. It was the only sundress you packed to bring to Malfoy Manor for the summer. You'd never intentionally wound up Draco—you aren't a brat or anything... on most days.

But maybe. Just maybe. You enjoyed seeing how his eyes had widened when you'd revealed your outfit. Maybe you liked how his eyes were constantly on you, your exposed skin, the deeper-than-necessary neckline. Your thighs.

And, alright, maybe this sundress was less a dress than a gratuitously long shirt.

But still. You never meant to get him so bothered.

You're also decidedly not complaining.

The day is truly hot and bright in the "backyard" of Malfoy Manor, the sun heating up your skin so much you're coated in a light sheen of sweat, despite your lack of clothing. You, Draco, and a couple other friends are about a three-minute walk away from the Manor, lounging by the beach.

You weren't even aware the Malfoy Manor was near a beach, but the more you know.

The other boys have unbuttoned their shirts in the heat, currently in various stages of modest undress—Blaise Zabini has his shirt fully off, while Theo Nott's is unbuttoned but stayed, reluctantly, on his body. It's soaked, though—you don't count on it staying on for much longer.

Draco, on the other hand, has his shirt fully buttoned, and his black outfit cuts a stark, imposing figure in the bright day. His gaze lingers on you as you stretch in the sun, the sundress riding up with your movements until they barely reach mid-thigh.

He hasn't said much since you emerged from your room in that dress, but he looks as though he's about to say something now.

"Hey!" Theo calls your name and you turn, the Slytherin boy tossing you a chilled glass bottle filled with lemonade. "I brought some along. You look parched."

"I am," you say gratefully, taking the lemonade and uncorking it. It's delightfully cold, and the lemonade tastes heavenly, sweet and sour perfectly balanced. "Bloody hell, Theo, what'd you put in these?"

"It's so bloody good, isn't it," Blaise says, chugging his own bottle before giving a satisfied sigh. "I'm telling you: Drugs."

"A dash of magic," Theo replies to you, grinning. You laugh. Beside you, Draco tenses.

"C'mon, Draco, try some," you urge him, holding the glass bottle out. "It's so good."

"I'm good, thanks," Draco declines, and you shrug.

"More for me, then." You tip the lemonade back, exposing your neck and collarbones as you lift your head, and you finish the whole small bottle in a few large gulps. Your throat bobs as you swallow, and you feel Draco's unrelenting stare on you.

Lowering the empty bottle, you feel a rush of euphoria as the sugar hits your system. Combined with the relief from the pressing heat, you can't help but let out a groan of pleasure.

Draco stiffens next to you, but you only turn to offer Theo a large pleading smile. "Tell me you brought more."

Theo looks like he's been caught in headlights, and takes a moment to unfreeze before he can register the sentence. His gaze trails down your body playfully, lingering at your neckline, how you're breathing harder than usual from drinking. "I might've. What's in it for me, doll?"

"Huh?" You blink in confusion.

"I could be persuaded to give you more," Theo says suggestively, winking, and then Draco is grabbing your arm and Apparating away from the beachside.

"Going to grab sunscreen!" is the only explanation he yells at his friends before the two of you vanish.

The two of you appear in Draco's room, you stumbling with the force of the arrival.

"Draco, what—"

"Don't," he warns, and kisses you without warning. The force of it takes you by surprise, and you fall backwards onto his bed, bringing him with you.

Draco nips at your bottom lip and trails down your neck, biting into the delicate skin there. You yelp, then moan, and your fingers clutch desperately at his shirt.

"Gonna hex him," Draco mutters, before sucking another hickey into the skin around your collarbone. You whimper from the feeling.

"What—what do you mean—Theo?"

"No, bloody Hagrid," he drawls, and pushes you into his mattress. He pins you down, and there's a light in his eyes that's almost—possessive. "Yes, Theo."

"Why?" And then you realize. "Oh—no, Draco, he was just joking."

"I don't bloody care." The blond tugs at your sundress, almost too harshly. "He wanted you. I could tell. Blaise did too. I can't blame them, with you looking like this. Bet they wanted to rip this dress off your pretty body and fuck you in the sand."

"I—"

"I'm still wondering what to do with it," Draco continues, cutting you off. "Should I let you keep it on while I fuck you? So we can get it all dirtied and wrinkled, for when we return to the beach?"

Your face flushes at the idea of Theo and Blaise seeing you in freshly-fucked apparel, dress all uneven and stained with sweat and Merlin knows what else. They'd know—oh, they'd know, alright.

"Or," Draco muses, his voice darkening, "should I tear it off of you? You could wear one of my shirts back. Just the shirt, though."

"Draco," you whine, clamping your thighs together to get some friction. He's talking too much, not touching you enough, and you grind upwards into his leg to try and get his attention.

"Slow down now, or I'll tear this dress off you and not let you dress properly before I Apparate us back," Draco warns, and you still your motions. "There we go. Good girl."

He seems to be impatient as well, though, as he shrugs off his shirt hurriedly and kicks off his trousers. "I think I'll fuck you with the dress on. Let it be a reminder, hm?"

"Yes, please, just—" And then he's pushing your sundress up roughly, exposing much of your abdomen and a sliver of your bra, and tugging your panties to the side roughly. He doesn't even have the patience to take them off.

"Gonna show them you're mine," Draco growls, sinking two fingers in at once deep into your cunt, and you let out a loud, surprised moan. "Good thing no one's home, love. I'm going to make you scream."

He thrusts in and out, fucking you roughly with his fingers, until he's deemed you loose enough to curl his fingers in. They brush against the spot that makes you see stars and you moan his name loudly, the end of the moan tapering off into a desperate whine.

"Draco, fuck, fuck me," you babble, and he seems to agree, kicking his boxers off and giving his cock a few rough tugs with his free hand before drawing out his fingers.

You don't even have time to process the loss before Draco's pressing in, your cunt tight and wet around him. He groans out a stifled curse, bottoming out and bumping against your cervix, and you whimper from the stretch.

"After I'm done with you, love, no one will touch you," he murmurs, and then he starts to move. He fucks into you slowly at first, keeping a steady rhythm, and then he's pounding into you with a vengeance, hitting your sweet spot with every few thrusts. "They'll know you're mine. Mine to love and fuck and keep."

"Yours," you repeat, although he could've said anything in that moment and you would've agreed wholeheartedly.

"I'm gonna fill you up, love," Draco pants, his rhythm unrelenting. He has a hand on your bared abdomen, and he grips you so tight you think you might bruise. "Gonna fill you up with my cum 'till you're dripping, gonna fucking breed you so you'll always be mine—"

You clench involuntarily around him at his words, a fresh wave of arousal making you drip around his cock. "Oh, bloody hell—Draco!"

"Yeah? You like the sound of that?" You can hear the smirk in his voice as he fucks you fast and rough. "Good."

"Please," you whisper, "please, fuck, come in me, fill me up, make me yours—"

"Mine," Draco echoes, and one of his hands reaches to your clit, circling it playfully, flicking it occasionally so you lurch and clench around him in pleasure. "I'll fuck you over and over until we get there, love, don't think I won't—gonna make you carry my heirs, then you'll wholly be mine."

"Fuck, Draco!" you moan as you come, and Draco groans lowly when you clench and tighten around him in your orgasm. "Oh, fuck, yes, please, make me all yours, pump me full and claim me—"

With a strangled moan, Draco comes inside of you, and you feel him filling you up as he'd promised—painting your insides with his release and pulling out after he's emptied himself. He admires his work: You, well-fucked and blissed out, the sundress rumpled and soaked in sweat.

"Good girl," he praises, Summoning a washcloth from his bathroom and pressing the cold, soothing fabric to your face. "You did so good."

"'m yours," you murmur, smiling delightedly at him. "Aren't I?"

"Yes, love." Draco's eyes gleam with a sudden idea, and instead of leaning over to clean your oversensitive, dripping cunt, he tugs your panties back into place. Your brows furrow in confusion.

"So we can make sure you're truly filled up, hm?" He tilts his head, as if to ask if it's alright with you, and you nod, heat pooling in your abdomen at the idea of walking around all day with Draco's release still inside of you, dripping into your panties, maybe even soaking through them.

A thought occurs to you. "But—they might see!"

Draco smirks at you lazily, raising an eyebrow.

"So?"

-----

Requests & asks are open! Here is the guide on requests, if you’d like to check that out first. Hope you enjoyed!

#draco malfoy #draco malfoy smut #draco malfoy x reader #draco x y/n #draco x reader #draco smut #draco fanfiction #draco imagine #harry potter #hp #golden era #draco malfoy x reader smut #draco malfoy imagine #theo nott #blaise zabini

1K notes · View notes

bisexual-horror-fan · 3 years

Note

How about one with the scream guys (billy and Stu) where the reader comes to visit them unexpectedly (like wanting to crash their movie night) but walks in on them about to take a shower because they’re just SOAKED in blood. Reader simultaneously is like oh my god are you guys okay wait did you murder someone why am I turned on can I get in the shower with you lol

Well of fucking course you can have that Anon! Always happy to write some good ol Billy and Stu for the people, poly!Ghostface IS my jam after all. So I hope this hits, hope you all enjoy it, decided to add a bit of friends to lovers for some spice, not much else to say but let’s get into it! This is four of twenty-five, here we go!

---

Rating. Explicit. Length. 1K. Billy and Stu X GN! Reader. They/Them Pronouns. Poly!Ghostface. Warnings. Blood. Gore. Complicated Feelings. Some Dirty Talk. Light Choking. Groping. Blood Play. Helping Cover Up Murder. Friends To Lovers. Not Much Else.

---

Room For One More?

---

You’d been close friends for years, countless afternoon hangouts that bleed into evening and stretch even further into sleepovers. Three of you got along absurdly well, could hang out solo with either of them but hanging out the trio of you was much more common. It was to the point that if it was just two of your trio it would have people asking where the third party was.

You never minded this, practically joined at the hip suited your group just fine. It wasn’t like you didn’t have other friends or people to spend time with, just preferred to spend most of your time with them, and they seemed the same, thankfully.

Speaking of your two favorite guys, you were going over to their place with some of their favorite takeout. It was late, you had plans tonight which led to them having a movie night without you, however those plans fell through. So you decided to surprise them, knowing the pair of them would be watching a scary flick and you thought if you played it right you might get the drop on them and be able to give them a good scare, something that they did to you often to great effect.

You had your own key. Let yourself in no problem, push the door open with your hip, bag of food in one arm, trying to be as quiet as you could as you took your shoes off and left them by the door. You crept to the kitchen and set the bag on the counter, no sign of them yet, you peeked into the living room, nothing.

Odd.

You heard a sound from upstairs, ah, that must be where they are. You make your way upstairs, still careful to not make any sound. You listened hard and realized that they were in the bathroom, could hear them talking but couldn’t make out what the conversation was about. You had your hand on the doorknob, you picked up the pace then, threw open the door as you called out, “Hey boys-”

You definitely got the drop on them.

Both of them certainly weren’t expecting to see you tonight and certainly were not prepared for you to see them like this. The pair of them partially dressed and absolutely soaked in what was clearly blood, both looked in total shock.

You were looking at them and they were staring back. You were still holding the doorknob, half in and half out of the room, eyes sweeping over the scene. Billy had his shirt off, Stu was half out of his pants, there were rumpled black garments on the bathroom floor. So much blood, red smears on white tile and splattered all over them, staining their features and clothing alike.

Knives, big ones, discarded next to the sink and you finally realized yourself and fully came into the room, socks squished as you stepped onto the bathmet that was drenched in blood, you didn’t register the feeling, much too concerned with them.

Your hands out, touching them, talking a mile a minute, “Holy fucking shit-are you both okay?! You look terrible, what the fuck happened?!”

And you pulled back a little as you asked, “Did you murder someone? Wait, someones? It’d have to be more than one for THIS much blood, right?”

You were still going, neither of them seemingly able to pull themselves together to respond to you. “Have you seriously been hiding this from me? How long has this been going on?”

Your mind was running even faster than your mouth somehow. You felt too much in this moment, several conflicting emotions, fear, disgust, confusion and worst of all, most troubling of all, arousal. It wasn’t just seeing them partially dressed, or caked in blood, it was also the fact that they hid this, you thought you had no secrets, were as close as could be, but they managed to hide the fact that they are murderers. You shouldn’t be getting off on the fact that the two most important people in your life lied to you as constantly and as easily as they breathed.

It was wrong.

You knew that.

And yet, some part of you just couldn’t bring yourself to care all that much.

Mostly because you had a massive fucking crush on both of them and had one forever. You always thought they might like you too, or perhaps they were just flirty like that without it meaning anything deeper. Point is that if you didn’t jump on this opportunity right now you’d always regret it. This wasn’t a deal breaker for you, what were you gonna do? Turn in your best friends? No way.

They seemed to be able to muster up the courage to start to respond to you but you cut them off. “Wait-wait, before we talk about just-” a gesture to them and the scene around you all in the bathroom, “-you must be uncomfortable. How about a shower first?”

You took your shirt off and threw it at Billy, reaching down, unbuttoning your pants and pulling them down and off and throwing those at Stu. “Mind if I join? Help clean up some of the evidence?”

That is finally what snapped them out of it. Two sets of hands on you, warm and sticky with blood, the smell of iron even stronger, you were faced towards the mirror. Billy’s hand was on your throat as he was behind you, Stu slowly started to feel you up, his mouth on your shoulder and then they started talking.

“Aren’t you something else. So helpful, hmm? You stumble into all of this and still aren’t turned off by it. You actually want to help us.” Billy sounded equal parts excited and amused. Stu chimed in, “Seriously, what a freak, if we knew you would be this into it we woulda let you in on this ages ago.”

Stu’s hand on your face, forcing you to really look at yourself as Billy squeezed your throat, “Really take a look at yourself.”

You did. Blood left on your throat and face, on your sides and stomach, red traces from wherever their hands had lingered, you looked at yourself and you liked what you saw.

It’s a shame all that pretty crimson was about to be washed down the drain, you’d just have to really try to commit this to memory and enjoy what was surely about to be the best damn shower you ever had.

#BHF asks #BHF writing #Billy Loomis X Reader #Stu Macher X Reader #Poly!Ghostface X Reader #BHF 1K follower Giveaway.#Hope you all dig it!

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 3 years

Text

New Duties

Warnings: noncon sexual acts and rape, cheating, fuck machine, toys, tied up.

This is dark!Bucky Barnes and explicit. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Warnings have been given. DO NOT PROCEED if these matters upset you.

Summary: Bucky’s wife is never around as much as the maid.

Based on these drabble requests:

Bucky Barnes + “If you think I feel bad for you, you’re more pathetic than I thought.” + Maid AU + Bucky is rich and married too, but his wife is never in the house so he decide have fun with the naive maid.

Bucky Barnes + “You really think this is over?” + Fuck machine + honestly just the reader being tied up and left with a fuck machine and some overstimulation.

Both requested by anons.

The large house was often empty when you went there. You had a key on a tag and the alarm code written on it. You showed up in your black pants and matching shirt and let yourself in as you always did. You tied on your apron and looked around as you went over the work in your head.

It was hard not to be envious of the grandiose abode. Hard not to feel bitter at all the money spent on the place and yet it seemed the resident never enjoyed it. They hired a maid, you, to clean the table they never ate at and make the bed which was the only lived-in part of the place.

You started on the lower floor as usual. Living room, dining room, kitchen, the office, the foyer, and the parlor dedicated to a carved pool table and shelves of expensive sculptures. You climbed the stairs and set off down the hall of unused rooms. There wasn’t much more to do than dust and check that the sheets didn’t smell musty.

As you approached the master bedroom, you stopped short as the door opened and you were met by one of the elusive owners of the mansion. You saw Bucky Barnes more than his wife but your run-ins were still rare. And you’d never seen him like this. You were embarrassed and off-centre as you were surprised to find him there.

He wore only a pair of silky pajama bottoms and his hair was amess, sticking out at all angles. His muscles moved under his skin as he rubbed his eyes and smiled at you. His voice was thick with drowsiness and he cleared his throat.

“Hey,” he said, “thought I heard someone.”

“I didn’t know you were here, sir,” you glanced around. It was late for him to be sleeping still.

“I took the red-eye home,” he shrugged, “don’t worry about me. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“No, you didn’t,” you chuckled nervously, “I can come back when--”

“You sure?” he batted away the last of his tiredness with his lashes and leaned on the doorframe, “you almost jumped out of your shoes.”

“Uh, yeah,” you assured him and started to turn back.

“It’s fine, I’m up now,” he stopped you, “I’m gonna have a coffee…” he caught up to you and brushed by you, facing you as he blocked your path, “bedroom is all yours.”

You fidgeted as his eyes flicked away from your face for just and instant but you didn’t think much of it as the apron hid made your figure lumpy and vague. You nodded and gave another yes, sir. He watched you until you spun back and headed for the bedroom. You felt his gaze until you slipped inside and let out your breath at the rumpled blankets.

You heard him descend the stairs and set down your bucket of supplies. You went to the bed and fixed his side of it. You could smell his sweat on the sheets still. Then you began to wipe down the edges of the tables and inspected for any inch of imperfection.

“Looks good in here,” his voice spooked you again. Bucky stepped inside and set his tall coffee mug on the polished table beside the door. “I’m glad I caught you, I did have a special request.”

“Oh?” you stilled the cloth and twisted it in your grip. You watched his metal arm as he he rubbed his middle finger with his thumb.

“Here,” he crossed the room and waved you over, “it’s a bit of a secret but… I haven’t had the time to take care of it myself.”

You watched as he went to the bookshelf on the far wall and he reached behind the gilded globe. He spun it slightly but you could see what exactly he was doing. There was a shift and the shelf lurched forward. He carefully pushed it over until the edge met the corner and a small doorway appeared.

Your eyes rounded in confusion and he chuckled as he looked over his shoulder, “our little secret,” he said, “I figured since you’re here…”

“I… yes, sir,” you neared as he waited, his hand on the shelf, and as you stepped by him, he quickly followed, so close you could feel his body heat.

You stopped short as he flipped on the light. A red haze cast over the hidden room. You were shocked, almost laughing in disbelief as your brain spun to process what you were seeing; leather cuffs hung from the wall on one side and a leather bench sat center with similar bounds, there was even a sex swing dangling from the ceiling. You never expected that but really, you tried not to think about your clients intimate habits.

The shelf shifted behind you and the room grew dimmer, only the scarlet shadows of the tinted bulb remained. You turned back to Bucky.

“My stuff,” you pointed to the wall behind him. There was no visible mechanism and that made you nervous.

“Oh, well, you see, I haven’t had a chance to use any of this,” he shrugged and stepped closer. You inch backwards and dropped the cloth as his hands settled on your upper arms, “Ilona’s never here, I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

“Mr. Barnes,” you winced as his vibranium hand squeezed, “I should get back to my--”

“The house is spotless. I only pay you because my wife can’t be bothered to lift a finger herself or even be around,” he said.

“Please, I should go,” you gulped, “I think you, uh, you…”

“Fine, go,” he moved out of your way and smirked at the wall, “if you want to, go.”

You looked between him and the smooth wall. You neared it and shoved on it. It didn’t move. You felt all along it, searching for anything that might trigger a response. There was nothing there.

“Can you--” you began to ask but stopped as he pressed himself to your back.

He tugged at the knot of your apron and it fell loose. His hands crawled up your back and he lifted the strap over your head. He grabbed your shoulder and turned you to face him.

“Thought you were going,” he taunted.

“Let me out,” you tremored.

“I said go, so…” he gestured to the wall.

“I can’t--”

He snickered and pulled you with him as he walked backwards. “It’s just a little fun,” he purred, “for both of us.”

“No, I-- you’re married--”

“My wife, if you can call her that, hasn’t touched me in a year, probably more,” he pulled at the hem of your shirt, “so this is as much her decision as mine.”

“No, Mr. Barnes, I--”

“Listen,” he grabbed your jaw and loomed over you, “you can be a good little maid and do what you’re told or I can report you to the agency for stealing.”

“What, I never--”

“Maybe a few of Ilona’s necklaces go missing or a few bills out of my wallet,” he growled, “we’ll see who they believe.”

“Please--”

“It’s time you start earning that tip,” he turned and thrust you towards the low bench, “now get undressed and lay down on your stomach.”

“Mr--”

“I have a gag. I have several if you want to choose,” he warned, “even if I’d rather hear that sweet voice calling my name.”

“Why are you--”

“I won’t tell you again,” he barked as he crossed his arms and paced.

You noticed how the front of his pants tented and you slowly neared the bench. It was all so jarring, you didn’t know what else to do but obey. You couldn’t leave and you were certain if you tried, he would lose all patience. You peeked over as his metal fist tightened and a chill went through you.

You pulled off your shirt and kept your eyes down. You rolled down your pants and took your time untying your sneakers. You hesitated to strip off your underwear but a gristly breath made you wince and you added them to the pile of clothes.

You were cold but your flesh burned as you sensed his close attention to your every move. You got down on the bench, the leather icy against your chest, and stared at the floor. Bucky walked around behind you and framed your ass with his hands as he stood over you. He pushed your thighs apart until your legs bent over the side of the bench and the cool air tickled your cunt.

“Hmmm,” he mused as he flicked his finger along your folds, “I can’t decide what I want first.”

An overwhelming wave of panic shook you and you tried to push yourself up. His hand slapped down on the middle of your back and he held you down. He tutted and reached down to slip your wrist into a leather cuff and tightened it until you whined. He ignored your struggles as he did the same to your other arm and your ankles. You straddled the bench as he pushed himself up and groped your ass again.

“Why are you making this hard?” he asked, “you’re already spread for me.”

“Please…”

He sighed and you heard his bare feet on the floor as he marched away from you. He came back around you and knelt to force the ball gag into your mouth and buckled it behind your head. Your eyes glistened as you watched him desperately and breathed heavy through your nose.

“We have a lot to do,” he touched your chin, “you need the proper training.”

You tried to talk past the gag but it only came out as muffled gibberish and your saliva soaked the gag.

“If you think I feel bad for you, you’re more pathetic than I thought,” he chuckled and stood, rubbing the front of his pants, “guess you’ll have to wait for it.”

He left your eye line again, even as you craned your neck around. He was quick to huff and stomp back to your. He took the collar that hung from the front of the bench and secured it around your neck so you could stare at your impossible escape.

You heard something rolling behind you and metal fasteners being loosened then tightened. His fingers scared you as he touched your cunt and felt around for your clit. He teased you until you tilted your pelvis in response. You moaned around the gag as your thighs quivered. Despite your fear, it felt wonderful.

He played with you until you were wet and then you heard the same wheels. You felt a prod at your entrance, a hard silicone tip slowly slid into you until you were full. You gasped and choked as he pulled away his hand entirely. You heard a soft click then a whir and the dildo began to move, your cunt sucking at it loudly as you grew wet around it. He reached under you and a new buzz began as he placed a vibrator against your bud.

He rounded you again, his pants were gone and his hand glied up and down his dick. He watched you with fiery eyes as you tried to hold back. The flames licked from your core and crawled along your thighs and back. You shuddered and your eyes rolled back as your voice droned sloppily as the gag made you drool.

You came in defeat and hung your head. You gasped and gulped for air and your entire body tensed and released, but he didn’t stop it. The vibe kept buzzing on your clit and he only turned the machine up so that it fucked you harder and faster. You wined and rolled your head back and forth.

Another orgasm strangled you and your muscles ached from the tension as it snapped again. You lost count as the red light glared through your eyelids and a sheen of sweat coated your body. Breathless and battered, you could only twitched as you were rocked by climax after climax.

And then it all stopped. The machine shut off and the dildo was slid out of you, your thighs sticky and sore. The vibrator stilled and slipped from under you and you groaned. There was a moment of peace as your heart slowed and then a slap across your ass made you yipe.

“You really think this is over?” Bucky asked as he got behind you and bent over you. His tip pressed against your entrance and his hot breath bristled against your scalp, “I’ve only just begun.”

🧹🧹🧹

Please reblog and leave some feedback if you enjoyed.

#bucky barnes #dark bucky barnes #dark!bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #maid au #fic #dark fic #dark!fic #drabble #dark drabble #dark!drabble #request #mcu #marvel #au #winter soldier #captain america

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aenaxes · 3 years

Note

OMG ok for the 200 follower celebration (based on your smoking post) PLZZZ write sharing a spice blunt with cross or any batcher of your choosing I would simply die 😩💅🏻❤️

vapor trails

[crosshair & hunter x f!reader] you don't really run with the fett twins' crowd, but you find yourself at one of their parties anyway (in reference to this post lol)

warnings: college!au, recreational drug use, suggestive themes, but consent is sexy & mandatory & sober babes

w/c: 3.8k

a/n: anon, you ask for one batcher, but why not two? thank you for enabling me nonnie & @mallr4ts lol (im so sorry to all the previous requests for the event, this one has just been needling in my brain all day and i had to get it out hsdfs)

event details here! requests are open until july 4th!

You don’t know much about the Fett twins.

They’re something like campus legends even though they’re only a year your senior and at the tail end of their fourth years. But as much as you’ve heard their names slung around in weekend plans and excited chatter, you’ve never once met them, much less seen them yourself. Between idling class whispers and dining hall conversations, all you can piece together from the rumors is that: one, they’re from a big family (you’ve heard anywhere from two to twelve other brothers, yikes); and two, as much as they work hard (because the venture capital and pre-professorial tracks seem rigorous enough), they play even harder.

It helps that they apparently own one of the biggest apartments off campus, one in which you find yourself hopelessly and miserably lost. And overdressed.

Great.

It hadn’t occurred to you that your roommate, who is nowhere to be seen, had been dressing up for her girlfriend, and that most people who had half a mind would wear something comfortable that could withstand a few spilled drinks and ash. So seeing the rest of the room in rumpled tees and sweats has you and your little black dress seeking out the nearest wall as you fiddle with your questionably sweet cup of margarita mixer.

You feel like a first year, and it sucks.

But for once, with everyone too busy mingling amongst themselves over the heavy thrum of some mumble rap beat, you manage to slip by unnoticed.

Every now and then, you dart your eyes around the ever shifting landscape of faces in the dim room, looking for even the vaguest familiarity that might let you feign being tipsy and join a group for the night. But every time you try, there’s no luck.

Fuck, you haven’t even seen anyone here before.

But there might be a god watching out for you yet when the crowd shifts just enough that you catch sight of the couch, and on it, someone you suspect to be one of the twins as he greets a few girls with a disinterested nod.

Emboldened, but mostly nervous that in the crowd of bodies and red solo cups you’re still helplessly alone, you push off the wall and squeeze past huddled cliques of conversation to make for the dark couch.

By the platinum bleached hair and big-name consulting group quarter zip, Crosshair—at least you think it’s him—lounges over the couch. He isn’t the only body on the suede seats, but he keeps to himself, his head dipped low as he works one hand over a small metal canister in his other palm.

If you weren’t having luck with the other nameless faces around you, maybe the Fett twin would keep you company—at least until your roommate came back to find you (if she did). And worst case, you’d just slink back to your dorm and mope until your roommate apologized to you with your favorite overpriced smoothie bowl the day after.

Mustering every ounce of courage you have, you plant your feet by the couch and finally speak.

"Is your name actually Crosshair?" you ask.

The man on the couch pauses, his motions stilling over the small metal cylinder in his palms, and he lifts his chin just enough to flick his eyes up towards the sound of your voice.

You always thought the girls in your droning 9AM gen-ed were wildly exaggerating his hype for their own devices, squealing over his (apparently) brooding charm and sharp looks to nip at his stash for free. But for all the vague haze surrounding your perception of the twins, you never thought that they were telling the truth.

If you had been in broad daylight under the incandescent glow of your creaky lecture hall lights, you might have called him cocky, almost haughty, how he meets you with an unreadable look for having interrupted him. But in the purple LEDs and heavy haze of vape juice and shitty tequila, he’s captivating, all dark eyes and perfectly lit skin, marked only by the needle-thin design tattooed over the right side of his face and a worn wooden toothpick bitten between his teeth.

You swallow down the dry lump in your throat when you catch him flick his eyes from your face, down the short length of your dress, and back up again.

"Smoke with me; maybe you'll find out," he drawls, toothpick bobbing as he speaks. He twists the cylinder once and offers you a wry smirk. And when you stay, speechless but there all the same, Crosshair scoots to the side and pats the narrow space between him and the couch arm, inviting you close.

"I've never smoked before," you admit a bit shyly as you drop down beside him. Your dress hikes up your thigh, and you shiver when your skin presses up against the soft denim of his jeans.

"Not even cigs?"

You shake your head. And you tell yourself that when he leans close and brushes his shoulder up against your arm, that he’s only doing it because someone’s boosted the bass, and you can’t hear him over the reverb.

"Well, good thing I'm here, yeah?"

He gives the metal canister a final twist and sets it down on the coffee table before you. Swapping the canister for a small brown sleeve, you watch in a daze as he pulls a semi-transparent leaflet from the folder and tears a strip of cardstock straight from its flap. He has pianist fingers, you think wistfully, neatly kept nails and slender grace, and you wonder if he’ll entertain you if you ask to compare your hand to his.

“What’s your name?”

You scrabble back to the present at the sound of his voice. “Uh, y/n,” you offer.

“Well, y/n,” he says with a soft laugh, having caught on to your daydreaming. “Step one, you fold your filter.”

You nod along absently as Crosshair artfully crimps the thick paper into a neat roll. As if there isn’t thirty-some odd people crammed into his apartment, he quietly takes you step by step, offering you the filter, the paper, then the contents of the canister (a grinder, he explains) like it’s a game of show and tell. But with every piece he places into your hands, you gravitate closer, closer, until you’re flush against his arm and practically hanging over his side to watch as he gently taps a line of bud over the paper.

“Here, let me give you a better look,” Crosshair says.

You expect him to bring the neat line of bud to you, but when nothing comes, you look up and find him waiting for you, one arm open in invitation as the other pats once on the dark denim of his thigh.

“Uh—”

“Sit,” he says as if you haven’t just met him fifteen minutes ago. “Front row seats if you want ‘em.”

On one hand, you barely know Crosshair outside of the rumors you hear on campus. On the other hand, he’s a genuinely pleasant person, careful to accommodate for your boundaries and offering a snide playfulness that’s banished your nerves from earlier in the night.

He’s also really fucking hot.

“Okay,” you murmur, and you let him wrap his arm around your waist and tug you onto his lap. And he’s right. Perched over his thighs, you see with perfect clarity (and without the strain in your neck) as he gently folds the paper over the mound of bud and carefully twists. It’s the prettiest joint you’ve ever seen—though it might be because it’s the only one you’ve seen.

"Final touch," Crosshair's voice rumbles over your back, shooting straight into your core as he lifts the paper's vellum edge to your lips. “Lick it for me.”

Since you sat down with him, you’ve only been the passenger, nodding along as Crosshair’s long, nimble fingers creased over filter paper and patiently pointed out things like the stray pistils in his baggie and the keef gathered at the bottom of his grinder for if you really want to get fucked up. And even though you aren’t doing much (because licking paper doesn’t really seem too crazy), it’s a step forward from the comfortable rhythm that had settled between you, and you twist around in his lap to shoot him an uncertain glance.

“Just,” Crosshair flicks his tongue over his lower lip, flashing a brief glimpse of a ball piercing towards your wide eyes. And if you weren’t so flustered, you might have recognized the coy playfulness in his gaze. “Give it a lick, right over the edge.”

“I—uh, what if I—” you stammer.

“You’re not gonna mess this up, darling,” Crosshair chuckles. If his hand squeezing brief over your waist wasn’t enough to bring heat searing over the tops of your ears, his next words, crooned low and breathy into your ear, certainly do. “You’re a smart girl. You can do it.”

"My brother giving you trouble?"

Another voice cuts through the din of the party, sparing you your stammering nerves as you whip your head up in its general direction. You’re greeted with the sight of his brother, peering down on you as he takes a sip from his cup.

“You’re such a killjoy,” Crosshair mutters, drawing his arm tighter around your waist as he jabs the half-rolled joint to where Hunter sprawls down onto the couch beside him. “No, I’m not being a creep. I’m teaching our pretty underclassman here how to roll.”

Oh.

Heat rushes over your cheeks, and you can’t decide whether you want to shrink into yourself or bask in it and beg for more.

He called you pretty.

“With her in your lap,” Hunter snorts into his cup.

“It was your idea to invite your entire fucking rugby team. Where else would we do it?”

“I’m so sorry he’s like this,” Hunter laughs, tilting his head and looking up at you through his (unfairly) long lashes. Where you thought Crosshair’s tattoo was bold, Hunter’s practically blows him out of the water, a well-worn swath of ink on the left half of his face, curving into neatly stylized teeth right at the edge of his lips. “I’m Hunter.”

Huh, maybe you do have a thing for tattoos.

“Y/n,” you squeak. “It’s, um—it’s nice to meet you.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, sweetheart,” he says as he offers you an easy smile. “Has my baby brother been treating you right?”

“God, two fucking minutes,” Crosshair snaps. You hear the embarrassment seeping from the vitriol, and it strikes you like a shot to the head that he’s trying to play cool in front of you. “I come out two minutes after you and—”

“We’re fraternal, and I got all the oxygen in the womb. Explains why he has awful people skills,” Hunter fake-whispers loud enough for Crosshair to hear, and you giggle as the other man groans from behind you.

“No, he’s been really nice,” you say softly once you realize that you’ve been laughing a little too loud. “He’s teaching me about weed.” It sounds juvenile when you say it, awkward and clumsy on your tongue. It’s a dead giveaway that has Hunter’s smile mellowing into something soft.

“Your first time?”

“Mhm.”

“Well, Cross here’s high as shit at least four hours every day. Says it helps him do the math. I hate to say it, but you’re in good hands.”

“You try running a nonlinear regression sober,” Crosshair snorts. “Anyways, we were just finishing up this joint before you decided to kill the vibe.”

Crosshair lifts the half-rolled joint back up to your chin, and this time, he leans forward and presses his chest close against your back as the playful snark leaves his tone, in its wake, something patient and calm as his voice rumbles by your ear.

“You gonna help me finish the job, sweet girl?”

You surprise yourself when the initial trepidation vanishes as you tip your chin down and stick out your tongue. Maybe you’re showboating now that you have an audience, feeling Hunter’s dark eyes on your lips when you touch the tip of your tongue out over the edge.

Whether it’s your lip gloss or the fine crumbs of bud stuck to the roll paper that fills your mouth with something earthy and sweet, you can’t say. All you know is they’re both following you with that intense intent, the bass and blend of voices faded out around you; just you in Crosshair’s lap and Hunter pretending to care about the drink in his hand as you lift your tongue off the far corner of the paper and close your lips.

“Good job,” Hunter muses, and you’re pretty certain he’s not talking about the joint when you feel his gaze boring into you alone.

The smell of smoke pulls you out of Hunter’s gravity, and you look back in front of you to see Crosshair snap a scuffed metal lighter shut and toss it onto the coffee table. He brings the joint back down in front of you, blowing a neat stream of whitish gray smoke past your ear.

“You know how to pull?” Crosshair asks, and his chin brushes over your bare shoulder as he speaks. He’s so close. You can smell the burn, acrid and sour, but it doesn’t matter that it doesn’t smell like some bubblegum vape when you feel his breaths curling over your skin. You just want more.

Mutely, you shake your head.

“Mm, you know how to shotgun?” Hunter offers, and you hear Crosshair huff laugher from behind you. “Might be easier for your first try.”

You shake your head again.

“It’s,” Hunter pauses, and his brows knit close as he thinks for a moment. “It’s kind of like a kiss. But not really. I take a hit and you catch my smoke. That sound okay?”

You don’t think it matters that someone’s hit shuffle on the playlist, filling the room with a hard electronic beat that might have otherwise drowned out all sound. All you hear is your heart pounding in your ears as you nod and watch Hunter lift the filter to his lips and inhale deep, then pass the joint back to Crosshair.

“C’mere,” he murmurs, white trails of smoke curling over his upper lip as he lifts one hand to cup over the base of your neck.

“Open,” Crosshair whispers.

Wordlessly, you obey. Your lips part just as Hunter pulls close, so close you feel the heat of his skin spreading warm over your cheeks, and blows a soft stream of bitter smoke into your mouth. It can’t be more than a few seconds, but all the while, you can’t seem to tear your eyes from his.

“Breathe in, deep,” you hear Crosshair instruct as he begins to rub one thumb over the curve of your hip.

The smoke is thick, sluicing down your throat and filling your lungs like nothing you’ve ever felt before. It’s not bad, just new, and pressed between the twins over the couch, you think it just might have been worth being ditched by your roommate earlier in the night. But your lungs ache, and you slowly exhale, watching as your vision fogs with a loose cloud of smoke until your chest feels clear again.

“And you didn’t even cough,” Hunter smiles. His calloused fingertips follow the slope of your neck, lingering one moment more before he pulls away. And you aren’t sure if the low buzzing in your fingertips is the weed or their combined warmth as Hunter rubs over your knee and Crosshair leans his head against your neck. “Good girl.”

“Wanna do it again,” you whisper as the buzz begins to crawl up your neck, fizzling around your temples as you lean your cheek over where Crosshair nuzzles into your shoulder.

“With him or me?” Crosshair murmurs, his lips brushing over your skin.

“You,” you say dreamily, and Hunter laughs, a sound that suddenly seems so far away as you tip your head and press close against Crosshair’s silver hair.

Crosshair leans into your touch, pressing his cheek up against your neck one last time before he’s lifting his head and bringing the joint to his lips. You hear the hiss of his inhale, smoke curling up through the narrow body of the joint as the charred end glows warm beside you.

And instead of Hunter’s approach, level with you, Crosshair looms above you, meeting your wide eyes with something of a fond smile. Dragging his hand up your chest, he follows the line of your neck and holds snug over your chin. He squeezes softly, and your jaw falls slack, lips parted in a soft ‘o’ as he dips low. He's closer than Hunter as you feel his mouth just brush over yours and breathe smoke over your tongue.

This time, it’s easier.

You swallow down the smoke and hold, just a beat longer than before. But both Crosshair and Hunter notice as your lips stay parted, and they share a soft laugh that has you exhaling smoke and pride all at once when you finally relax your diaphragm and breathe out.

“Fast learner,” Crosshair muses, nosing up under your jaw as you sink back against his chest.

You mumble incoherently, chasing his touch as the high creeps heavy and warm from your chest to your collar and settles at the back of your throat. It anchors you, molding you up against Crosshair who feels nothing short of perfect as he circles his arms loose over your waist.

You turn your head to thank Hunter when you distantly register him pressing a cool cup into your hand (water, you think you hear him say), but the words slip back down into your throat, your eyelids suddenly unbearably heavy and coarse over your blurry vision.

“You wanna lay down?” Hunter offers, and his voice comes to you like you’re underwater, warped and bubbling past the din of the party around you.

You're pretty sure you nod.

For a few moments, you catch traces of an unintelligible exchange between the twins, only aware of the rumble of Crosshair’s voice at your back, and then you’re being lifted up off the couch, the music and raucous laughter fading behind you.

A door opens, squeaking half-shut, and you wince as a light clicks on beside you. Whoever was carrying you sets you down on something soft and cool, and you sway as the light dims and you settle into your seat.

You’re on a bed, you think.

Crosshair’s, judging by the shock of light hair that you can make out through your lashes. He helps you into a worn tee that reaches past the short hem of your dress, and you wiggle into it with a soft whine, holding it tight.

But where you expect a familiar weight to dip down next to you and pull you close, your eyes fly open when you see his figure turn away from you and towards the neon lights of the party outside.

“You aren’t staying?” It's the most coherent you've been through your first high.

“Not tonight,” Crosshair says softly. He turns back towards you and reaches up to fix the strap of your dress as you sit on his bed. “Baby’s first tokes got you all dopey. Right now, what you need is this,” and he presses a plastic bottle of vitamin water he’s seemingly produced out of nowhere into your palm. “This,” he adds, pressing your phone into your other hand. “And a good night’s sleep.”

“And what if I say I need you, too?” you pout.

Some part of you—the conscious part locked away in the back of your skull—bangs up against the hazy high at the crown of your head because when you’re good and sober and when Crosshair inevitably turns you down, you won’t be able to look at yourself in the mirror for the next semester.

But he breaks into a smile that crinkles at the corners of his eyes before he leans down to press his lips to your forehead. It’s just a split-second of warm, chapstick-soft lips on your skin, but it floods you with an indescribable good from the top of your head all the way down to your toes.

And as high as you are right now, you have a hell of a hunch that the flutter in your chest is going to stay, even when the room stops wobbling around you.

“When you’re all sobered up in the morning, we’ll make you breakfast, and we’ll figure it out from there,” Crosshair says after he’s pulled back, reaching up to smooth his palm over your hair. “Sound like a plan?”

You nod, probably with a little too much enthusiasm, but you’re rewarded with another low chuckle that’s practically music to your ears. His hand gentle and firm over your shoulder, Crosshair guides you down onto the bed and pulls the covers up to your chin.

“Now text your roomie so she doesn’t call the cops on us, get some sleep, and drink all of that, okay?”

“Okay,” you respond.

“Good girl.”

And when the lights click out, you curl into Crosshair’s pillow, breathing in cold, fresh notes of his cologne, and then you’re asleep.

You climb out of bed the next morning, your minidress rumpled under a long shirt. It's not like a hangover, no, you just find yourself a bit lightheaded and throat parched, and the disorientation makes your head spin as you’re greeted with the smell of fresh coffee and something savory—

Your roommate doesn’t wake up earlier than you, and she can’t cook for shit. And why were your sheets grey? Whose shirt were you—

Oh.

Fuck.

You practically burst out of Crosshair’s bedroom, and you’re not sure what you expected, but somehow you hadn’t expected to see Hunter sipping mildly on a mug of coffee while Crosshair pushes something around in a pan over their kitchen range.

“Mornin,’” Hunter offers you a small wave, and reaches for a third mug on the countertop. “Wasn’t sure how you liked your coffee so we just made it black.”

“What happened last night?” you gasp. If you weren’t so panicked, you’re certain the sight of them sporting nothing but grey sweats would have been your only concern, but you’ve just woken up with foggy memories and the slimy dread of anxiety that follows a blackout night.

“Easy, easy,” Crosshair assures you as he steps away from the stovetop. “Nothing happened after we smoked. You took, like, two hits, and you were so hazy you couldn’t remember your dorm number, so we put you to bed, and I slept out in the living room. Fetts are wild but we’re not scumbags, promise.”

And judging from the throw blanket sliding off the edge of the couch cushions, you’re fairly certain you can believe him. Relief floods your chest.

“Oh thank God,” you sigh, and your shoulders sag as the weight of panic sloughs off your back.

They both laugh softly, the sudden tension lifting from the bright morning light, and you can’t help but join in. And when that rosy relief gives way to silence again, it’s Crosshair who speaks next.

“So, you staying for breakfast?”

“Can I borrow some actual clothes first?”

“Done deal.”

#fun fact: my signature party trick is flirting with a guy and then stealing his blunt ✌️😗#thinking about how schlorbe n i agreed crosshair listens to souncloud mumble rap :/#its ok i kiss him anyways #hc that crosshair’s an econ/finance bro and hunter’s a history major hehe #sequel series: crosshair goes venture capital (gross)#tech's probably at like the space equivalent of mit or something #and i will Die on the hill that wrecker's super smart with kinesiology #crosshair x reader #hunter x reader #sergeant hunter x reader #the bad batch x reader #anon #yaej.writes

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swanqueensalad · 3 years

Note

ignore this if it’s too much, but since you’re in a sad regina meta mood, what are your thoughts on the time she fell off her castle balcony?

ooooh anon you do know how to keep my sad regina meta mood alive! thanks for the ask, i am always too willing to share my sad regina thoughts.

in fact, this is most likely going to be very long and rambly and off topic because i have Too Many sad regina thoughts

(obviously, this post will contain discussion of suicide/suicidal ideation and all of the other stuff that goes with regina's trauma so if any of that will trigger you please don't read!)

so first of all, i think the context is super important - i know obviously the evil queen was regina at her absolute worst and lowest point, but i do think young regina pre-evil queen was actually the darkest and hardest part of her life, and it's one the ouat writers seemed to consistently hint at but almost be afraid to really delve into too much? but i for one find it incredibly interesting.

(just saying, the ouat writers were cowards. but also i do understand that a fairytale show on abc couldn't really go too dark.)

you have this very young girl - we know she got married at 18 and very little seems to have actually changed for her at this point (she is still not really seen as a Queen, she's even wearing the same dress she wore before her wedding) so i'd put her at 19/20 at the very OLDEST in this specific episode - who has no agency and no allies, apart from the weak-willed father that enabled all her abuse and rumplestiltskin, the literal dark one, who is grooming and manipulating her into becoming so mentally fucked up she will cast his curse for him.

she has nobody. and she is still pretty traumatised from all her childhood abuse and her grief and trauma over literally watching her mother murder the love of her life - none of which she has ever had the space or support to process.

and now she is literally trapped in this big empty castle that doesn't belong to her, married to a man visibly the same age as her father who is cold towards her at Best, forced to 'mother' a girl maybe 8 years younger than her (who is intrinsically tied up in all said suffering and trauma).

all she has is the literal dark one who is grooming her for his own gain. all she has is this magic, which gives her a sense of control and power she has literally never had before in her life, but also still makes her terrified that she'll lose control/end up like her mother.

regina is stuck in this state for a long, long time. all she ever wanted was to be free and loved, and she has become stuck in the opposite of those in every way. she is miserable and alone, trapped in a seemingly never ending cycle of suffering.

(side note: anyone who tries to tell me leopold didn't lay a hand on her is kidding themselves. old men don't marry pretty eighteen year old girls for their conversation. especially not when they are visibly distressed by the proposal. if he wanted a 'mother' for snow, well, snow's more age-appropriate maid seemed to be doing a good job at that anyway, and even if it had to be regina, he could have just brought her to court as a lady in waiting or something - he did not have to marry her. he chose to. no apologies for shitty men on My blog thank u v much)

so anyway

poor lost regina at this point is so torn - she wants to not hurt people (except maybe snow) and when rumple taunts her about the darkness not stopping until it's finished devouring her, she is visibly upset and panicked, wanting to run away. but of course, she has nowhere to go and nobody to help her. she both wants and dreads seeing rumple's plans for her through.

so i think, honestly, it's not too much of a stretch to say she had probably already had some harmful thoughts about herself. about an escape from all of it.

and that conversation with rumple really rattles her - he knew exactly how to get under her skin and make her need him even more - and the way she storms right onto her balcony afterwards shows just how emotional she really is.

when she starts hitting the railings, i don't think she was actively intending to jump/fall, she's just momentarily lost in all that pain and rage.

however. in that moment, i don't think she cared much either way. the railing started coming loose, and she kept hitting it. she didn't make any move to step back. so while i don't think she was actively trying to hurt herself, i think she didn't care much if it happened anyway.

and then only when tink saves her does regina realise what she did and how careless she was about it, which then freaks her out.

(and is then why she's so insistent the rest of the episode that she fell - and also why perceptive tink is having none of it - 'right. you... fell.')

#anyway sorry this is depressing lol but it's literally in the ask #and thanks anon #u know i love to get in my sad regina feelings #regina mills meta #regina mills #young regina

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