#wicked is my core memory

[kiwisbell]

helen ; chapter four

nowhere to run

Si vis pacem, para bellum. Or, the capture.

series masterlist | my masterlist pairing: joel miller x f!reader tags/warnings: 18+ (MDNI), john wick AU, hitman!joel, husband!joel, established relationship, artist!reader, love as worship (and blasphemy), sacrilege in the name of romance, flashbacks, graphic violence, guns, blood + injuries, tommy gets stuck with the babysitting gig, joel is still a bit of an idiot, childhood/religious trauma, joel in a church, violence against pastors, criminal underworld, secrecy/lies, betrayal, Big Angst, we're getting there though, the smut returns, fingering, conflicting emotions, kidnapping, Angry!Joel, cliffhanger (oopsie daisy), the typical alcohol/smoking/profanity, dividers by @/saradika word count: ~ 9k a/n: fucking hell. i'm so sorry for how long it took me to bring this chapter to you, friends! my thesis sucked all the life from me and i had to go on a quick trip to the underworld and back to get it back again. thank you so much to my baby @cavillscurls for beta reading and as always being the biggest goddamn help throughout the process. below is the moodboard that mya made for this chapter and the reason i'm her no. 1 lovergirl. prev | next

When he was young, he fed stray dogs on the street. 

He would steal sandwiches, pluck out the meat to gnaw on himself, and toss the bread onto the pavement. He would sit back on his haunches just like them and lick his chops when he was finished. Being a runner earned him good money, but it was hard to find jobs that would take a scrawny eight-year-old with dirt on his nose. His memories of those days are far away, foggy around the edges, but he still smells the eye-watering prickle of trash, cigarette smoke, wet fur of the dogs. He still remembers the moist scratch of soaked-through denim after a night sleeping outside in the rain, the bone-deep chill that lasted for days in winter. 

One night, a Sunday in July, a hand stretched out toward him. He had not eaten in days, and he’d begun to feel the stretch of his skin around his ribs. A skeleton haunting the wrong body. The face is blurred now, but he remembers the hand. Long-fingered and a little wrinkled, a bracelet dangling from the bluish vein-ringed wrist, a charm in the shape of a cross. 

The hand brought him from his bed of ratty blankets and old newspapers to a giant cathedral. The bold lettering above the grand doors read The Sisters of Saint Eustace. Joel had been too small, too weak, to reach up and touch the golden words, but they were tarnished with age and buffed around the edges. He looked up at the owner of the hand—the hand which then lowered onto his shoulder, collarbones protruding, and squeezed just hard enough to sting.

He felt the warm soak of the daytime breeze on his face. 

“You must come inside with me,” said the woman. He remembers that the hand belonged to a woman. There was a black hood around her head that made her appear as wraithlike as death itself.

The Creation of Adam was immortalised on the north wall. It was the first thing he saw when he walked inside. 

“I can’t go inside,” he said.

“And why not?”

He turned his head away from the image of Adam and God, whom he did not know at the time, and could never have hoped to know. How could he, after all, when God had never appeared to him? Then, God was only a man, frail and old, reaching out a wrinkled hand. Why should the weak ask for aid from the strong? 

“The dogs need someone to feed them,” he said.

He still does not know God. He does not suspect he ever will. But there’s a warm, soft palm encasing the skin and muscle over his heart, irradiating down to the bone. There’s an intermittent puff of air on the back of his neck, slow and ticklish, the way snow melts. The dog that still lives in the core of him shows its belly. 

You’ve moved closer in the night, your soft skin warming his back where your shirt rides up. You breathe silently, catlike, as measured as the rise and fall of the winter sun. He listens for a while, his chest pushing out to match you. As he settles into the new rhythm, he feels for a moment as if it’s all been a dream. As if he never lost you, never lied. 

His name leaves your sleeping mouth and his heart ceases altogether. It’s the breathless sound of need, of a desire he supposes you’ve forgotten. In your sleep, some stale withered flower blooms under a fresh rainfall, and he wonders what you’re dreaming about. 

Before Joel put his mouth between your legs for the first time, you had forgotten what pleasure tasted like. 

It was July, sweltering, and you were draped across the sofa with his head in your lap. It was date night, and his turn to choose the movie: some god-awful karate action film that was a sequel to a sequel to a sequel and so on, infinitely repeating. Neither of you were paying attention to the exchange of staged punches. You were occupying yourself with threading your fingers through Joel’s hair, and he’d taken to toying with the little bow that held up the waistband of your shorts. You watched him pull the strings until they unfurled only to tie them again with one hand. The white noise of on-screen blows lulled you into a gentle doze as you both lay idle. 

“Joel.”

“Hm,” he said, the scratch of his beard tickling your belly. 

“The door,” you said. “Someone’s knocking.”

“Hm,” he said again, his questioning pitch the only indication he was truly listening. 

“You should probably get it.”

His sleep-soaked eyes fluttered shut, his lashes brushing your skin. He gently squeezed your hip. “I’m just fine here.”

“What if I told you I had a surprise for you? And what if I told you I worked very hard to find your surprise?” you cooed. 

Joel blinked up at you. “You got me somethin’?”

Your heart swelled. “Yeah, I did. Come on, cowboy.”

Outside, Tommy lounged against the hood of the surprise as you guided Joel outside, your fingers over his eyes. 

“I don't like bein’ blind,” he grumbled. “Can't you just tell me?”

“How about I show you?”

You lifted your hands. For a moment, Joel blinked, his eyes adjusting to the blazing light of the sunset, and his lips parted at the sight before him. 

“Jesus,” he said under his breath. “You… got me a car?”

“It's not just a car. Boss Mustang 429,” you said sheepishly. “1969. You know, the one you never shut up about. I thought this might help.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and you watched him swallow it. “How…”

“Tommy called me a while back. He'd sourced it from another garage; it was bound for the dump, but I wanted to surprise you by fixing it up. So… surprise.”

Tommy tossed the keys to Joel, who caught them without even looking. “Your girl can get her hands dirty. Helped me fix up the whole damn thing.”

You tried to gauge his reaction, the slight hollow in his throat where he seemed to store the falling sunlight, a faint sheen of sweat turning him gold. Your heart plummeted into your stomach when he didn't say a word. 

“It's too soon.”

His head whipped around, his brows curving up in the middle. “What?”

You wetted your lips, panic closing your throat in at all sides. “I know we haven't been dating long, but… I don't know, I couldn't pass up the chance. But now I know it's too soon. I shouldn't have presumed—”

Faintly, he shook his head, his eyes darting across your face as if he were trying to trace it, and closed the distance between you. You gasped as he slanted his mouth over yours, his hands cradling your face, old paper and salt and your perfume. You threw your arms around his neck, a buoy for the drowning man whose arms wound around your waist and pulled you so close he could disappear altogether. Maybe he was trying to. Selfishly, you would let him. 

Tommy grumbled something—“You’re welcome, asshole,” probably—and his own car roared to life as it pulled away. 

The car keys jingled in the bowl in your foyer as Joel tossed them blindly behind him, his heel shutting the front door. He kissed you like you were a fever he needed to burn out, and you felt the match strike where his hand curled its heavy weight around your neck. 

“What time do you fly out?” he grumbled against your mouth. 

“Not until morning,” you said breathlessly, watching him drop to his knees in front of you, taking your little shorts with him. Your chest heaved at the sight of your Joel, made humble at your feet, pressing his searing-hot lips to the bare skin of your belly. “Joel…”

“Nobody,” he said, his voice the velvety drag of night, “is like you. Not a goddamn soul.”

The admission caught in your throat the way a web ensnares dewdrops. The intricate folds of your brain would forever carry the imprint of the words—words no one else had ever said. 

A starving artist, an old teacher of yours had said, remembers every kind word said about their art. They eat from them when there's no other food in the house. 

“You're it for me,” he told you. “There's nothing else.”

You wake slowly, serenely, a yawning ache blossoming in the core of you. 

Maybe that's why, even now, you cannot forget the way he touched you that night. You still recall every thumbprint, every stroke of his tongue, every soft cry into the otherwise empty room. 

The fact is that nobody can love you the way Joel Miller does. Not even when his love hurts more than anything else.

He's watching you now. His eyes are half-open but alert, instinct pulling him closer to your side of the bed. Or, maybe you're the one who’s crawled closer to him. 

“Joel…” 

He doesn’t speak, but you feel the pads of his fingers on your belly, the soft fabric of your shirt bunching over his bruised knuckles, and his eyes shutter at the touch alone, a worn sinner. 

“Tell me what you need,” he whispers, and it's chipped porcelain, the sound of his voice. 

A part of you wants to cry, to let the pressure build until it crests, to feel the salt settle in the pores at the sight of him so close, so open. But you've shed your tears and he’s slept in your bed, and now his fingers brush the hem of your panties, not begging entrance, but asking, wondering—

You say so weakly, “I need you to touch me,” and he nods because he knows, because he's Joel, because your body has not become foreign to him even if you've made your heart a stranger. 

You shiver as his hand dips beneath the cotton, two fingers sliding through the gathering wetness between your legs. Joel's gaze is fixed on you, black as the sky, his bicep flexing as he parts your folds with his fingers. Absently, possessed, you sling your leg up over his hip to spread your thighs. 

The shockwave brings you down as he slides his middle finger inside you, sinking to the knuckle. The gasp that leaves your mouth feels like inhaling glass. You cup the back of his neck for purchase, tugging the little curls at his scalp, and watch as he bares his teeth. 

“That's it, baby,” he says brokenly, the heel of his palm applying pressure to your clit as you writhe. Back in his arms, your heart thunders in your chest, the ache of his absence ringing in each rib like the aftershocks of a blow. He pumps his fingers inside you, curling up against the spot he knows as intimately as his own hand, studying your face as if he has become the artist and you the muse. For a moment, you think you see the reflection of your face in the whites of his eyes, and you’re overcome with a shudder that compresses your spine. 

He’s too close. Too far away. Your hand curls around the scruff of his neck, a misbehaved dog. You’ve let him in, it’s too late, too soon, and you’ve assumed all the blood he’s spilled, taken it inside your body with the press of his fingertips past your begging entrance.

You hate that your body still sings for him, that your eyes cannot shutter, that you cannot shuck the curtains closed despite all he’s done. You hate that his eyes still hold the sorrow you’d seen in him since that very first night, and you hate that you existed so happily, so blindly, with him, in spite of the arid darkness that has always lingered just under the brown you thought you knew so well.

But he’s always known you, and that may be what hurts the most. 

He’s always been keenly aware of your moods, your tastes, your body, and he plays you now like a pipe, lending his body to yours in supplication. Your heart aches as you let him inside, some feeble breach of contract, as if nothing is wrong, as if nothing was a lie.

He slides his fingers from you and spreads them before your eyes, the sight of the slick webbing eliciting a gasp you can barely hear. He licks his fingers clean and dips them back between your bodies, circling your clit with a renewed fervour. 

“Fuck.” Your eyelids droop, your stomach tightens, and the glint of Joel’s bared teeth is that of a wolf’s in the dark. “I’m… fuck, I’m…”

“I know,” he says, “I know,” and you wish he wouldn’t. 

The rhythmic, meticulous path of his fingers is nothing like the desperate writhing of your hips, the feverish grinding, the cries. Prey caught in a trap, you grasp the iron bars of his shoulders tight and beg for mercy. 

And it feels so good, so right, that it slashes open your heart and spills the blood. The cold bite of his wedding ring bumps up against your opening as you blossom, brittle as a new bud, his fingers pumping in, out, in—

“Oh, God,” you whimper, burying your face in his throat, sinking into the familiar warmth. 

Joel grunts, his nose sliding across your temple. “C’mon, baby girl, c’mon… I’ve got you… Can feel it…”

Normally, you would lick and bite and kiss the sweet, humid skin of his throat until you came, soft as dough in his arms. There’s a steel edge to the way you come now, fingers stiffly prickling his scalp, eyes bleeding tears into the crook of his neck. It feels good—good to slash at the bars that cage you in, good to weep over the loss of some willpower you let dissolve.

He doesn’t stop until he’s wrung every drop, inhaling the cloying smell of soiled linen and sticky perfume and saltwater. He closes his eyes against your temple and you can feel the caress of his lashes—wet, like yours.

His lips always carried the faint bitter bite of black coffee, and he always said yours tasted sweet. Like goddamn honey, he’d whispered into your throat the first night you let him inside, and you’d laughed—maybe the graze of his mouth was ticklish, or maybe you thought it was funny: the idea that you could be so sweet. 

Now, you’re splintering as your eyes flicker down to his mouth, plush lips moist but split from the blow of an enemy. If you kissed him now, he would only feel a sharp sting. If you kissed him now, you’d let the blood win out. You would only hurt him and yourself alike.

“What are we doing, Joel?”

His eyes shimmer in the dark, his palm tentatively cradling the crown of your head. The hollow of his throat deepens, and you hold your breath. 

“I’ll be anything you want me to be,” says Joel. “If you want me just to use me, then use me. You can have me whenever you want. I just wanna be someone you need—even if you don’t need me the way you used to.”

The sob lurches out of your throat, your forehead dropping to his as the climax burns out, smoke from a snuffed candle. 

When you can breathe again, you push yourself upright and cross the room to gather your toiletries. “I’m not going to use you. I never should have done this.”

“Stop.” Joel grunts as he stands, apparently forgetting about his wounded ankle. “Don’t say it like that.”

“Joel, let’s just—”

“I don't want it to be like this,” he says. “I don’t want it to hurt when I touch you.”

“It doesn't,” you whisper, hugging your bag to your chest along with a bundle of clothes. “That's what scares me.”

His brows curve upward in the middle and you're overcome by the need to fix your eyes to the floor. “Baby, please… Please just look at me.”

You swipe your thumbs under your eyes and pin him with your gaze. “I feel like I’m mourning a marriage that didn't even end,” you tell him, and Joel lurches forward as if he means to grab the words in mid-air. 

“And maybe we did lose it,” you say softly, though the words sting on the way out of your mouth. “But maybe that's… good. I don't want a relationship based on lies, Joel. I don’t want to wake up every morning next to the man I love and wonder what he’s still keeping from me.” 

Joel lowers himself into the chair by the table like a weight is tied to his chest. He's still shirtless, his wound bleeding through the gauze around his arm, but he's staring at you. Suffocating you. 

Twisting his wedding band around his finger, he says, “If there's even the smallest chance that you really could still love me… that this ain't over, even though I’ve done everything wrong by you… I’m gonna fight for it.”

Not everything, you want to say. Not everything, or I wouldn't be so hurt right now. It’s funny that the words won't take shape—wraithlike as the black ink snaking up and down his back. “I know you will.”

“And if you want all the truth I‘ve got, even if it's bloody, I’ll give it to you.” He leans forward, muscles flexing under inked skin. “You’re my everything. Nothin’ about that has changed. Not one goddamn thing.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek, the tang of iron flooding into your mouth. “It’s not just about the lies,” you say, dropping into the chair across from him. “You've put me on a pedestal. You may be strong and you may know how to fight, and everyone in the world may know your name, but… I don't think I can survive being all that you breathe for. Not if it leads to this.”

He remembers waking up each morning in the orphanage, sunlight turning technicolour through stained glass images of praying hands. He’d always thought the sun was so strong, gathering pieces of itself just to wake half the world, reviving dead plants, rattling the bones that stirred dead in the earth. He’d put his fingers through the many colours just to watch them dance. He’d wiggle his digits and remember he was alive. 

He watched you walk down the long aisle toward him in a white dress, a bouquet of daisies in your hands, the sun carving your path. His hand flexed at his side like it did on those long-gone mornings, and he briefly doubted he’d be able to touch you at all—like you’d disappear, smoke curling around the contours of his fingers, a dream. 

“My heart hurts, Joel,” you say brokenly, your palm flattening against your chest. “I’m not as strong as you are. I’m just a girl who married the man she loved. One day, you're going to realise that I don't bleed gold. I’m not a deity. I’m not someone you go to war over. I’m not fucking perfect, and if you keep treating me like I am, you’re only going to be disappointed.” 

Joel just watches the tears fall, somewhat enraptured by the way they linger like dew on your lashes, until you blink them away and they cascade down the curve of your cheek. He wonders if this is how it feels to be the painter, desperate to capture even a brushstroke of the subject in front of him. He used to watch you paint for hours, holed up in your studio, covered in splotches of oils he would later take his time to wash away. The colours would curl around the drain, a snake poised to strike, and he’d kiss you, his canvas, tasting the poison of paint at the corner of your mouth. 

He’s made something dark of the light that grew inside you. He’s tainted your image with the blood he’s shed, and every one of the thousand cuts has struck true. He thought he was protecting you.

He was only hurting you.

“I just wanted to have you. And you wanted to forget.” Your eyes no longer meet his, tracing the lifelines in the oak table back and forth. “So where do we go from here?”

There’s a troubled tic in his brow, punctuating the feverish flitting of his eyes between each of yours, always restless. “You think I fell in love with you because I thought you were invincible?” 

You lift your head, the whites of your eyes gleaming. Joel brings his chair closer to yours, and you don’t make a move to pull away. 

“I fell in love with you because you’re human,” he says. “Because you’re kind. Because you have a heart bigger than any I’ve seen. Because you’re funny, and talented, and you love to make art, and when you find something you love, you give your soul to it. I love you because you’re an angry drunk and you hate mornings and you’re so fuckin’ frustrating when you won’t give up. I fell in love with you because you were the only person who’s ever taken a real shot at lovin’ me.”

Your bottom lip quivers and he wants to coax the heavy ache from your very soul, venom from the wound.

“You are my everything, baby. You are. And I know it ain't healthy, but I don't care. If that means I see you as a god, fine. You think I can stop lovin’ you the way I do? I can’t. But I never once thought you were perfect. Perfect people don’t fall in love with men like me.” 

You laugh a little, but it’s taut, stuck in the back of your throat. 

“I don’t expect you to forgive me. I’m not even sure I want that. But I do want to be the kind of man you’re willing to love again. You’re my best friend, and I’ll do whatever it takes, you hear me? I’m not givin’ up.”

You sniffle, your quivering hands folded into one another atop the table. He wants to reach out and touch you, pull you back into his gravity, smell your perfume. He wants to do a thousand other things he does not deserve. 

“You’ve killed Manuel’s son,” you say quietly. “There’s still a contract on your head.”

Joel nods. “And he’s gonna pull it.”

You shake your head, lips parted around words you choose not to say. Instead, you look away, and he feels he's lost something he'd been holding. 

“Do what you need to do,” you say, and every syllable cuts him along the bias of the bone. 

He has known your hurt, your anger, your sadness. Something in an artist’s heart has never seen a day of peace, you told him once. He thought it was a joke; he may have even laughed. 

I loved you. 

Joel swallows. “I need you—”

“—to stay here.” The corner of your mouth pulls up despite your sombre tone. “Yeah, I know.”

There’s a knock at the door before he can open his mouth to reply. You stay apprehensively glued to your seat as Joel peers through the peephole only to unlatch the chain on the door.

“Anyone see you come in?” he asks Tommy.

“I’m sure plenty of people saw me, brother. But they can’t do anything, now, can they?”

A muscle in Joel’s jaw feathers. “You bring everything?”

Tommy scoffs, gesturing toward the bags weighing down his arms. “Everything on your fuckin’ mile-long list? Yeah. You gonna let me in?”

Joel ushers him inside and triple-checks the hallway to make sure nobody is lurking nearby. Your voice brightens by a fraction and it feels like an electric shock tingling at his fingertips. 

“Tommy.”

“Hey, sweetheart.” He squeezes your shoulder and drops the bags at your feet. “You hangin’ in there?”

Joel watches from the shadows of the hall, his heart leaden at the sight of you smiling for someone else. He’ll do anything to earn that. He’ll forsake all he has, all he is. He’ll crawl on his hands and knees all the way back through hell; he already knows the way.

“Brought your supplies,” says Tommy, kneeling at your feet and opening the bags. Your brows knit together at the sight of your oils from home, your brushes, your pallets long ago stained with colour. “Heard you were feeling inspired.”

Your gaze lifts to Joel, eyes narrowed. “Is that right?”

He’s sheepish, ducking his head. “Just… thought you might be goin’ crazy, stuck in here.”

“That's not why I’m going crazy,” you grumble. 

Tommy chuckles. “Well, if anything’s missin’, it's his fault. Most of your canvases were destroyed, but these are all good.” 

Your heart feels a little lighter now that you can smell the tangy, cloying scent of your paints and run your fingers over the bristle of your brushes. You give Tommy’s hand a pulse, your thank-you barely snaking past the lump in your throat. “Tell Maria I said hi.”

He gives you a knowing look. “I’m holdin’ you to your promise, y’know. You still have to paint the nursery.”

You cast your eyes toward Joel, who leans against the wall in the dark corridor. “Yeah,” you say softly, stripped to the bone by the way he watches you, unblinking. “I don't break my promises.”

His fingers twitch at his sides, and the gleam of his wedding ring lingers in your periphery long after you've torn your gaze away. 

“Tommy’s gonna stay with you,” says Joel, “while I take care of the rest.”

The rest. Of course. “Why now?”

“He just killed Cabrera’s son,” says Tommy. “And we don't want to risk anyone comin’ around, lookin’ for revenge.”

“But you said no business can be conducted here.”

“For enough money, a person will break any rule.”

“That kind of undermines the entire concept of your entire Underworld, doesn't it?” you say. “Rules aren't really rules.”

“But there are consequences,” says Tommy. “Just… if you’ve got enough money, you can hide from ‘em for a while.”

“Until they hunt you down,” you utter, looking across the room at Joel. His silence feels like hot hands on your bare skin. You turn back to Tommy. “What about Maria?”

“She's with her mom this weekend,” says Tommy. “Won't even notice I left the house. You need someone to model, I’m your guy.”

“No,” says Joel.

“I didn’t mean I’d get naked,” says Tommy.

Joel clips Tommy’s shoulder on his way to you, and his brother takes the hint to make himself scarce, disappearing into the bathroom. Joel kneels at your feet and places his hand on your calf. The weight of it is warm, carrying words he has no time left to give. 

“This will be over soon,” he says, and he sounds so sure that you almost believe it. 

“And then what, Joel?”

He sets his jaw. There's little of the predator, of the boogeyman, in his eyes. All that rich brown betrays now is a quiet resolve. A promise. 

“Home,” says your husband. “We’ll make another.”

You squeeze your eyes shut only to open them again and find the hand that rests on your skin. He's bruised, bloodied, and violent, but he does not squeeze or press. He never once has. You wonder idly how often he's put those hands on your body while thinking of a time he'd taken the life of another. 

“And what if we can’t?” you ask him. 

The first time you'd unveiled a piece to him—the first piece you'd ever painted of you and him, together—Joel had instinctively touched the supple blue skin beneath the woman’s breast, as quickly as a nurse finds a vein. 

“She’s blue,” he said. “Is that… how you feel? Like you’re… blue?”

“Blue doesn't just mean sadness,” you told him. “It could almost mean serenity. Stability.”

He looked at you, puzzled, for a while, his hand still extended, pressed to the barely-dry canvas. “Where I grew up,” he said, “I was never really taught anything besides black and white.”

“Colours are different that way,” you said. “They mean a thousand things to a thousand people. They can all look at the same painting and feel something unique.” You gave him a wry smile. “You look at a painting of us having sex and see sadness. I’m trying not to read into it.”

He chuckled. “You should know that's not true. And I like the way you think.” 

“You never told me what you think about the painting,” you said playfully. “Do you like it?”

Joel’s hand travelled from the woman’s breast to her hand as if pondering the wash of blues that coloured her skin. Her fingers, intertwined with her lover’s, squeezed down on him—a lifeline. 

“It’s beautiful.”

“It's the way I feel when you touch me,” you said. “Like I’m falling apart and coming together at the same time.”

Joel tentatively reaches for your hand and turns it over in your lap, palm to the ceiling. “If you decide a home isn't what you want with me,” he says, tracing your lifeline, “then that’s all right. But I just… I want to know if—”

“Don’t,” you whisper, pressure accumulating behind the inner corners of your eyes. Joel meets your gaze and it takes all you have to suppress the shudder at the feeling of his thumb making its ghostly pilgrimage across your palm. “Don't ask me yet. Please.”

He bows his head and his hand slips from yours, and you choke on the memory of a love uncompromising, effortless, simplistic. 

“Just come back alive,” you tell him. “Come back to me, okay?”

Joel rises to his feet, and a kiss plants its roots at your hairline. “Always.”

“When he said to watch me, I don't think he meant the whole time.”

Beside you, Tommy clears his throat, averting his gaze to the floor. “Sorry. Just… it’s impressive, what you do.”

You’re still outlining the tangled limbs of the man and woman, their bodies disappearing into one another, each line indistinguishable from the next. “Well, if it helps, I don't know how cars work.”

He laughs. “Yeah, all right.”

You set down your pencil, casting a glance out the window. Outside, the stars wink down at you. “Will he be okay?” you say softly. 

Tommy sighs. Now that he no longer needs to hide the fact that it isn't his brother doing the books, the sting of the reminder rings in your chest with the sound of his binder closing. 

“I don't blame you, y’know,” he says, “for stayin’ pissed at him.”

“Good,” you reply, “because he's an idiot.”

“Yeah, that's one thing that's never gonna change.” Tommy leans back in the chair, taking a swig from his beer. “I tried to tell him he was makin’ a mistake. He's a stubborn bastard.”

“He is,” you say, frowning at the curl you've drawn over your subject’s forehead. He looks back at you, brow furrowed, one eye visible, the other blending with hers. It's gruesome, in a way: the frenetic lines, the frantic way their fingers dimple one another’s flesh. “But I can be stubborn, too.”

Tommy leans forward, studying the beginnings of your sketch. “I know he's made mistakes, and Christ knows I’m crazy for defending my dumbass brother. But if you knew how much he loved you…”

“Tommy,” you cut in, setting down your pencil. “Loving me isn’t the problem.” The outline of the bodies on your canvas blur as your eyes burn with tears. “I wonder if he ever really left—in his heart, I mean.”

Tommy’s voice is quiet. He’s twirling a small switchblade in his hand. “All he's ever wanted is peace.” 

You cast your eyes toward the ceiling to stop the tears from spilling over, or to find some answer spelled in stars you cannot see. “Then why couldn't he just stay out?” you whisper. “Why did he have to come back?”

“You know, when we were kids, Joel would take all my beatings,” says Tommy, flicking out the blade. It glimmers in a way that catches the light as easily as a flame on kindling. “He'd say everything was his fault when it was really me who knocked over a shitty old vase or vandalised a fresco. And he'd just fuckin’ grin and bear it because that's who he is.”

He’d just been a kid. Just a kid who wanted to protect his little brother, who took every beating, who grew up in a faith he never had faith in. 

The fragile wobble in your voice betrays the steel wall of your back. “He let me fall in love with him, Tommy. He let me give my soul to him.”

He ducks his head, folding the blade back into its wooden hilt. “Yeah, I know,” he says softly. 

“And Maria?” You let out an airy laugh. “How did she react when you told her about all this?”

He doesn't meet your eye, and you feel your stomach turn over as he sets the blade on the table, bringing his hand over his jaw. 

“Oh,” you say. 

“We all do things we’re not proud of. Anyway, I had it easier,” he says, lifting one shoulder in a shrug. “I’m just a mechanic.”

“And my husband’s a killer, right?”

Tommy sighs. “I know you shouldn't take my word for it. But he does want peace. And he came back because he didn't see another choice.” 

On the canvas, the man holds the woman close, pulling her tight to his chest, as if he knows she's about to fall. “I hate it,” you say softly, “knowing he's felt so much pain, and I can't make it better. I hate that this is something he needs to figure out himself, Tommy. I hate that I can't be the person he thinks I am.”

“I think you don't give yourself enough credit.” When you turn to face him, Tommy puts the switchblade in your open palm. Your fingers reflexively close around it, and it's cool to the touch. Smooth. The grain in the wood looks like the wriggling lifelines in a human hand. “You made him leave this life. You got him to care enough to make a real one, and you didn't even know it.”

You flick open the switchblade. “This is beautiful.”

“Gave it to me for safekeeping when he retired,” says Tommy. “It was the prize for completing his first job.”

You frown at your reflection, angling the knife up and down. “How old was he?”

Tommy covers the blade with his hand and retracts it. “Keep it,” he says. “It never belonged to me.”

You try to push it toward him, suddenly repulsed. You've heard from his own mouth about the lives he's taken, but the thought of your Joel holding the very same weapon, sinking it into flesh, slicing through the strings that hold a person together, makes your fingers tremble. “It doesn't belong to me either, Tommy.”

“Maybe not,” he says, “but I think you’d know what to do with it better than me.”

You swallow hard. “A man declares war because he wants peace.” Your thumb slides along the smooth edge of the hilt before you hide it inside your bag. “I can't pretend to understand what you both went through, Tommy. But know that I’m glad you found a good life. And know that if you break Maria’s heart, I’ll make you swallow paint.”

Tommy nods sombrely. “I’ll tip the can myself. We're thinking green for the nursery.”

“Green is good.” You give him a conciliatory smile. 

“Joel’s a good man,” he says. “He's just… misguided.”

“Are you a man of God, Tommy?”

He laughs. “I don't think anyone who came out of that place alive still believes there's a God. If only the Sisters could see us now.”

“I hope they never do,” you tell him. “I hope they never get the satisfaction of knowing they hurt him.”

“I don't think they’d be much satisfied,” says Tommy, “if they knew he'd found peace after all.”

Hours unfold. The canvas sits untouched as you and Tommy sit next to one another, the moon outside slowly enveloped by clouds. The silver silhouette casts a halo through the grey, and you think of your Joel, alone on his warpath, bloodying the ring on his finger. You think of your name on his back, nestled above the praying hands, and the pit of restlessness yawns wide open. 

“He should be back by now.”

Tommy rubs his palms over his thighs, a behaviour you've noticed in Joel. “Yeah, he should.”

“But he'll be okay,” you say, a minute warble colouring your voice, “right?”

“He's Joel,” is all he gives you in return. 

Your fingers twist themselves into knots in your lap until the jab of a car horn outside jolts you back to life. “Tommy,” you rasp, wetting your lips. “Go find him.”

He nods, standing abruptly from his chair and yanking his coat free from the hook by the door. “He’ll kill me for leavin’ you alone,” he says. 

“We both know he needs you,” you say, turning your head to watch the moon peek out from behind the sheet of grey. “Just bring my husband back.”

There's a distinct sensation that erupts across the skin of a nonbeliever who crosses the threshold of a church. It begins in the floorboards, where the soul of a supposed Christ lingers, and radiates up through the soles of the feet, through the knees, until it circles the brain, persistent as a murder of crows. You don't belong here. 

The little church is nothing extravagant, which Joel has to find a little funny. Five rows of pews on either side, a basin of holy water next to the pulpit, a smattering of devotees kneeling on the padded seats in front of them. He swallows the burn and approaches the pastor. 

“My son,” says the man, spreading his arms wide as if welcoming Joel back from a pilgrimage. “Welcome. What troubles your heart today?”

Joel pulls the Benelli from his canvas bag and blows out the pastor’s kneecap. 

His deafening roar echoes off the domed ceiling and reverberates through the stained-glass paintings of the Virgin Mary. “Fuck!” cries the pastor, scrambling backward with a hand covering his bloodied leg. “Fucking cunt, fucking asshole, vete a la mierda! What the fuck is your problem?”

Joel turns and fires another two shots at the guards on the balcony. One of them tumbles over the edge. The kneeling figures flee the scene, some screaming, some praying. 

“Donde esta Cabrera?” Joel growls, bunching the pastor’s white collar in his bloodstained fist. When he doesn't reply, Joel applies pressure to the wound in his knee between his thumb and forefinger. “Habla.”

“Fuck!” he howls. “He isn't here. Hijo de puta, he's not here!”

“Fine,” says Joel, hauling the man upright with little regard for his obliterated knee. “Then we're takin’ a little field trip.”

Joel knew many of Cabrera’s secrets during his time working for the bastard. He would have changed the codes to the vault, but it’s the same nonetheless. Joel shoves the pastor down the winding staircase and aims the barrel of the shotgun between his eyes. 

“Open the vault.”

“Manuel will kill me,” pleads the pastor.

Joel lifts a brow. “You see me cryin’?”

A pale, trembling hand rises to the keypad and types in the code. Inside the vault, two women are counting piles of cash behind the counter. Joel gestures toward the door with his shotgun. “Ladies,” he greets, “out.”

They scurry out of the vault with their hands in the air. Inside the small concrete cell, safes are embedded in the walls, twice Joel’s height, one of them unlocked and brimming with neatly piled heaps of bound bills and documents. Joel reaches up and unlatches a shelf, watching the avalanche of blood money cascade onto the floor around his feet. With one hand, he produces a lighter from his pocket and flicks on the flame. It ignites the piles of cash and papers as Joel walks out, leaving the wounded pastor on the floor. 

A whisper goes up in flames behind his back. “El espectro.”

At the aggressive slam of car doors, Joel climbs the staircase to the balcony and looks over the rear exit. Outside, Manuel Cabrera and his men cross the concrete toward the church. Joel curses, ejecting the shell from his shotgun and inserting a new clip. The stained glass crumbles with the first shot as he puts a bullet in a bodyguard’s head. The shouts flutter toward the sky in the ensuing panic. Joel hears Manuel cry out his orders: Around the back. You two, flank him. The bastard’s here; go fucking kill him. 

The smell of smoke begins to stick to his throat as he takes another shot. The sound of dress shoes clatters, echoing, across the floorboards below him. “Goddamn it,” he growls. He’ll be flushed out before long if he doesn't move. Joel checks his clip, fruitlessly searches the body on the balcony for more ammunition, and kicks him over the edge. The resounding thud of his corpse against the pews is somewhat gratifying. Cabrera’s men crowd the dead man, which gives Joel just enough time to descend the staircase and shoulder open the back door. The parking lot teems with Cabrera’s army ants, creeping around parked cars as they search for the boogeyman. 

One of the bodyguards ducks behind a Range Rover, and Joel bares his teeth, the wolf at the hunt. He shoots out the front tires, which deflates the car just enough to give him a glimpse of the man’s head. He takes the shot. 

“Puta!” someone cries. Joel ducks as a shot pings off the front bumper of the Cadillac next to him, and he briefly takes stock of his ammunition. Fuck. He would have really liked to keep the fucking high ground. Now, he's as trapped as they are. Rats in a maze of shiny new cars. 

Joel peeks around the corner and feels the heat of a bullet seat through the sleeve of his jacket. He shoulders the sting of the new wound and rounds the corner, raising his weapon and firing. He counts another two, three, five dead, and the moist air begins to cling to the back of his neck, sweat lining his collar, blood soaking his sleeve. He calls Cabrera’s name. He calls again. 

“Let's end this,” he growls. “Come out, and I’ll spare the rest of them.”

An explosion nearby sets him off-kilter, rattling the earth beneath him. The church goes up easily, flames licking the sky, sirens blaring several blocks over, the steady eruption of chaos like golden nectar in his mouth. Joel rises to his feet and continues his charge. 

He calls Cabrera’s name again. He thinks of your body, prone and cold on the floor, reaching for him. He thinks of that night and imagines himself saving you before any of it happened. He imagines turning out of the restaurant that very first night, retreating into the darkness where it was comfortable and you were safe. 

No—he'd gone to the light. He’d let it all topple, and he'd do it again. This world is not where he belongs. You are what the word has led him to. All the gospel and the hymnals and the nights spent praying on his knees to a false god led him to your soft, supple side, not to the jagged edges of this unforgiving Underworld. 

He calls Cabrera’s name again, but he hears the roar of the engine too late. The circle of vehicles crowds him, claustrophobic, and it's Manuel Cabrera who steps out. 

He looks the same as he did eight years ago, when Joel approached him and asked to be released from his contract, if not a little more grey. He's dressed in an Italian suit and his shoes are unscuffed. His hair is combed back and his eyes are sunken into his face.

Something strikes Joel in the back of his head, and he sees the Creation of Adam on the north wall of the orphanage, the wrinkled old hand, the stray dogs. 

The starchy scent of the canvas sack jolts him awake. Someone yanks it up over his head, and he blinks in the harsh light of day. 

He's in a giant empty warehouse. Light filters through the broken glass windows high above their heads, shards and empty bullet casings and cigarette butts crunching underfoot. Judging from the scuffling of feet around him, ten or so men surround him where he sits in an old folding chair, bound by the wrists. He feels a throbbing ache in his skull and winces. You’ll give him hell for this. 

“It’s good to see you, Joel,” says the silhouette sitting across from him, flanked by two more shadows. Joel blinks them into focus. “It’s been a long time.”

The edges soften until he can see the whites of the eyes, the cool detached gaze, the glimmer of a silver watch. “Manuel,” says Joel. “¿Cómo está su hijo?”

A huff of air is all he gets in reply. Manuel sheds his long coat and leans forward on his elbows. “You know, Joel, my son was a fucking moron.”

“I could've told you that,” says Joel, “and I would've saved you a lot of breath.”

“My son,” growls Manuel, “was a moron, but he was my son. I told him as much—told him there was nothing he could do, not when Joel Miller was hunting him down. And when I asked him what he had done to warrant the boogeyman’s vengeance, he said it was because of a girl.”

Manuel rubs his hand over his stubbled jaw, laughing like the situation is amusing. “Well, that’s good for you, Joel. Good to finally find something you care about, to find a reason. I see you're putting your retirement to good use. Fighting for your very own Helen of Troy.”

Joel says nothing, studying the manic glint in Cabrera’s eye. He recalls that same look from the night he asked to leave, placing his gun on the desk between them. 

“I want out,” he said. 

“Out?” said Cabrera. “And why, Joel, would you ever want out?”

“Because I’m done here,” he said. “I'm done in this world and I’m done with you.”

Joel wonders if Cabrera had been waiting for that exact moment: for Joel Miller, the ghost in the corner of the Underworld’s bedroom, to step forward and give Manuel Cabrera the opportunity he needed to rise to the very top. 

“Very well,” he said after a long silence. “But I want you to consider whether your freedom is worth what I’m about to ask of you. It will not be easy.”

“It’s worth it,” said Joel. “Now tell me what I need to do.”

Cabrera sits across from Joel the same way he did eight years ago, the same insidious gleam in those black eyes, smiling smugly without moving his face at all. 

“You've changed,” he says. “You’re softer, Joel. That wedding ring must've done a number on my killer.”

“Maybe I never stopped bein’ a killer,” says Joel. 

“Maybe not. But the difference is that now, you have a reason to keep living.” Cabrera has the gall to feign remorse as he shrugs his shoulders. “You took my son from me, Joel. You understand how this world works.”

Joel kicks out his leg instinctively, baring his teeth at Cabrera like a caged dog. Two henchmen clap down on his shoulders and abruptly pull him backward in the chair. The rope around his wrists chafe. 

“When I signed that contract,” he growled, “I had nothing to live for. Nobody to love. Until the day she showed up in my life. She gave me a word to follow that wasn’t yours or your God’s.” His mouth hardly fits around the name. Yours has always felt softer on his tongue. “Trust that Emiliano deserved worse than the death I gave him.”

“A woman above God,” Cabrera utters under his breath, rubbing his palms over his thighs before he rises to his feet and grabs Joel by the hair at the scruff of his neck. Joel winces at the prickling sensation erupting across his scalp. Cabrera’s breath stinks of weed. “El espectro,” he says mockingly. “The fuckin’ boogeyman. You're not so scary like this.” 

Cabrera forces Joel to look up at him. The pressure accumulates behind his nose, painful enough to make his eyes water. “You burned my church down, Joel,” says his captor. “Money is replaceable, sure, but the leverage I had on this city… Hijo de puta. Just for a fuckin’ girl, Joel?”

Joel can't help but sneer. “Yeah, I enjoyed that part.”

It earns him a blow across the jaw, and he relishes the electric lash that wriggles down his side. Cabrera lets go of his hair and gestures with a glance to his men before he turns away, plucking his coat from the chair.

“Manuel.”

He watches Cabrera consider it: to indulge Joel, or to let him rot. 

The first hit he executed on Cabrera’s behalf earned him just ten thousand. Then thirty-something, having long ago left the Sisters, the hard wooden floors worn with the pressure of so many kneeling bodies, the Marines, and the sound of warfare, Joel didn’t have many places to stay. He took the red money, earned from the body and probably the pockets of a dead senator, and rented a place. 

Nighttime in the city didn't mean quiet, not outside nor in. That night, Joel sat on the side of his bed in a cockroach-infested Brooklyn apartment whose walls smelled of cigarette smoke, and he put his face in his hands. Leaving one war only to enter another, Cabrera told him, is just the way of life. You, Joel, are a killer. 

But that can’t be all, he thinks now, his hands bound and his blood singing in his heart. He wonders if you're asleep by now, if you've taken to his side of the bed like you used to, if you've stretched your hand across the linen for a taste of the memory of that love-like-sunlight. 

It's your blood, he realises, that courses through him. Your blood that tastes sweet as ichor, your blood that runs in his blue-green veins. It's your blood he hears whispering to him when the dreams go black as pitch and he cannot hope to breathe. 

The last contract he took for Cabrera earned him no prize but his freedom. Nothing but the smell of your perfume and your warm body tucked neatly into his every night and the cool kiss of your twin wedding bands could have satisfied him. He was not just a killer. He’d proven it. He’d lived it in eight years of gentle mornings, kissing you awake starting at the roots of your hair, and he’d loved it as much as they all had tried to make him love a God that never loved him. 

He’d never forgotten how to kill. But he hasn't forgotten how to love, either. That, he figured out all on his own. 

“All I wanted was peace. And your son took that from me.” Joel lifts his head to watch Cabrera: the way his spine stiffens, the way his eyes narrow minutely. “He killed my peace and so I killed him. So you can either pull your contract,” Joel says, feeling the snarl pull at his vocal cords like jagged claws as his voice begins to rise, “or you can die screaming like your bastard son.”

He barely lurches forward in the chair before a plastic bag is shucked over his head, suctioned tight around his throat. Two men hold him down as Joel struggles against his bonds, gasping against the cool plastic. He's overpowered, hands wrenching his shoulders back against the chair. He kicks out for leverage, but his strength is waning, and the brief high of losing consciousness brings him back to you. 

He took you to Greece for your honeymoon—or, rather, you took him. You were more travelled, more comfortable in the bright spots of the world, more settled in the spotlight. He thinks about how the sun adorned your skin like sequins, how eyes followed you everywhere you went, how you would see him frowning at all the attention and quietly take his hand. 

They don't exist, you would tell him. You're all mine now, Joel Miller. And it’s just you and me. 

Maybe there's a scrap of truth to fate. He's always been yours, long before he ever knew your face.  

He basks in the sunlight on the beach for the time being. You wore his sunglasses when yours broke. You let him apply your sunscreen and you tucked your head into his shoulder on the luxurious chair. You fell asleep with your hand on his chest. Joel spent an hour studying the band around your ring finger. 

Maybe Greece was a dream. Maybe the sun was a trick of the light and the clouds were smoke and the sky was black and the memory dwindles to a pinprick and he's grasping onto the image, your smile, your laugh, bells and perfume and a candle set at the foot of a golden statue—

“Stop.”

“Stop,” says a voice, and the air comes rushing back in. Joel wheezes, blinking hard to clear the spots or maybe to preserve the picture. But you're gone, slipping softly away as the brush of your knuckle over his cheek, and Joel is alive again. 

“Tommy?”

His brother doesn't look at him, but Joel sees the brief shimmer of gunmetal hidden in his waistband. 

He can feel the bruises blooming in a circle of fire around his throat. You’ll really be furious with him. 

Joel watches his brother pull the handgun and feels the ropes cut into the tender skin of his wrists, helpless as he feels now. “What in the hell…”

“I’m sorry, brother,” says Tommy, turning the gun on Joel. 

#fic: helen #kiwisbell's fics #pedro pascal #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller smut #joel miller x you #the last of us #the last of us hbo #tlou fic #joel miller angst #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x female reader #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller au #john wick au

[darkdemeter]

SIREN, BE BOUND TO ME II: A SONG OF BLOOD AND MELODY

The DARK DEMETER WRITING CATALOGUE, BUCKY BARNES COLUMN (ONESHOT) #2 —

—- not my gifs, credit to original posters! -—

Dark! Pirate! Bucky Barnes x Siren! Female Reader

A/N — Ey yo let’s go! Here it is, part 2!

WORD COUNT — 6.1k

READER DISCRETION — Dark, pirate Bucky — possessive Bucky, also feat. possessive reader — profanity — angst! — mention of alcohol — pet names ("Siren") — SMUT 18+ Minors DNI — unprotected (given) p in v sex — mention of marks/hickeys — there be depiction of wenches/prostitutes — semi-exhibitionism — mention of memory wipe through magic — minor cigar consumption (not reader) — very brief depiction of harm against a crew member — Rumlow, he's a bit of a sly creep — I think that's it?

← PREVIOUS COLUMN — NEXT COLUMN →

SUMMARY — You are his siren. Why do you insist on your curiosity when you know it will only get you into trouble? In your captain's search for the ancient treasure, a temple only you know the location of, the voyage will take momentary port in Nassau. Mina, a fellow siren, reveals to you the dark truth that you have been blind to. Lied to. She encourages you to take back the necklace. The time to be a siren is now, to lure your captain into a false sense of devotion, that your sights and desires only draw to him; and not the necklace bound to his hand and the secrets he's been keeping from you.

Dawn kisses the horizon’s rolling waters, erasing the wicked hue of intermingling black and blue with colours brighter, more promising, to bloom over sky and sea. A sight that portraits serenity in order to inspire a welling of hope. The flaming orb of heat commands to stir the once slumbering crew into action. Little does it work to awaken your captain, already awake and buried deep in the channel of your cunt, his cock surges forward aggressively, tip kissing your cervix with each powerful snap of his hips. 

  Relentless, he rolls in tandem with the rock of the ship, a string of grunted breaths and deep, stuttering groans thrum in the cavern of his large chest, heart hammering against his ribcage. 

  He pulls from you another countless orgasm to add to another countless hour of this tortuous bliss. A flushing, white and hot, seizes hold of you and beckons your body to respond accordingly, trained in his art of greed your legs drag over the terrain of defined muscle to bring him impossibly closer. Skin melding to inked skin, sweat laced bodies mingling in heated, frictional euphoria. 

  “Y’love that, Siren? Huh,” he pants on the shell of your ear, “love it when I have you full of me?”

  You mewl a small, whiney sound. 

  “Yes—” you intake sharply, “C-Captain…”

  “Aye, say it again.” He growls deeply, teeth nip the lobe of your ear, his nose buried in the crook of your neck inhales deeply the sweet dew of your flushed skin. Rough and strong, his hands have yours pinned, as he does your entire body, pressed against blood-red and snowy white velvets and silks and dark, exotic furs once belonging to pompous princes. Now, they belong to the king of the sea and his siren. Hips rolling together in time, fingers interlacing, woven together in bound strength to hold each other as guarded lifelines, the webbing between your slender digits draws and withdraws from their tucked beds of skin. Pupils conflict between dark, slitted lines and circular globes of blackness blown in pleasure. 

  “Shit… fuck– so fuckin’ tight, Siren!” he hisses, “mine… only mine.”

  Already your core burns enticingly, welcoming another orgasm that follows closely behind your one just prior. His navel arcs to brush your clit, the girth of his cock strikes true each time, he pummels harder and faster, his tip the only portion to remain before he thrusts forward with a moistened glide.

  Corded notes of pleasure are threaded into hitched knots, producing small, hiccuping whines as your abused, slickened walls constrict around his cock to milk him of every drop. The small bridge of your back arches, the smooth surface of your salty skin gliding over the defined divots and scars of his muscular front, inch by inch you feel him everywhere; both outside and inside. 

  He’ll never let you go. As a man who prides himself in the fine freedoms of piracy, he’s a blackened heart that guards you with vigorous possessiveness. Nor do you think you’re capable of ever leaving him. He is all you have. He is yours just as much as you are his. 

  The treasure he covets with unmatched greed. No woman on this earth could ever encounter what you have above you and between your quivering legs that loop tightly over his strong waist. And because of this, you equally covet this treasure of yours. 

  His cock ruts your cervix roughly, tugging forth a long, high noted yelp underlined with a breathy huff, the rhythm of his hips stutters at the sound. His pink lips find yours, tongue drawing over your own, your submission allowing him to do as he pleased. He feeds off the chorus of your breathless song, a song meant just for him. Because of him. 

  “Fuckin’ hell…” His voice rasps, teeth sinking into the bend where your shoulder and neck meet. “Love it when y’sing for m— me.” A gut-emitted groan reverberates in his chest, Skin meets skin in synchronised slapping, raw and primal with need. Wooden legs rub and claw the floorboards with heavy creaks. 

  “L–look atcha… huh, whiney and cock drunk– mmm, gonna make you scream for me, Love.”

  His thrusts grow as ruthless as the brewing storms of the sea, lashing and rocking you beyond the point of refusal. There is no denying, no pushing away. Not when it comes to your captain. 

  “C’mon, Siren—” He pants with a series of rushing thrusts that pin you down. “Sing for me.” 

  The erected peeks of your breasts are tender as they push against his chest. You whimper softly. 

  “Captain…”

  “Aye, louder,” he growls. Of his flesh hand, his knuckles whiten dangerously until the skin melts over bone. Another harsh snap of his hips sends you spiralling on the verge of your orgasm.

  “Captain—” you gasp and he bites down into the bevel between your collarbone with a rasping growl. “Captain!”

  Your velvety walls tighten around the hardened length penetrating you, filling you, his cock encumbered by the vice of your cunt. The blinding flash covers your vision and heat spreads through every corner of your body, leaving nothing but a siren blinded in lustful bliss. He groans with each drag and push, muscles glistening in the soft glow of the rising sun. The flowing wave of his precious seed finds purchase in your lower abdomen. 

  It’s not until he completely empties his hot load, does he finally slow his pace to a stop. Above you he pants heavily, each breath reminding you of the sea’s spray and sun-tainted breeze that tousles the darkened locks of his hair. 

  Your energy sapped from the unbridled temper of your beloved captain, you find reprieve in the gentleness of his tongue tracing the numerous dark marks covering your skin - his marks. 

  “Know this…” His voice rumbles lowly, his flesh hand harbouring the necklace dangles it mere inches over your parted lips. “There is nothing for you to find in a dried pearl, Siren. I am all you need.” 

  Metal squeezes your jawline, pursuing your understanding. The pink tip of his tongue wets his lips and he arches a brow.

  “Yes…”

  You needn’t be jostled twice by the threat of his grasp, you whisper, voice barely audible, “…Captain.”

  “Atta girl.” 

   Arriving at port in Nassau means safe haven for the crew of The Avenger, a chance to rekindle spirits with a few dozen barrels of liquor and a woman’s belly to keep any weathered sailor happy. In the Caribbean’s turning and heating morn, gulls scavenge for pickings of food, the white banks of sand converging with the blue tinged tide bathe the nudity of your feet with absorbed heat, it brings an irate wince to cross your features. Over the vast stretch of beach and headed further inland, the jolly tune of harboured pirates emit from the wooden, creaky shacks, if not counting the ruckus of noisy patrons enjoying their paid company. 

  Never did your captain have need for such sleaziness, such lazed women who lounge in wait for coins to fill the near-always empty drawstring bag tied to their thigh. He had you.   To hold you close to the scorching warmth of his battle hardened body, to passionately entangle your limbs in an endless thread of desire, and to bask in the radiance that is one another; the possession of a companion no other can have.

  And your own guard for your beloved captain doesn’t go unnoticed, by either him or the hungering gazes of those women yet in wait, your arms encircling around the bulk of Bucky’s flesh arm, in your neck the muscles strain as your fangs become elongated in a threatening display, the disguise of your eyes falters into narrow strips of glaring obsidian. 

  These women are no strangers to the presence of sirens, in spite of the limited number of population, a siren’s prize is never to be taken from her. 

  “Easy, Lass,” Bucky coos, lips drawn on either side into a charming grin. “There’s none suiting my fancy but you.”

  His assurances brighten refocused pupils and the lines around your mouth pull into a smirk. The now scornful glares of ladies unworthy of his time burn into you, and you in turn purse the tip of your tongue between your lips in retaliation. Behind, you hear a few members of the crew huff in their amusement. 

  With the crew tailing loyally behind their captain, each body a weighted husk ready to drown themselves in all that Nassau offers, the striking colour of a scarlet coat saunters forward in the corner of your vision. In a briefly stolen glance to your side, the brilliance of her green irises invade you with a soulless engagement, full lips drawn into a thin line and below the crimson stripe of her bandana, her brows are furrowed. 

  It comes to mind Bucky’s attendance on deck to anchor the ship at port, and so too does the possible thought that during that increment amount of time, Bucky could have very well informed Wanda of your curious skirmish ending in upheaval, caught red handed in the act. 

  And yet the events, the memory of what you experienced - the estranged bond you shared with the necklace - all of it remains. No bouts of stomach churning nausea or blurred hazes that leave you to stumble on your two feet, abandoning you to the mindless plane of confusion where memory is your worst and forgotten enemy. 

  And you prefer to keep it that way. These invasions that leave you more curious, sensing something greatly amiss the more of its occurrence is known, perhaps it’s best if you surrender the search. Your captain is all you need. Nevermind the ghostly songs that haunt the realm beneath the surface. Maybe, just maybe, there is good reason why you don’t remember anything. And if you cease this affair, then maybe with the grace of your beloved, that there will be no need to be swallowed into the misty thicket of her dark, scarlet magic. 

  I am my captain’s siren. I must remain with him. He is all I have. All I want to have…

    ‘Mm hm, mm hm, mm~hmm~hm~mm… mhm.,.’

  The melody chimes to lure your attention, the trickery of the voices blooms thickly throughout the forefront of your mind. You press to ignore the empty promise of their secrets revealed. This search ends now. No more. In defiance to the woeful, bleeding song of murmured hums, your arms hold tighter to Bucky, his chin dips low as his blue eyes look you over, gorgeous eyes of the ocean, captured within the handsome sculpture of his visage. A forbidden make of marble, carven with perfection in mind. 

  ‘Mm hm, mm hm, mm~hm—’

  “Something the matter, Siren?” thrums the husky drawl of your captain. You turn your eyes - your entire form of attention - to him, devoting it to him alone, and not to the tune that wanes with grieving cries that drown in the mists of that plane. You shake your head with refined elegance and bring a smile to grace him with. 

  “Nothing, my Captain,” you purr sweetly. Voice soft enough to easily die in the crashing of heavy waves, but so throbbing to the heart that the lilted beat of your voice could never be lost to him. Bucky grins at your words, respite is found in the security of your vow. Not only does your answer satisfy him immensely, but it draws Wanda’s intense focus away from you. 

  The quartermaster, Steve Rogers, is met in an engulfing embrace by a striking brunette with bouncy curls, lips bright and red and grinning, brown eyes sparkling in the Nassau’s brimming sun. Truth be told, she was far too pretty to be a mere human, her beauty akin to a glistening ruby, and maybe it saddens you the littlest bit that she foresees you with eyes of weariness rather than friendliness. 

  Perhaps if she were a siren herself, you’d both have settled together rather fondly as friends - as bonded sisters. But alas, with her own treasure now ashore for now, she takes to him and welcomes him with moaning cords and absorbing kisses, Bucky chuckles slyly with a wink to his exhausted friend. 

  Weather-beaten tables score the large deck of the tavern, most of them being vacant outside, but given the beginnings of your skin drying out, Bucky takes care to situate you as close to a shaded spot. Something you are noticeably grateful for with your cheek nuzzling into the openly revealed space of his chest, the belted strips of leather strapped over his chest warm your skin as well as his skin. 

  Casting you in flittering shadows are the swaying palms, their long and prickly spine leaves howling in the sea’s constant winds driven ashore. While other members of the crew flee to their own affairs to relax, those of Bucky’s inner circle remain close, like cards held to his chest, and you being the winning ace of his games, are held the closest. 

  “Restock of the ship’s supplies will take all day, not to mention, the girl needs a few restorations herself,” says Bruce, spectacles resting low upon the bridge of his nose, eyes finalising his scrawlings as his voice confirms. His hand runs over the plump of his cheek with a drained sigh, middle finger pushing the brass loop of his glasses upwards. 

  “And that’ll spend us… half our funds.”

  “Wouldn’t need to waste so much coin on crackers ‘nd other shite, had someone not snuck ‘round like a rat.” Clint’s eyes squint in his accusation towards none other than the master of maps and navigation, Stark, who partakes in defending himself behind a weak shrug. 

  “There’s actual rats aboard. T’wasn’t me.”

Clint’s upper lip curls into a sneer, the ship’s cook primed to render Stark into salted meatloaf, a dullened knife he took to using in both battle and kitchen is held in his nimble fingers. 

  “Fuckin’ thievin’—”

  “Quit your squabbling,” rumbles your captain, “strike what isn’t needed for the voyage. Double on reinforcements and armoury.” His gruff voice sends tingles through your still connected cheek to his front, content in hearing its booming and steady beat. Bruce nods and returns his gaze downward to his leatherbound companion, quill resipping ink, he scribbles into his book once again, humming and murmuring to himself. 

  Bruce Banner, though quite brutal in the midst of battles, is a relatively quiet man who tends to keep to himself for most of his membership as a crewmate. Often he dwells below decks, counting stock, taking note of damages and overall engaging the skin of parchment rather than a woman. 

   Not to completely disregard the sometimes scarce glances between himself and the fiery, flintlock dancer herself, Natasha, eyes meeting between the wooden blanks separating their worlds from dark to light. If history is planted there, there is little to know in your knowledge - your hazy knowledge. From what you’ve gathered, Natasha has a tongue that leaves many of the males on board chest torn and heart bleeding, in dire need for her to bandage them with a moment of her time. Time that she rather spent either dancing in the heat of conflict, pulling the ship in order or occupy herself with you. 

  In comparison to the neighbouring woman often skulking silently by Bucky’s heel like a prowling animal on a leash, Natasha offered you what nobody else truly had; a connection. Someone you can maybe call friend. 

  By no means is she completely softened around you, she pushes you beyond your limits, but in her interactions with you, she layers herself with a bout of steadiness and calm to keep you level headed at best. She even takes the time to teach you letters and words of human speech. Too nervous to ask such a tedious task of your own captain, it had been Natasha called upon to teach you.

   Under her mentorship, she had governed you away from the native tongue of your sea dwelling folk, and what had at first been mistaken as the ship’s adored feline, Alpine coughing up a fish bone, had just been you taking the first step in learning to speak the language of humans. Only then and afterwards did your captain also take part in your teaching, albeit through a more erotic means of lessons behind the closed door of his cabin. 

  Steve returns with a sway to his step, Peggy held snug to his hip, the two bound by invisible, sticky sap that glues them together. “We’ve drinks comin’, Cap!” He laughs with a clap to Bucky’s broad shoulder, jostling you forward with a startled whine, eyes stinging and dry in alertness. 

  You miss catching it at first, the sharpened glare of ice in his eyes towards Steve for his abrupt disturbance of you, the blonde haired man, lass-drunken already, clicks his tongue with a grimace of offered sincerity, uttering a quiet apology under his heated breath.

  Bucky is only willing to let his scowl go after you assure the quartermaster that there is no harm done, excusing yourself that your fatigue had gotten the better of your guard. 

  Flared tempers now cooled, Steve leans back against the rickety stage of the deck’s plank railing. The ruffled skirts of his companion’s dress ride a little higher on her thigh as she rests it over his lap, drawstring bag visible… and fattened with coin. Paid very early in advance. Paid full with at least three weeks worth of salary strapped to her leg. 

  A chorus of cheers spill out into the open air when tankards of foam-headed refreshments are delivered. Tony’s chapped lips bend around a cigar stick, catching a flame to his match by the heel of his boot, he lights it and puffs a smog that brings your nose to wrinkle and lungs to jump. 

  “Right,” he says, the end of the word lost in its pronunciation, “Down ter business.” The master of maps of navigation procures from his coat rolled parchments and lays them flat to the wooden rot, he knocks a knuckle hard in indication of the pirate’s haven. 

  “We’re here, Lassy. Show us where it is.” Silence falls over those of the inner circle, each pair of eyes lace between the strewn papers and your expression, gauging the lines around your eyes that speak of your concentration. In wait for either your truthful answer or another lie. 

  The tips of your fingers run the inked lines that describe the landmarks of islands, points of interest, known ship routes and x marks, whilst your captain’s own fingers trace along the outer of your thigh teasingly beneath the cover of your robe and the table. His touch is distracting you, but could you be to blame for their failure in search of the ancient treasure? After all, your memory wasn’t of best quality these days. 

  Tony rolls his fingers in a drumming pattern, each minute it grows louder and pounds in your eardrums, the wafting curtain of thick, cigar smoke clouds your senses. 

  Your captain, scowling at this, shoots his metal arm forward and plucks the cigar from Tony’s mouth and pushes the burning ash and tobacco into the veiny hide of his bare hand. Tony bites a string of curses as his hand retracts. 

  “Next time, it’s shoved down your fuckin’ throat, got it?” 

  “Aye, Cap…,” mutters Tony. He shoots you a seething glare but nevertheless, relinquishes his attempts to intimidate you into answering. 

  “You forget, sirens speak a certain way.” Comes the low purr of his lilt, breath hot against the shell of your ear, the encouragement of his hand snakes your thigh over into his lap, leaving your core, though hidden to others, exposed to his addictive touch. Your breath becomes latched in your lungs, struggling to be free and your toes curl as his flesh hand slips between your parted legs. “You just need to know how…” 

  You barely hide the hiccup in your erupting breath. His thumb, rough and firm, toys with the delicate bud that spurs the welling of arousal to moisten your folds. Behind the sealed line of his lips, he breezes a rich chuckle that courts you with promised, devoting attention to your clit, circling it slowly as the long, thick body of his middle finger runs further down your folds. The chill of gold grinds into your skin gently, the pearl hums lowly in the deep reverie of your mind once more, grazing your skin with a harmonic resurgence against the combating of Bucky’s explorative touch. 

  If the air had been thick with the sun’s heat before, then it was downright unbreathable now, your skin aches and itches to be submerged in the tranquil waters. You all but claw a single rocky formation on the far edge of the map. All eyes zero in on the point, taking in the towering form of inked rocks. 

  “You’ve to be jokin’,” Clint hisses quietly. Sam Wilson is the next to speak with a sigh, “That’s a death wish, Captain.”

  “Siren, you’re sure?” Your head bows slowly to Bucky’s question and his thumb ceases its movement. Your finger situated over the landmark trembles, your throat is dry, saliva collects in thick rivulets and makes it difficult to swallow your despair. 

  Hushed whispers fall over the crew as Bucky’s smouldering eyes darken in thought, contemplating the high stakes. For your finger lands not just on the precise location of the temple harbouring the world’s greatest treasure horde any pirate or king alike could dream of. 

  It spans over into dangerous, uncharted territory. Territory that resides as a mass graveyard for ships and souls. The Misted Song Isles. 

  A bedded corner of the world untouched by sunlight, forever shrouded in a mist that never falters in its opacity, leaving many blinded to the ambushing predators that await them. 

  These cousins are the cause of your repulsion. They are not sirens. They do not possess the ability to sing beautifully anymore. That which haunts the mists are not curated melodies to turn a heart soft and a man stirred in longing, no, but devilish shrieks and wallowing howls that scream in revel of their kill.

  “Captain, think about this for a sec—” The quartermaster, as is everyone else, silenced within an instant. You yelp and pull your hand close to your chest as the sharpened point of a blade punctures right where your finger had been. Your heart races against your ribcage. 

  “We set sail at dawn.” 

  His command goes unchallenged and hangs in the eeriness of uncertainty. His lips formulate into that smirk, daring of the course ahead, ready to face whatever thrilling adventure awaits him and his hardened crew. 

  “Prepare yourselves. We’ll soon amass a fortune like no other. Riches beyond belief,” Bucky preaches with a deepened, growling cord, thumb reviving the pleasing buzz between your thighs. Your head presses back into his shoulder, arching your core slightly into his hand. “I’ve never known those of my crew to shrink away from glory and plunder. So what of it, mates? Are you lot ready to take what’s ours?”

  “Aye!” erupts a booming throng of cheers and hollering, tankards fly skyward with trickling, foamy ales, and fists pound the tables enthusiastically. From you, Bucky draws a softened, pleasured whine only captured by his ears, a musical note he licks his teeth in savouring delight. 

  “What a rousing speech, Captain Barnes. Touches my own heart.” The inner circle becomes disrupted, parting into a narrow corridor to give their captain sight of the outsider. Bucky’s thumb comes to pause again, much to the displeasure of your quiet grumbling, your eyes seek out the intruder and gape with widened eyes. 

    “Rumlow,” growls Bucky. His hand bares upon your thigh a tightening squeeze. 

  Brock Rumlow, captain of The Lady Strike, stands present, brown coat beaten and done in by the rough life at sea, tricorn equal in match to the rest of his dishevelled attire. Dark, matted and oily hair is swept behind his ears, stubble very much unkempt and in need of a shave. His brown eyes take in the near bareness of your form, your hand pulls the robe’s fabric over your already covered breasts, and Bucky curls you further inward, protecting you from the fowl leering of Rumlow’s dark eyes. His jaw is set hard as a deep, possessive growl emits from his large chest, the storm of his jealousy on the rise. 

  With a cock of his head, Tony shoves the plans back into the confines of his coat with a huff, missing the tangy flavour of his cigar.

  By now, those of Rumlow’s crew move in behind him, a battle of glares and curled snarls, only one amongst the opposing crew brings a grin to fall over your face, eyes brightened in relief. Long, raven black hair sweeping down the curve of her back, strips of plaits are decorated with beads and small shells, A tall and lean build of a woman a few years older of your age, eyes the shape of almonds and disguised as kindly, sparkling hazels of greens and browns. 

  Her thin lips form a smile to match her tender features. You barely have another chance to second guess your next move, taking care to keep the intricately patterned robe around to protect your modesty, you push yourself away from your captain and fly into her open arms, her embrace a welcomed one after all these weeks. 

  “Mina!” 

  She greets your name with a softened breath, the calming lull of a siren’s power. The prodding of shells poke into your chest, but you pay little heed to them, too much absorbed into a fellow siren’s hold. To be held and nurtured by one so connected to the sea as you, and who is also held prisoner above its beckoning tides. 

  “My dear, your skin!” she gasps. Her lithe fingers skim the lengths of your exposed shoulders, shoving under the flowy sleeves to do the same along your arms. “How long has it been since—”

  “She does not speak that way anymore.” 

  The voice of your captain is sharp, cutting right through to the bone, it chills you. You know you did wrong by your actions, caught in the flurry of your excitement to meet Mina. He hadn’t expressed his permission for you to leave his side.

  Her eyes forecast the irritated slits, the ridge of her mouth shifting. You shake your head quickly. “Don’t…”

  She listens to your plea and directs her gaze aside, retrieving back a more composed appearance. “Apologies, Captain Barnes. I forget her tongue falters and is now consumed by human speech. Please, forgive me.”

  His eyes stare point blank akin to the barrel of his flintlock, finger locked ahold of the trigger and primed to fire a metal ball right between her eyes. He takes into account that her voice is dry in its sincere case that begs forgiveness. A case he finds unmoving. 

  And so it falls to you. Her arms fall from around you reluctantly, you press on towards Bucky, hands caressing the carved shape of his jawline. “Please, Captain… forgiveness?”

  For a moment he is silent, his stare unwavering and unblinking, it churns your innards unassuredly. “Aye.” His response brings you to breathe again with a smile. You swallow thickly, steadying yourself with the words you have become accustomed to, at first rehearing it over in your thoughts before you speak.

  “May I go to the Pools? My skin… is dry.” As if to further accentuate, the inflection of your voice matches your statement, having to clear your throat gently. 

  He nods. “Very well, Love. Hour’s half.” Ingratiating yourself in his good graces, you capture his lips in yours, his own chase after your brief kiss but the embarrassment that they give away just how parched your body is steers you away quickly. 

  You are blind to the narrowing of cold, steely eyes following Mina who walks at your side, arms encircling around you protectively, her own eyes meeting the ferocity of Bucky’s glare, her own hardened stare watered down to save you from being caught in the crossfire for her temper. She knows that you would suffer just as well as her if Bucky turned his decision around. 

  The conversing crews are drowned out noise in the back of your head, Mina guides you along the dirt path towards the haven’s centre. 

  The Pools, a central hub that extends low into the island’s heart, and a system of interconnected tunnels for sirens to rejuvenate their exerted bodies, confining them to an enclosure with no means to swim directly back into the ocean. By all means, it was a natural formation turned into a cage. 

  Peering over the rocky lips, the inviting waters below reflect minute glimpses of the sun, a portion of it concealed under the shrubbery and towering palms. The hue of bright blue blankets the surface before the long stretch of abyssal black that cascades down the rock walls.

  The waters, as expected, are vacant of any other sirens, and those scarce few could only be seen in flashes of shining scales and shadows moving beneath, dipping into the mouths of the tunnels. Hidden from sight.

  You shed the covering of your robe and set it aside, its luxurious fabric smelling of yours and Bucky’s intermingling scents, the decorative stitchwork and colours flaunt it as one of a kind, a nabbed piece from a Japanese merchant schooner Bucky and his crew pillaged, and which your captain presented to you as a gift. The first of many he would later present. Intriguing artefacts.

  Mina didn’t have need to discard herself of human-given clothing, plunging into the heavenly waters before you, her attire made with the natural ingredients of the sea, leather strips and woven cords stretch around her chest and back with rings of shells to fasten over it, keeping her breasts pushed together. The wispy lengths of her skirt flows with sheeted seaweed, circling around her slim waist as a ghostly curtain. You follow not long after with an eager dive, your nude skin is soothed by the cool waters. Your legs morph together into the singular, powerful tendril of your trail, the webbed fins attached to your lower back flutter like the wings of a dove finding freedom on the winds. 

  Your bodies take refuge below the surface, skin no longer assaulted by the lacerations of the sun’s light and blazing scorch. How sailors could idle by whilst under the cruelty of it, you will never understand. Your back arches into a spiralling twist, a high pitched chirp bouncing from your throat and coursing through your gills. 

  You bask in the excitement with Mina who twists and bends, circling you with a teasing swish of her tail, she gargles a sweet note that bubbles around her lips, her forehead presses to yours affectionately. 

  She intends to regard you with the native speech of your kind but stops, brows falling into a firm, saddened line over her eyes. In shame, your head bows. 

  Those of your crew may have stripped you of your right to recollect the siren dialect, but if she can count on anything, it is the motion of her hands and arms. The common communication of one’s body. 

  In a sequence of expertise, her arms rotate and her fingers stretch and curl. 

  What do you remember?

  Your eyes analyse her movement, careful to decipher her code. Not as fluent, given the occasional puzzled twist of her head, followed by a nod of understanding and correcting signal, she encourages through your hesitation, wanting for your answer. 

  I… remember a necklace. Bound to my Captain’s wrist.

  And what did this necklace look like?

  Again, it takes you a moment to find the rhythm of your response, her eyes narrow in their deep seated concentration, almond curved eyes that widen upon realisation.

  You tell her of the golden chain, sleek and elegantly thin yet strengthened, the many, tiny crystallised pearls that line the gilded netting over one larger pearl, with a finer shaped one looped beneath it that dangles.

  Given her momentary pause, you nervously motion. 

  What is it? 

  She raises her hand over her head, webbed fingers fused together, she rotates her wrist in circles.

  Royalty. Pearls represent royalty. 

  The sudden confusion presently blinking in your eyes gives Mina reason to continue. She moves quickly, it’s hard to exactly understand, you motion for her to pace herself, that you’re struggling. With an apologetic chirp, she starts over. 

  You must get it back. That necklace is more significant to you than you realise. Undoubtedly, a gift from your late mother—

I don’t understand! What… of my mother?

  Mina truly sees the sickening infection of your hazy memory, all too aware that it’s the doing of that scarlet witch, tainted by the dark magics that spawn from the mangroves, the teachers there no strangers to utilising sirens as part of their rituals. And all by the order of your captain. A crew lacing you with deceit. 

  Her waterline is touched by tears that form into uplifting bubbles. She organises her words slowly. Each one brings a sharp pang to your chest and your stomach to drop further and further down into the abyss below. 

  Your mother - the Queen - is dead. 

  Your heart is scored by the penetrating daggers of Poseidon's trident, the creeping of unnatural coldness sweeps the back of your neck and down over your shoulders, you huddle into yourself. You shake your head and it ensues into a maddening display of denial, your body trembles, the water grows increasingly troubled, once a calm settlement over the surface now laps at the surrounding edges of the enclosure. 

  This cannot be right, this cannot be the truth. No, you don’t wish to believe it. A weight is crushing around your chest, you want to resurface. For the first time, you crave to be out of the water. All you seek now is the scent of your captain washing over you, drowning you passionately in his possessive devotion, to be treasured by him and him alone, bathed in his dominating presence. His shadow. 

  At this point, you’d happily let him fuck the knowledge out of you. 

  In your abrupt desperation you take to moving swiftly, your head breaches through the barrier with a sputtering fit of coughs and gulps, but Mina follows you. Her webbed hand catches your wrist, her voice plucks through the ripples like the baritone string of a guitar. She calls for you to wait. Gently, she coaxes you to delve below once more, her eyes imploring you to remain, to not go running off to the very same man who wants for you and holds you captive. 

  The milky glaze of your eyes brim with tears, tiny bubbles run to the corners before they float upwards. 

  She rests her head to yours, silky thumbs caring over the form of your cheeks, running smoothly under the bend of your tearful eyes. When she believes you have calmed, she asks another question. 

  What else about this necklace can you tell me?

  I hear… voices. A-a melody. I don’t– don’t understand the words. It plays faintly.

  If the crew who harbours you stays for the festivities tonight, get the necklace and bring it to me. I may be able to appraise it.

  A lump catches in your throat, eyes bearing your terror, the harrowing thought of being caught again. You aren’t sure if the potential of another scarlet mist is worth the risk. 

  Steal it? I-I can’t! He’d know if I stole—

  You cannot steal what’s already yours, young one. Besides, you know just the way to get it from him. I saw the softened regard in his gaze for you. 

  What she suggests is laughable, and your disagreement shows, your head shaking and throat bobbing in motion akin to a scoff. But still, her insinuation brings warmth to bloom in your cheeks. Her brows furrow at this display, tail idly swaying, the length of her hair creating a dark, winding halo behind her. She dissects the gestures of your words. 

  His gaze never softens to me…

  In spite of this, she rolls her eyes, but they are hopeful in their stare towards you. You were done with the search… before. Now, you want answers. 

  “Siren!” A familiar voice booms, tone muffled by the watery barrier. Answering his summons, you return to the world above, sighing a deep breath of air, the few faces you recognise are mere blurs, unfocused in your vision. Your eyes meet the wintery cold of his eyes, not softened, and clouded in their ever present desire to have you under him - pinned skin to skin to him - and his beautiful lips shaped into a smirk. His stance high above you dominates you in his darker shadow that casts over the water. 

  “Hope you’re in a festive mood, my little Siren.”

TREEHOUSE TAGLIST —

@identity2212 @sebastianstansqueen @openup-yourmind @kandis-mom @calwitch @cjand10 @ashdoctor @missmarvelophilic @mostlymarvelgirl @daddy-bucky @thegirlwholoveslivesfanfiction @armystay89

#treehouse taglist #the dark demeter writing catalogue #bucky barnes x reader #female reader #bucky barnes #bucky x reader #bucky fanfic #james bucky buchanan barnes #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes angst #bucky smut #bucky barnes x fem!reader #bucky x reader smut #pirate au #siren reader #pirate bucky #bucky barnes x reader smut

[goosefruit]

the sound of her voice

vanessa shelly x reader

tw: phone sex, sub!reader, sex toys (bullet vibrator & dildo), teasing, orgasm denial, masturbation, maybe exhibitionism (not really? vanessa is in a public space but alone), a lot of dirty talk

================================================

You had always been a good girl for Vanessa.

Normally, on your days off, you’d wait patiently for her to come home, sometimes even dressing up to give her a pleasant little surprise. In return, she’d reward you with her tongue and fingers until the both of you were too tired to keep going. 

Normally, you would never tease her while she was at work, aside from the occasional suggestive text. 

Today, however, time felt unbearably slow. Every part of your body was aching to have Vanessa by your side, but it would be at least another 2 hours before she was home. 

That was when a wicked idea came to your mind.  

Getting off your living room couch, you made a trip to your bedroom closet to look for a couple of items. A blush crept up your cheeks as you thought about this brilliant plan that you were about to execute. 

You laid down on the bed with a small but powerful bullet vibrator, as well as the dildo that was usually attached to Vanessa’s strap-on harness. The silicone cock was a whopping 8 inches long, in a dark shade of purple. Memories of your girlfriend bouncing you on it in the back of her cop car flashed through your mind, sending a wave of arousal down to your core.

To make the experience even more pleasurable, you decided to wear nothing but one of Vanessa’s hoodies. Wrapped up in her scent, you felt as if you could close your eyes and pretend that you were laying in her lap. 

And so you turned on the vibrator and dialed her phone number.

“Y/N! What’s up, honey?” Her sweet voice sang out from the other end.

“Vanessa,” you slipped the toy under the hoodie, pressing it against your nipple. The sensitive peak became hard and erect at the contact, and you bit your lip to avoid making a noise. “Nothing’s going on today. I just reeaally wanted to hear your voice.”

Vanessa gave a light laugh. “Miss you too, babe. I just finished checking up on Freddy’s; thought there was a break-in, but it was just a raccoon who slipped in and broke some shit trying to get to a pizza that the new night guard left out." 

“That’s absurd! Hope the little guy at least got a bite,” the vibrator began to move lower, now at your hip bone. “So, does this mean you’re still in the pizzeria’s parking lot, in that cop car of yours?”

“Mhm,”

“Alone?”

“Completely. You know no one visits this place other than me and the ever-changing night guards.”

“Great,” you smirked to yourself, drawing soft circles on your inner thigh with the vibrator. “Because I’m in bed right now, warming myself up for you when you get home.” You turned the vibrator up a setting so that it was loud enough for her to hear through the phone. 

“Oh, are you now?” 

The confidence in her voice almost made you rethink your decisions, but you pushed through and continued talking. 

“And oh fuck, my pussy is so wet. It’s practically dripping for you, Vanessa.” Putting the phone on speaker, you set it down beside you so that you could run a finger through your slick folds while the other hand guided the toy closer. “I’ve been thinking about you all day, the things I want you to do to me, and the things I want to do to you. You drive me crazy, you know that? Fuck, I wish you were here with me.”

“Well, I can’t say that I’m not enjoying this newfound boldness, sweetheart.” There was a hint of raspiness in her voice. “But you know you could never touch yourself as good as I do.” 

The vibrator finally completed its journey to your clit, and a loud moan escaped from between your lips. 

“Mmm, fuck— and guess what, Nessa? I’m wearing nothing except for your hoodie…smells heavenly. Can almost pretend you’re here eating out my pussy. Ohh god—  feels fucking a–amazing—” 

You took the dildo and lined it up with your dripping wet hole, slowly pushing the tip in. The vibrator was still held in place on your clit, the double stimulation causing your eyes to roll back.

“I’ve got our favourite dildo here too. That huge one you love to destroy me with…better get it nice and lubed up for you when we have our fun later. It’s suuuch a shame you can’t see how well my pussy is taking it right now.” You pushed the entire length of the dildo in before pulling out to thrust it into your pussy. Keeping quiet was no longer a concern as curses and moans spewed out of you. “Ohh y–yeah— can you hear how wet my fuckhole is?”

“Yes baby, keep talking,” her heavy breathing was audible. 

You pounded the toy into your pussy harder. “If you were fucking me, I would hook my legs over your shoulders so you can rail me so deep I can’t walk the next day. Doesn’t that sound nice? Just like t–that, baby— bruise my fucking insides. Make me cum, Van– mmm!” At this point, you were rambling, saying anything that came to mind. Your brain had already turned to mush the second she started speaking in that sultry fucking voice. 

Vanessa let out a long groan, the same one you were used to hearing every time you made her cum. Did she just…?

“Fuck,” she panted, a quiet moan coming from her back of her throat. 

The realization made you halt in your actions. “Vanessa, did you just have an orgasm!?”

“Oh honey, I told you the parking lot’s empty. What? You thought I wasn’t going to touch myself to my pretty girl’s voice?”

The thought of Vanessa in the driver’s seat of her car with a hand down her pants made your stomach tighten with excitement. You began to fuck yourself with the dildo again. 

“V–Vanessa— I’m getting close too—” you pleaded, praying that she would let you cum from your own hands just this once. 

“Not yet, sweet thing. You’re going to stay on call with me while I finish my patrol for today, but don’t you dare cum before I get home.”

You whined, not knowing whether you could last even 5 more minutes. 

“But by all means, keep fucking yourself. My radio’s broken, so give me something satisfying to listen to.”

“Vanessa– I ca—’t—”

“You said you wanted me to make you cum, no? So be a good girl and hold on for me.”

Of course, you were her good girl. So even though your sensitive clit couldn’t possibly handle any more stimulation, you turned the vibrator up another setting.

“I’ll be home in an hour.”

#fnaf x reader #vanessa afton #vanessa fnaf #vanessa shelly #vanessa shelly x reader #vanessa monroe #vanessa shelly smut #wlw nsft #fnaf vanessa

[writinganything]

WAIT WAIT WAITTTT. BESTFRIEND!ETHANLANDRY X READER BUT HE GETS HER PREGO AND HE LIVES AND BEGS TO BE FORGIVEN🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽🙏🏽I BEG

yes its me. the one who wants more, but my birthdays in 2 hours tho (may10) SCREAMING

“Please”

Pairing: Bsf!Ethan Landry x Reader

Warnings: Possible spoilers from Scream 6, use of Y/N, D/N is for daughter’s name

Synopsis: Ethan and you were friends with benefits until he reveals his true identity. Even after all this, he survives and begs to be apart of the baby and your life

It’s been a year.

A year since you last saw his face. A year since everything crumbled apart around you.

It all happened so fast but so slowly at the same time. One moment you guys were in his bed making out and a second later, you were in the shrine while Ghostface was taking off his mask to reveal curly brown hair.

You didn’t want to believe it at first, thinking it was all a nightmare because why would your bestfriend with benefits be behind all this mess? He looked at Tara and Sam first and when his eyes laid on your face, his cruel expression softened for a few seconds like he was apologetic before getting back to his cruel self…But it all looked fake.

At this moment, you wanted to cry. Bawl your eyes out as you asked yourself a single question.

“Did he wanted to add these benefits only to take advantage of me before killing me?”

This question haunts you day and night ever since discovering who was behind the mask-

A high pitched cry interrupted your thoughts and you sighed as you stood up from the couch.

After you had rocked her in your arms for what seemed like an eternity with her cries echoing in your ears, she had finally found again some sleep, but still kept her in your arms.

At one point, the doorbell rang throughout the appartement.

You quickly walked toward the door. It was probably Chad, Sam or Tara

“Hi-" you begin but the greeting die in your throat as you immediately recognize who was at the door.

That wasn’t Chad, Sam or Tara…no it was an undead.

He haven’t changed much except for his hair that got a bit longer and his gaze wasn’t as innocent as it pretended to be before. Now it was dry without an ounce of joy…until he laid eyes on your daughter

Our daughter.

Did he noticed how much she looked like him? She has the same tuft of curly hair, same eyes, nose and the same smile that could make anyone’a heart melt.

“Good evening Y/N” he greets you and tried to make a soft smile.

It’s like you snapped out of my trance and everything that happened twirled inside your head. Anika, Quinn, Gale, the core 4. Every memories came back like a tsunami of thoughts.

“Stay back” you muttered as I walked backwards.

Your hold on D/N increased a bit and he noticed the way your hold her even closer to you. His eyes were filled with an apologetic and ashamed look.

Ashamed of himself.

“Please just listen to me” he begs as he takes a step toward you.

You didn’t stop walking backwards as my head was making the “no” side over and over again until your calves touched the couch.

This couldn’t be real right? This couldn’t be happening right now.

“I know I fucked up and you have every reason to hate me…but please just listen to what I have to say” he says again with a pleading look in his eyes.

He hesitated. You couldn’t risk D/N safety around someone like him, but curiosity got the better of you. Telling the core 4 about his return would be a mistake too, because they’ll kill him and you’ll never know what he wanted

So you made the safest option and you let him enter your appartement. It was like letting the wolf enter the lamb’s home.

Your index pointed the couch and he sat down as you demanded him to. Meanwhile, you went to your daughter’s bedroom to put her in her sleeping self in the crib.

If his intentions were still wicked, at least she wouldn’t be in the same room and you prayed he wouldn’t hurt her after killing you.

“You have ten minutes” you acknowledged him and sat at the opposite side of the couch.

“Thank you”

Ethan found the need to say that before beginning anything. You made a small nod and he began talking.

“First of all, I want you to know that I never wanted to do all that-" but you interrupted him.

“But you still did it Ethan! You lied and-" this time he interrupted you

“Please let me speak” he said as he sighed. “I did all this so my dad could actually find me interesting. Ever since I was a child it was always Richie, the perfect son. The one who got all of my dad’s attention after my mother died. If it wasn’t him that was being praised, it was Quinn. She’s the first daughter and the oldest twin. Quinn has always been a daddy’s-little-girl and she became the favourite child after our brother’s death.”

He explain. Ethan took a deep breath before continuing.

“But what about Ethan Bailey? I was only the youngest, the baby of the family that nobody acknowledged. After Richie died, Wayne started treat me like Richie and I enjoyed the sudden attention…until he asked me to be a Ghostface. I hesitated a long time, but accepted because I thought that if maybe I did like Richie he would love me more”

You were speechless as he spilled all this at you.

“But you came along and we began our benefits relationship- and oh you don’t know how much I hated myself at this time-" but you interrupted him again

“This doesn’t explain how you survived and found me”

He almost chuckled at your eager of answers, but this wasn’t something to laugh at.

“The tv only hit my head, but it didn’t damage anything, it only made me black out for a few” he explained “Fortunately, I woke up the same moment cops showed up and I successfully slipped through their fingers”

He hesitated before continued his story. “Now you’re gonna find me weird” he sigh

“I already find you weird, just say what you were about to” you say

“I found where you lived because I looked for you and the core 4” he spited out

“You stalked us” You say more as a statement than a question.

“No I looked for you, I didn’t stalk you…and if I didn’t I would’ve never found out that we have a daughter”

Ethan chose not to say that he followed you almost everyday to know that got where you needed to be safely.

A silent went in between both of you. You couldn’t believe what you were doing. Ghostface was right in front of you and you were having a cordial conversation with him. What would the others think?

“Can I ask you a question?” you breath out.

Ever since he got here, the question has been burning your tongue. He nodded and you asked it in a small voice “Did you agree to level up our friendship only to take advantage of me?”

He frowned at your sentence. He never imagined once that you would feel like that

“Y/N of course not. I’m not some kind of monster…”

“But I still don’t know if I can trust you Ethan…after everything”

Ethan pursed his lips together and looked at the ground. “Please, I will do whatever it takes”

“I don’t know…” you whispered and stood up as you sigh and he stand up too.

He made small steps toward you and when you didn’t pushed him away, he took your much smaller hands in his with a pleading look. “Please Y/N, you’re the only one I knew wouldn’t kill me if I shewed up”

“How do you know I won’t kill you” you say, attempting to scare him but it didn’t work one bit. You knew damn well you weren’t going to kill him.

“Please, I promise to never do anything stupid again” he pleads as he looked into your eyes.

His gaze was full of sorrow and regret while yours were uncertain. Ethan noticed how tense you were and did the first thing that came to his mind.

His knees soon touched the ground and he began the beg even more. “Please Y/N, I cannot live knowing you hate me. I accept the core 4, but please not you. You’re my best friend and I love you so much”

His voice was cracking as he spoke and his hands that were still holding you began to shake. “I even started therapy and I could get a psychologist too if that would make you happy and feel safe around me”

Tears blurs your sights as you listened to his promises. Maybe you should give him a chance after all…

“I’m so sorry for everything” his sentence full of his teary voice as he cried. “I won’t ever do something bad again. I’ll make you happy everyday Y/N and if you allowed me too I would make our daughter happy”

Your appartement was filled with his pleading and his cry and after all, the wolf was revealed to be as soft as a lamb.

———-

I hope you liked what I wrote for your request and happy birthday @scqr6m ! This was really long to write and I tried posting it yesterday for your birthday but because of school I couldn’t 😭And also you can choose the daughter’s name since I did this for your birthday.

This is unfortunately a one time thing, because I don’t want people to lie about their birthdays so I write them something. I did this for her because it was my first serious request so yeah

I hope you guys liked it and English isn’t my first language but I tried my best to make it make sense.

#ethan landry #ethan landry x reader #ethan landry smut #scream #ethan landry x you #ethan landry x y/n #ethan landry imagine #scream 6 #scream vi #ethan landry fluff #ethan landry x fem!reader #ethan landry imagines #ethan landry headcanons #ethan landry oneshot #ethan landry angst #scream 2023 #scream 6 smut #scream x reader #scream vi:hcs #ethan landry scream #scream iv

[grugruel]

Fun at Fazbear's

Parings: William Afton x f!reader

MDNI/NSFW

Masterlist

Summary: Mr. Raglan has had to work some long and hard hours the past few weeks, and you just want to help the poor man winde down. But when you sneak into his office, hes on a call. So naturally, you decide to test his limits.

Word count: ca 2k

Warnings: established-secret relationship, age-gap (reader over 20), choking, semi-public sex, pinv sex, rough sex, A slap, creampie, slight praise (used "good girl" once.)

I opened the door quietly, slinking in before anyone looked my way.

I knew he would be working late today, as he had been for a while. So I wanted to chear him up, to leave him with a pleasant memory of me for later.

He sat at his desk, leaned back in his chair with the phone in one hand and forehead resting in the other as he supported himself on the armrest.

'No, no. That wont work.' He spoke into the phone, shaking his head, clearly sick of the conversation. Perfect.

I stepped inside, turning my back against the door so that I faced the room. I grabbed the doorknob behind my back and carefully pulled it shut, making the door click softly as it locked. Steve looked up at the sound, noticing me and immedietly sighed. He was not particularly pleased that I had interrupted him, and even less so for entering his office without permission. But I would not be so easily discouraged.

Smiling sweetly I clasped my hands behind my back and sauntered toward him, swaying my hips seductively with each step. He let his hand fall onto the desk and mouthed 'What is it?' As he listened to the voice on the other end, furrowing his brows in annoyance, not really in the mood for my usual antics.

I shrugged my shoulders innocently and a pleased expression crept its way ontl my face, it could not be rubbed of even if I tried. My hands slid up my body, stopping at the bow of my blouse which was tied around my neck, and undid it.

The annoyance in his features reshaped into uncertainty as he raised his eyebrows in surprise, 'Uh huh, well. . . Go on.' He answered the person on the phone, but looked at me as he said it. I obliged.

I twirled the blouse ends between my fingers, then traced my hands along the bare skin of my chest, slowing as I reached the buttons and undoing them one by one, very slowly. A wicked smile crept onto Mr. Raglan's face as he sat up in the chair and leaned onto the desk, nodding approvingly and urging me to continue.

I stopped wasting precious time that couldve been spent close to him and walked up to him briskly, lust sinking its claws into me. I rounded his desk, stepping into his proximity and he moved his arm to make room for me. As I moved to sit down his desk, he grabbed my waist with his free hand and pulled me close to him. I stood between his spread legs, almost close enough to touch his growing bulge. He laid his chin on my ribs looking up at me, then kissing the skin under the ribcage in gratitude. He had needed this, and he would be taking complete advantage of it later, fully letting go of his stress as he came deep isnide you.

I smiled down at him, knowing that hed yet to expercience the full extent of my plan. I sat down his desk, opening my legs slightly. He sighed again, but this time happily. His hand fell to my thigh, rubbing it purposefully and I hummed appreciatively at the feeling. Spreading my legs wider, letting my skirt hike up over my thighs to reveal my unclothed core. He stopped rubbing and froze, looking at my center with an animalistic desire and squeezed my thigh real fucking hard. Id have fingerprint shaped bruises in the morning, thats for sure. He fought hard to control his breathing as his hand fell down the inside of my thigh and moved to my clit.

But I grabbed his wrist an inch before he made contact and his eyes snapped to mine, furious that I would dare stop him. But I only smiled, very pleased as I was in control, which was only infuriating him further. I raised my hand to his face, pinching his chin between my fingers and meeting his eyes through my lashes. I leaned close to his unoccupied ear to whisper, 'You cannot touch, not while on the phone.' And smiled wickedly, very happy with myself. I was chearing him up and he'd get his prize, but I wanted to have some fun for myself first.

I leaned back again, giving him a quick kiss on the lips to prove that I could still touch, then moved my gaze to his as I pulled the blouse over my heaf and removed my bra. I stood up swiftly, unzipping the skirt at my back and let it fall to the floor. I sat back down and put on a show for him, my hands roamed my body, squeezing, pinching, kneading. Breathlessly moaning, loud enough for him to hear, but low enough to avoid the caller hearing. He snarled at the sight, holding on to the armrest agressivly, almost ripping through the material. I heard the voice on the phone go, 'Mr Raglan, is everything alright?'

I raised my eyebrows in mock surpise and whispered 'You'd better answer that.' But Mr Raglan's reaction was not what I was expecting. His expression changed from fury to calculated grinning, then answered the man 'Sorry about that.' He drawled, 'Im not feeling to well, would you mind if my assistant answered your questions instead? Shes more than capable.'

My eyes widened in fear, eyebrows remained raised in what was not mocking anymore. I had, had the crontol for a second and he ripped it away from me. I heard a muffled agreeing from the man, 'Great, I'll go get her' Steve told him, then handed me the phone.

I took it involuntarily, as if forced by my own body, knowing there would be hell the second I put it to my ear. I Hesitated, as he was staring me down, waiting to pounce on me like a predator luring its prey. As I contemplated my choices, he began unbuckling his belt. I swallowed hard, anticipation and fear prickling my skin in equal amounts, then answering 'Hi, this is his assistant speaking.'

And then, rightly so, there was hell. He zipped down his jeans and pulled it out. I gasped at the sight of him, huge to say the least. 'Mhm, Yes thats right sir' I answered the man on the phone with a shaky voice.

Steve hooked his hands under my knees and dragged me closer to him, then moved my legs to stradle his hips. His cock teasing my opening, he met my eyes hastily and put a finger to his lips. A clear warning, truly threatening if anything and then shoved himself inside of me. I grabbed the end of the desk for support as his thrusts rocked my entire body and bit into my shoulder to keep from screaming. He grabbed my hip with one hand and pushed my upper body against the desk with the other, then grabbing my breast rougly. I squeezed my eyes shut as I tried to focus on the callers voice, but it proved hard as pain and pleasure coursed through me. His pounding was vicious, no doubt punishing me. But I was loving every second of it. He moved his hand to my throat, grasping it gently and stroking my jugular in soothing motions, then yanking me toward him, meeting my lips in a hungry kiss. I moved the phone to my shoulder, holding it firmly against my skin, hoping it would be enough to muffle the disgustingly carnal sounds of wet slapping and kisses. He released my lips and kissed his way down my shoulder and chest, stopping at the breast he'd previously attacked and took it into his mouth, sucking and kissing feverishly. I threw my head back in pleasure, moaning loudly. His hand squeezed my throat in warning, reminding me of the man on the phone. My eyes flew wide, I put the phone back to my ear 'Hello, miss? Are you there?' I covered the phone, sighing in relief as he had not heard us, 'Im sorry- sir' I managed, stopping myself mid-scentence from moaning again, 'Im not quite sure what happened there.' I lied, rushing through the words in the most normal voice I could muster. Mr Raglan chuckled against my skin, his breathing strained. He let go of my throat, pulled out of me completley and stepped back. Confusion hit me for just a second before his hands were at my hips again, pulling me off of the desk, turning me around and thrust me back over it, all in one quick motion. He nestled his hand in my hair and shoved my face into the desk and then slammed back into me. His pace quicker and harder than before, the sound of slapping skin mixed with him filling me perfectly had me close to my release. 'Mmh, close.' I mumbled, earning a hard slap on my ass in punishment. I bit into my hand, trying hard not to make another sound. 'I- I uhm. . I only ment that we're close, to. . .' I paused, trying to think of am answer as my mind was clouding with thoughts of my realese, spots were specking my vision and a knot tightening in my stumache. 'Close to-' I began but stopped myself, 'Close to meeting our goals for the month.' I tried, but had no idea what I or the man was actually talking about, but he sounded pleased.

I was quite sure however, that he left our conversation more confused than before he had called. He finally wished me a good evening and hung up. A pent up moan escaped me that same instant, 'Good girl' I heard breathed from behind me, and I smiled happily. Glad I had managed relatively well despite the circumstances. His thrusts were becoming unfrequent, close to his release aswell. He snaked his free hand under me to rub my clit and It tipped me over the edge, with him close behind me. I almost screamed, had he not stopped me. He yanked me toward him, my back flush against his chest and moved the hand to cover my mouth, muffling my screams. In our exhaustion, Mr Raglan fell back into his chair and dragged me with him, settling in his lap with his dick still inside me and his cum oozing out of me. I leaned my head against his shoulder, and he stroked some hair of my face as we just enjoyed the sound of eachothers breathing.

'Am I still coming over later?' I asked him, and he smirked, 'Youre coming later, your coming tonight, tomorrow morning, again at work and again in the evening, and so we shall repeat.' He breathed, and I smiled 'Good, because im not sure how well that call ended and we both might need some chearing up after that.'

#william afton smut #fnaf smut #five nights at freddies smut #William afton x reader #fnaf movie #matthew lillard #william afton fic #steve raglan fic #steve raglan smut #steve raglan x f!reader #william afton x you #fnaf imagines #william afton imagine

[vsyrworld]

i rrly need a quick fluffy post monza charlos fanfic so here is my shot (turn out its not quick but anyway)

rated : m (bcs of they kiss a lot)

tags : sleepy cuddle and kisses, singapore as core memory, not beta read so sorry bout error.

♡ enjoy ♡

///

carlos is so so done. so freaking wasted as he could only sprawled on his bed, lying there like a death log. feet cramp, shoulder aching, body hurts everywhere. and finally after a dreadful weekend, enormous laps of attacking and defending rewarded by a worthy podium, is an ecstasy but not for long as he has to spare his social energy for boring long ass press interview and celebration. at least the last one is another reward.

he thought.

if isnt because of that stupid thieves out of nowhere, he already eating his dinner out, have a drink that charles had promised him through interview and the bad thing was charles also already texted him, "matee! lets have a drink together tonight!!", he read and left the chatroom opened, and then his watch accident, ran his breath out then the police -- oh merde, charles must be waiting him at bar or atleast his response and yet- carlos told rupert to skip a dinner and call it a day.

the other bad news is, if he is too tired. he couldnt sleep. and tifosi are still out there whatever the chantng or lullaby they are doing-- its actually nice and heartwarming-- but he needs sleeps. constantly nagging by the anonymous hands, scents, crowds making him dizzy. he lost sense of familiarness. then he remember this week, they didnt film anything about c2 challenges. carlos hadnt had a chance to annoy charles because they are cramped in a big crowd, people here people there --

his phone ringing stopping carlos from circulating haze thought

lazily, or more pricisely, fatiguely, reach his bed side stand and swipe the call without minding the caller id,

"carlos?! you okay? where are you now?" carlos stunned in silence but his lips form a smile, cahlos

"hey" he turned his body to lay down on his left side. the phone is on top of his right ear, as he dropped his own hand to matress, "sorry" he speaks slowly, his energy already depleted

"forget it, the important is you are ok." charles' voice smoothing right to his ear.

"hm" he hummed in agreement. already closing his eyes.

he heard a chuckled from other line, "do you want me ...um..."

carlos smiled as his hand mindlesly caressing the empty spot beside him,

"dont wanna get up. too tired" he said truthfully. the bed is already swallowed him half of his body and soul,

"okay" charles said. carlos didnt expect anything so he doesn't hang up the phone.

but he knows charles will come anyway,

thus when his hotel room door closed with a soft thuds, and his arms streched into a cold empty spot is finally, finally, now replaced by a slender warm figure.

carlos with eyes closed, instinctively wraps the body and pulling him so his chest against charles' chest, legs tangled each other, a warm laugh land on his sleepy face

"is this how you greet me, hm? mister ministary of defence? pole sitter? podium winner? or hm a superhero who chasing down the thieves around the street hmph--"

carlos shuts him with long deep kiss, with the very last energy he had. his hands welcoming him by smoothers down the softness of hoodie charles' wears. it is so warm and cloudy. charles fresh scents is a lily, musky vanilla. sweet and calming makes him dropped his lips into charles juncture neck.

"wrong," he replies and left a warm kiss on charles exposed skin. "it's your lover." finally. a familarness.

charles breathed out as his finger massaging carlos hair softly. "hi to you too, mi amor"

they take their own time respectively, trying to gain and mapping each other body again after a full weekend constantly dealing with stranger sweats, sticky skin.

"miss me?" charles said into carlos thick hair. he loves when charles does that.

he opens his mouth to answer but then his wicked mind does something else,

charles let a sudden moan as carlos nipped and sucking charles neck slowly, open mouthed, "ca- ah, carlos, wait" the way charles gripped carlos hair's is so addicting. its soft but firm, delicate but sensual. carlos cant get enough from it.

carlos grunts and continue licking the spot, "you said you tired, ah-" charles didnt even finished his sentence because their hards-on rubbing against each other and carlos circling his arm on charles wait, trying to get the friction

but carlos is tired, so the movement is painfuly slow thus creating a consistent gap of moan from charles. "you menance" charles said between moan as he chin up carlos so they are facing each other.

"open your eyes you idiota" carlos slowly blinking his eyes to find charles hazy gaze straight at him with such a fondness.

carlos breath into his face and decide to gives him a eskimo kisses. the one that he and charles likes to do. its ticklish but sweeter than lips kisses.

from carlos hooded eyes, he bring his palm to caressing charles' cheek, "tired. sorry" and eyes flutters to shutting again

charles laughs like a lulabby to him, "okay okay. so don't rub on me. let save it for the morning" he exchanged the kiss by rubbing his nose to carlos cheek and back again to carlos' nose, then he stayed there.

"charles" he said after a moment with, of course, the tifosi singing at outside

"hm?"

"tell your fans to shut up please"

charles giggled then smacked carlos biceps that hugs them close, "hey that's rude to say like that!" carlos didnt mean it but he really really need a quite and good sleep. really, he let out a dissapoint grunt

charles shifted his head to see beyond carlos shoulder, at the closed curtain window, luckily they couldnt be seen from outside. "they are not my fans, carlos"

another nose rubbing, "its ours"

carlos smiled at charles statement as his mind start day dreaming about monza podium celebrations. he is enchanted by the prancing horse.

"si, but i really need a quite moment." carlos hummed,

charles doesn't answered him, only shifted his head closer to him then flushing their forehead together. breath rising constantly with each other, trying the best to focusing their breathing rhythm and so the tifosi chant become a soft background sounds.

"charles" carlos said again between the time their chest expand.

"i'm here" a slow long exhale drawns out from both of them.

as both of them inhaling the oxygen, carlos closed the gap by placing himself to charles' lips with a soft kiss. charles , slow but reassuringly, sealed them with pulling carlos closer and they start to exchanged some languid kisses. it was a simple peck then turns into a french kiss somehow, back again to calmer one and ending it with their most favorite kisses all the time, the one long deep kiss.

to have charles lips against him, and their nose flushed into each other cheek. carlos kissing him raw and breathlessly until the air in his lungs sucked all out, charles not wanting to apart from carlos' lips, cluthed his hand to carlos' tshirt, and other one is settle down at spaniard cheek to trails carlos face up and down. thus, carlos answered it by tighting his waist grips.

they pulled out together in a loud exhale, "god i love when you do that" charles giggled and bring their nose kissed each other affectionately.

carlos grins widely with his eyes still closed. he rubs charles' in agreement.

"carlos i have an idea"

"what is that?"

"lets go to singapore a couple day quicker than others"

charles statement successfuly makes carlos' eyes open. he analyze charles expression but none other than a soft private smile he gives him and there is a longing, like a want feeling, a desire and a permission for spending a time together outside racing schedule

"you want to flight early?" he reassure charles again, afraid it's might his delulu scenario since his brain is not working properly.

"us. i want us to ..." charles dimples appear as he bites his lips nervously,

"to what?" carlos raised his eyebrows

"you know, do what couple do?" he said shyly

carlos swear he melted against the bed sheet ever more, "date then?" he gives charles a kiss on his dimples.

which create a soft giggle, "you can say that"

"yeah" carlos brings his hand into charles' nape and goes into his cheek where the dimple is rested. he really really want to feel him all.

singapore, a perfect runaway country. is not monza, is not charles' monaco and it is also not carlos' malorca. it's their singapore.

"yes, i like that" carlos said again this time between the kiss.

"yeah?" charles is caressing his eye bag. smoothing them like a butter, making carlos purrs

"yes and then we can make love there too" he grins teasingly and a hand smack on his chest making him laughed.

"you are really what max said, naughty" charles rolled his eyes, "but yes i guess we can"

"in the pool?" he pushed again, eyes glint with a mischieve, "pool sex?"

"oh my god cahlos, stop!" charles put his own hands to covered his well redden face.

he chuckled seeing charles flushtrated so he dropped a kiss on charles' hand, whispering a "carino" against the slender fingers.

"if is not singapore..." carlos trailed his voice down as charles opened his hand and settled it down into carlos' cheek. A circular hand motion drifting him to sleep,

"if is not because of singapore, i wouldn't be here with you" he said before closing his eyes

he doesn't have to see charles expression, he already know it by all of his heart

so he doesn't protest when charles tucked him down, resting his chin ontop of carlos head, wraping his arm protectively as carlos felt a drop of forehead kiss

"let's sleep and get out from here"

with that, carlos finally get his best sleep in that day.

#f1 #c2 #1655 #charlos #charles leclerc #carlos sainz jr #i wrote this at 11.00 pm like the fuck #im sucker for singapore lore #my fics

[fortuna-et-cataclysmos]

On Katara and feminism in NATLA

I grew up with ATLA. I was exactly Katara’s age when ATLA started to air in my country, and this cartoon has taught me more about life than I’d like to admit. Among them, was feminism.

I was absolutely obsessed with Katara as a kid: back then strong female characters - who were BOTH girlish and strong! – were still quite rare in mainstream media. I absolutely loved to see this girl who was raised in a patriarchal society similar to mine, who was both girly and an absolute badass even in days she didn’t know how to properly waterbend.

Back in those days, they were airing the episodes in order and I was super excited to see her FINALLY learn how to properly waterbend once they reach the North Pole. So when Paku refused to teach her for BEING A GIRL, as a preteen girl myself, I was ENRAGED.

Then Katara did something crazy. She freaking defied a waterbending master, knowing that she had no chance of winning whatsoever. And guys, I swear that fight became a core memory for me. On our crusty Windows XP’s desktop, there was a gif downloaded over several minutes of that exact fight. And I would watch it. On loop. When Katara defied Paku, I felt empowered, and that feeling never left.

Now that I am done with my lame ass backstory, back to NATLA.

You can imagine how EXCITED I was to finally see that fight in 4K. At that point, I was already pissed that they removed Sokka’s sexist flaws and subverted his dynamics with him, rather than Katara being “the parent” of the group (which was outrageous, if you ask me. One of the main character traits of Katara was her being a mother figure at an early age, which explained why she always felt like she HAD to be the responsible one, and why she had so much repressed rage).

But Katara’s struggle with the Northern Tribe over her right to learn how to use waterbending for fighting? That, in my opinion, was epic! Why?

Katara’s fight with Paku was a premediated act

In the original series, Paku says that girls can’t learn how to waterbend, and in a moment of rage, Katara whips him in the neck. I agree that it was a totally badass move, and it made especially sense given her drive to learn waterbending for fighting.

But I also really liked how NATLA approached that: in NATLA, when Katara learns that she cannot waterbend to fight, she doesn’t immediately attack Paku. No, she takes the time to think about it, talk about it with Aang, with Sokka. Then, she decides to defy Paku.

In a way, her action is a protest: she isn’t angry at Paku personally, she is angry at the sexist rules he perpetuates. In a way, this calculated way of deciding to fight shows a certain emotional maturity and dedication to the cause of feminism.

I really liked it.

The resolution of the fight

One thing that really disturbed me in the cartoon was how that fight scene was resolved. My preteen brain couldn’t make sense of why Paku suddenly decided to teach Katara how to fight after realising that her grandma was his ex-fiancé. Like, where is the connection??

My adult brain understands that Gran Gran had fled the Northern Water Tribe because of their sexist rules and hence Paku understood that him abiding to those sexist rules was wrong. But still, it feels so odd. Tell me which 60-70 year old boomer would suddenly change their mind about basically 90% of their world view because their ex happened to have fled from them because that world view? You tell me that Paku didn’t have enough time to rationalise in his wicked brain why Gran Gran left with a more nefarious motivation, or hell, just because she didn’t like him enough to get married?

Whereas in NATLA, we see that Paku’s approval doesn’t come all so easy: he does acknowledge Katara’s waterbending talents (a feat that also happens in the cartoon), but he still refuses to teach her. Because it isn’t about talent. It is about principle. And he is a dinosaur with sexist principles.

On the other hand, who is more open-minded to new ideas and social change? Who circles Katara following her defeat and admire her for her fight with Paku? It’s the youth! Social change is usually driven by the youth, and here we see that while the old rulers of the Northern Water Tribe are still sexist af, the young people are the ones who are ready to embrace a more equalitarian society.

Women in war

So then, when does Paku change his mind on letting women fight? During the attack on the Northern Water Tribe. They are outnumbered and they need more benders: lo and behold, Katara has the brilliant idea of bringing in the women. Now, I don’t say that that was actually a brilliant idea: strategically speaking, it is kinda stupid sending your HEALERS to the FRONTLINES to die while they could be much more useful saving the wounded. Nevertheless, I like the inclusion of the women into the battle in a symbolic level: in history, we see that most women’s rights were obtained during and in the aftermath of big conflicts. When men are fighting and there is a shortage of manpower, you employ women to work at the factories, or in the direst cases, you let women fight. This was a cool nod to that phenomenon happening. Also, if literally every man was already wounded or perished, it kinda makes sense that women take up the arms, so the “healers fighting isn’t strategically sound” argument doesn’t hold perfectly either.

Women of patriarchy

Lastly, one thing I really liked about NATLA is how not only Paku, but also the female healing master was sternly against women learning how to fight with waterbending. The healing master in the cartoon was softer, gentler, whereas here, she was even more vocal than Paku in grilling Katara for wanting to fight. This is such a great display of internalised sexism, but also how women in power in patriarchy may be vehement defenders of the status quo because it helps them to keep whatever power they have.

Oh, and in a final note, Katara’s reply to Zuko’s “you have found a waterbending master!” was absolutely horrendous. I may have liked how most of that arc was treated, but GOD, somebody give that girl a proper master to learn how to waterbend, because I don’t believe one second that a child with only ONE waterbending scroll can become a MASTER with self-study. The way Katara was managing to become a waterbending master in the span of weeks in the original series was already weird (and for those who weren’t fans before, it did attract quite some criticism in the fandom spheres back when it aired), but NATLA just took it and made it worse.

Nonetheless, I think that NATLA tried their best. And I appreciate that they tried to give ATLA a new twist, even though it didn’t land perfectly.

Everyone seems to be focusing on the bad of the show, so I felt compelled to share my two cents.

#atla #avatar the last airbender #natla #natla spoilers #atla analysis #katara #feminism

[swampstew]

The Aftermath

KAJFASJASSALSKFJ I ended up making a sequel. This is part 2 of "The Heist," a spicy fic that details how you and Captain Kid met. Or rather, how Captain Kid found you...

Special thank you to @goldenandhappy for beta reading when I was out of my mind with stress at work.

WC: 3.5K Warnings: 18+ only, NSFW, Eustass Kid X AFAB Reader, sexy times, creamy pies, cockwarming, cursing. Minors DNI - you will be blocked

Y/N was in shock.

She certainly hadn't expected Captain Kid to find her, and definitely not right after she finished masturbating to the thought of him. Her core fluttered from the recent memory of being three-fingers deep inside herself, imagining it to be his cock. Now here he was! Offering to fuck her stupid. Y/N was cautious, weighing her options. A one-night stand wouldn't be a terrible idea...right? Just one and done, then she could go on her merry way.

Sure.

"Sure, come in," Y/N said with more confidence than she currently felt. She could handle this situation. It's just sex, nothing more.

Wide grin still on his face, Kid sauntered inside as if he owned the place and made himself comfortable on the...worn down excuse of a couch in the big room. Eyebrow twitching, "short term rental?"

"Yep, including the furniture. Sorry its..." she pointed to it, "well that."

"You think the bed can hold us? Or maybe the walls?" Kid spoke aloud as he examined the interior, trying to get creative with the situation. "Course," he slowly turned to look in her eyes, "we could always move this party to my place."

Stay in control Y/N!

"The bed will do for now," she hated the way her voice cracked as she spoke.

Kid raised his hands in surrender, "ok, offers still on the table if you change your mind."

Y/N nodded, tucking a wet strand of hair behind her ear. Clearing her voice, "so you said you came here to fuck me stupid. Gonna keep me waiting?"

Kid cocked an eyebrow at her before he let out a laugh. In the blink of an eye, he was towering over her, shit eating grin back on his face as he held her chin in his massive hand while his metal hand grasped her hip, pulling her flush against his body. He enjoyed the heat radiating off her skin from the bath, the way her plush body felt against his hard frame. A pleased growl rumbled in his throat, metal fingers reaching to squeeze her ass gently.

"Famous last words," he chuckled again before smashing his ruby painted lips against hers hungrily.

Y/N's eyes flew wide open from the sudden kiss before she let them close, returning Kid's fire as she kissed him back. Fighting for dominance over one another, teeth clashing, lips bitten, tongues dancing against each other. She let out a mewl as Kid tilted her head upwards, thrusting his tongue deep in her mouth forcing her to take him, to melt under his touch as he took control.

The redhead walked them backwards until the backs of Y/N's knees hit the bed's edge. She made a noise of surprise. With a wicked smile on his face as he kissed her, he harshly shoved her down. Her long shirt fluttered over her thighs as she bounced on the bed, Y/E/C irises blew open from the action, watching his every move carefully.

She began crawling away from him as he climbed the bed, teasingly stalking for her like an apex predator playing with his meal. Kid wasn't sure if he was smelling pheromones or what, but he suddenly felt a deep desire within himself. Not just to dominate the woman in front of him, no nothing as simple as that. He felt the urge to...devour her. Snatch her right up. Make her bend and twist to all of his whims.

He pounced.

Kid pulled her arms above her head, gripped tightly together in his metal hand. His knees straddled her waist as he hovered over her, licking his sharp canines as he considered where he wanted to start. Having decided, he swiftly dropped his head down and nipped her jawline down to her throat, licking the artery on the side of her neck before pursing his lips over it and biting down.

"FUCK!" Y/N squealed and squirmed underneath him.

The bite wasn't overly aggressive but it shocked her all the same. The pain quickly morphed into something else as he licked the mark he made, trailing messy, open-mouth kisses all over her neck smearing his lipstick on Y/S/C.

Y/N began to lean into his mouth as he sucked her flesh, eyes turning to meet his burning ones as he watched her reactions like a hawk. Smirking as he left another mark at the junction where shoulder met neck, his flesh fingers squeezed her inner thigh flesh. The action made Y/N instinctively squeeze her legs shut, that only served to make Kid laugh.

"Shy all of a sudden eh?" he cackled, strong fingers deftly digging into her soft flesh until he felt the heat of her core within in his reach. Using a thick knee, he pushed it down between her thighs, forcing them wide open. Kid pulled back from her neck to take a look.

"Mmmmm fuck, look at that. I can literally smell your arousal but to see it like this..." he husked, "shiiiiiittt. You could bring a lesser man to his knees with how much honey you're dripping."

His metal hand tightened his hold on her arms, his flesh hand began a slow, agonizing trail of soft touches up her thigh, intentionally avoiding her slick core, teasing every parcel of flesh except the one they both desired.

"But I'm not like any man you've ever seen or known," he growled lowly.

Kid finally dragged his palm up Y/N's slit, making her body shudder and face flush. He rubbed flat circles on her clit, leering as her hole clenched around nothing while he teased. Watching her face scrunch in pleasure, her teeth biting down on her lower lip to prevent any noises from coming out, eyes screwed shut as he kept palming her center.

Tutting, "no no, none of that shit," and he pulled his palm away.

Instead - with intentionally slow motions - he began to unbuckle his pants, pushing them down mid-thigh. He pulled his boxers down the same, watching Y/N's eyes widen as his cock was freed, slapping against his abdomen.

"You're not gonna hold back on me. I wanna hear every depraved noise that comes out of your slutty mouth," he grinned like a lunatic. Watching her watch him slowly stroke his length with hungry eyes.

"If you wanna hear me, you gotta do shit worth making noises for," she finally responded, lust filled eyes holding his amber one’s hostage as he processed her words. 

Feisty woman, he chuckled. He loved that kind of brattiness in a fling. Lived for putting a pretty doll in their place.

Y/N may only know of his reputation through what she read in the papers and while she was cautious of him, she'd refused to let him hold all the power over her. Giant cock be damned. Although she really, really wanted it. Splitting her open, convulsing on it. She shuddered at the thought.

“Guess I have no choice but to split you open with my huge cock. Don’t act like you’re not into me, like you didn't want to ask me to bang you when you laid eyes on me in the shop." He stopped his teasing and ripped her shirt off, exposing her perky tits and he shifted up her body to place his cock between the two peaks of flesh. Before he could fuck them—

"Ask you? I-- gasp were you watching me take a bath?!"

The red patches that bloomed on his face answered the question for her.

"You little pervert!" she squawked, trying to pull an arm from his grasp to smack him.

Kid couldn't help but laugh, as if she should be affronted when she was the one with nasty little fantasies about him. 

"I'm not a little pervert," he let out a low hum, salacious smile stretching across his face. "I'm a big one."

He spat on her tits, rutting his cock between the two mounds. Kid released her arms to drag them down to either side of her breasts, pushing them together as he kept fucking between her tits. The added pressure of flesh covering his sensitive member was enough to make him let out a pathetic groan.

Y/N would be lying to herself that the actions weren't hot to watch. To have Kid's weight trapping her in place, to feel how heavy his cock sat above her stammering heart as he used her tits to jerk himself, watching his eyes squeeze shut and his mouth twist as he let the pleasure take over him. She could feel her core overflowing with desire. His flesh hand reaching down to tweak her nipples as he kept bucking down on her made her keen out a moan. He did it again. And again. Reaching over to tweak her other nipple. Y/N let out a louder squeal.

“Hmm yer tits feel nice and all but I do wonder, what’s that mouth do?”

Y/N became dizzy for a moment as he moved off her and brought her up quickly, manipulating her body and hands until she was on her knees in front of him. He stood on the worn, wooden floors as he stroked his thick, veiny shaft in front of her.

“Open up, doll,” he purred, rubbing his leaking tip on her mouth, coating her lips.

Her tongue darted out to lick her lips, humming at his taste. She flicked it out and lightly teased his engorged head, making him grunt. A giant bead of precum swelled from his slit, Y/N reached out to slide it down his shaft, rubbing her thumb over his pulsing veins; Kid’s hips bucked forward and his wet tip hit her cheek, dragging down to her jaw. She finally opened her mouth, a small ‘O’ shape and without wasting a single second more, Kid shoved his needy cock in her mouth.

Groaning obscenely as her hot, wet cavern closed around him, Kid did not give her a chance to adjust before he started pushing deeper in her mouth. Tip pushing past her uvula caused her to gag around his thickness, making him moan. He pushed deeper and deeper until he could feel her throat closing around his length.

“Ohhh fuuuuuuck your mouth is…” he sighed. “Mmm that’s good, so so good,” he spoke through his thrusting.

Y/N’s nails dug into his thighs to anchor herself as he fucked her mouth. Barely allowing her a few gasps of air, Kid’s hand clutched at her crown, fingers tangled in Y/H/C locks as he pushed her face into his pelvis. He pulled out, drool coating him and dripping down his balls and thighs. He dragged his flesh hand on his cock and with a few snaps of his wrist, flicked away the drool.

“So you can feel every inch of me better,” he winked, gently massing her throat as he pushed her to lay back on the bed.

His fingers twirled around her clit, pushing her outer lips open and probing her entrance with all his digits. Dragging ragged breaths from Y/N’s throat as she shuddered. A coil in her gut tightened, vibrating even as he built her up, her lower half shifting to meet his pace. Her legs quaking the more he played with her, Y/N couldn’t hold back the high pitched squealing as her body was wracked with pleasure.

A quick pinch here, a curl of his fingers there and she gushed as the orgasm hit her. Letting out whimpering whines as she rocked her hips against his hand, riding the waves of ecstasy for as long as she could.

Kid took a few moments to marvel at how wet the sheets underneath Y/N were before he retracted his hand. Licking a few fingers before using the rest of her wetness to stroke himself, watching her get control of her breathing.

As the hazy clouds lifted from her eyes, she tilted her head at him, “that wasn’t bad, pirate. Wasn’t bad at all,” she sighed.

“You’ll be calling me Kid by the time I’m through with you,” lining his throbbing, red tip to her core.

It was so hot, almost blazing hot, and it felt so fucking good on him. Puffed head pushing her entrance open, forced her core to expand to let him in. Sliding against her lubricated, ribbed walls as he thrusted in fully. The sound of her broken moans enough to make his eyes roll back as he felt overwhelmed by her body enveloping his. His fingers gripped her plush thighs leaving indents as he rolled his hips, making sure to fully stuff Y/N with all of him before he could start.

“Oh fuck, oh fuuuck,” Y/N moaned, rocking her hips in response. “You-you feel—” she stuttered through her panting, “oh my goOOdd!” she yelped as Kid rocked his hips harshly, feeling her lower belly clench then ripple with pleasure and it made her keen more. He grinned; she was ready to take him.

The Supernova pulled his impressive girth out of the woman beneath him, watching in satisfaction as her hole pulsed and closed repeatedly. Impatiently. Hungrily. His cock throbbed with primal desire to flood her core with his milky seed. He let out a low growl at the thought as he watched the squirming mess below him, looking so debauched and starved for more of him.

Yeah.

With a sharp tug, Kid lifted her thighs and pushed them down, not all the way to her chest just yet. Spreading them wider just an inch, Kid lowered his body over hers and pressed his cock head against her core once more. Her entrance fluttered on instinct, tried to pull him in, teasing him with the promise of her warm tightness. He felt his balls rise.

Kid’s hips snapped sharply as he entered Y/N again, ripping a pleasured cry from her throat as his pelvis smacked into hers; his balls followed up with an aftershock slap. Grin on his face, Kid began a fast and rough pace, in and out of her as he pressed down on the sides of her hips, trying to tighten the pressure on everything.

“FUUCK!” he rasped.

“FUUUUUCK!!” her moan was broken with high pitched keens.

Y/N’s thighs were pushed down to her chest as Kid pistoned into her, panting wildly over her face, steeling his knees firmly against the mattress as he slammed into her; the mattress springs protesting loudly.

“OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIIIIIIIIITTTT!!!” she screamed, feeling the white heat that had simmered in her explode, cumming on his twitching cock.

Kid’s flushed face pressed against her forehead as his thrusting grew erratic and with a few final pumps, came inside her with a growl. Filling her to the brim, he snapped his hips a few more times, and on the third snap—

C R A C K

The bed frame collapsed, Kid and Y/N yelping in surprise as they tumbled. They looked at each other with shocked eyes for a moment before Kid’s head jerked backwards as he roared with laughter.

“OH SHIT! Haven’t broken a bed in a long ass time,” he sneered in pride.

“My…bed,” Y/N frowned. “It wasn’t particularly great but fucking shit dude I still needed that for a bit.”

“Quit whining it was just the frame. The mattress can lay on the floor and you’ll be fine,” he chuckled. Turning his eyes back to her, “Are you hurt? I didn’t crush you, did I?”

Y/N’s colored eyes widened at the consideration, “Oh um yeah I’m ok, thanks.” Silence for a few moments, “aces job there pirate. Great orgasm, I rate it a 10/10.”

“I told you, my name is Kid,” his eyes narrowed as he brought her legs down in favor of caging her between his hands as he hunched over her. Cock still buried to the hilt, a line of cum dribbled from Y/N from Kid’s movements.

“Great job, Kid. I’d give you a gold star if I had one.”

The pirate scoffed at her, deciding to cross his arms on her chest and rest his head over them. Y/N’s body pressed into the mattress; Kid heard a stream of air hissing between her lips as she deflated a bit.

“Opportune timing for it to break. You said you were looking to get off this piece of shit island?”

“Yeah, surprised you remembered. No point staying here, I’ve exhausted my resources and I’m not looking to find another temp job,” she managed to get out before sucking in air. “You’re heavy.”

“So I’ve heard. Any destination you got in mind?”

Y/N regarded him closely for a moment before, “No not quite. I know the general heading but I don’t have a specific destination yet.”

Kid cocked an eyebrow at her, “you gonna explain?”

“Hmmm…I’m looking for some people. Who stole things very precious to me. I won’t stop hunting them down until I get back what once was mine.”

Grunting at her, “I see. What’s your heading? We’re travelling around but we stop and explore every island we discover.”

“The last information I was able to confirm was that I needed to head deep into the New World. Due East.”

A grin began to spread on his face, “Is that so? Just so happens that’s the direction we’re going. And seeing as you’re not looking to stay here longer than necessary, how about it doll? Wanna join my crew?”

Y/N’s eyebrows knit together, “I…just told you I’m on a mission of my own. I won’t really have time for your agenda.”

Not letting that stop him, “Ok then we’ll give you a ride. You pay us when you get to where you want to be. If it’s not the place that has what you’re looking for, you can keep sailing with us. All you’d have to do is contribute to ship duties, help keep it running smoothly in exchange for room and food.”

Y/N regarded him suspiciously, “This seems a little too good to be true....”

Kid lifted his upper body up, his actions eliciting a moan from her as his semi-hard cock shifted inside her.

“Despite what you may have heard about me, which is all completely true by the way…I’m not that bad of a guy.”

“So to be clear, you’re offering me a travel pass with the expectation I contribute to ship duties, and all you want from me is gold for passage?”

“Yep. Some more of this too if you can’t get enough of me,” he winked and she became acutely aware of his hardening length inside her. Her walls fluttered.

“And how do I know you won’t turn this into some perversion and keep me hostage on your ship or something?”

“Jesus Christ I have better shit to do than hold someone against their will.”

Y/N and Kid’s eyes sized each other up several times. Finally, “Fine, I’ll take your deal, pira—ah I mean, Kid.”

He smiled at her; it even looked genuine. “Wanna seal the deal?” he rutted his hips.

Her head fell back as she groaned out in affirmation.

------------------------

“OI! This here’s Y/N. She’ll be travelling with us for a while. If anyone has a problem with that, tough shit.”

No one responded, wearily regarding the newcomer.

Y/N’s eyes swept the deck of the Victoria Punk, gazing at the eccentric faces that made up the Kid Pirates. Masked faces, dramatic makeup and hairstyles, gothic fashion style, and a sick ass dinosaur head at the bow of the ship.

“’Sup?” she nodded her head at them. “Cool ship.”

“Thanks,” the blonde with a blue and white striped mask said cooly. “I’m Killer, First Mate of the Kid Pirates. Who the hell are you?”

“I’m Y/N. Currently a transient, orphan child of war, looking for certain people and personal things. I have experience in sailing and badassery.”

An amused smile pulled on Kid’s face, “the badassery was mostly me since the old coward ran away from me technically. Your quick thinking was impressive though. Here,” he pulled out the satchel of jewels Y/N had given him at the shop.

“You can have more, what you took from the register was so pitiful I felt bad for you,” pouring out a generous mound of jewels, tinkling in her palms.

“Ahh sick, thanks Kid!”

“Dive, take Y/N to the women’s quarters and show her around. Everyone else, ready the sails and let’s get the fuck outta here.”

The crew set into motion immediately, Killer walking swiftly to Kid, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Since when do we sell rides for coin?”

“What? Said she was trynna get out of here and she has a sharp mind. Could prove useful. If not, we part ways when she finds what she’s looking for.”

“And what IS she looking for?”

Kid shot him a look, “Haah? Who cares? She’s hot and she needs a ride. Bang her and relax if you need too but get over it. She’s cool, I got a good feeling about her.” He grinned, glancing in the direction Y/N went.

“But I won’t share her with everyone else so don’t go running yer mouth,” the Captain growled.

Killer scoffed. He tilted his head to follow Kid’s gaze, allowing himself to properly appraise Y’N’s figure. He clicked his tongue before walking away in the opposite direction.

“Fuck you Kid.”

#eustass kid #swampstew bedtime stories #eustass kid x reader #swampstew #eustass kid x y/n #eustasscaptainkid #eustass kid x you #swampstew stories #one piece eustass kid #one piece kid #op kid #eustass kid smut #one piece fanfiction #kid pirates #massacre soldier killer #one piece killer #im having fun with the polls if you cant tell

[jamespottersdaisy]

i was listening to renegade, and then the next thing i knew my fingers created this

is it insensitive for me to say get your shit together so i can love you

but it's remus who has built a fortress around his heart, hindering you to see him bare, wounded with the agony. the anger shrouding his pain is pushing you away, deeming it cumbersome to love him. you are trying; struggling to reach him through the careless reassurances that he is fine, that nothing is wrong, that he is not crying in anguish at nights without your touch, and that he is reticent because of habit and not because he is incapable of laying himself vulnerable with feelings before someone, before you.

you are fighting a lost battle, enervating your soul with his refusals to let you in, with his white lies that slowly darken into grey, with his frail smiles that do nothing but worry you further. you are tired, wounded, waning as the days turn into nights with remus denying you his broken heart, as your determined laps around the yard of his fortress turn into exhausted ambles, as your once twinkling eyes lose their light once they see there is not a single crack on his walls despite your endeavours.

if only he took your hand, allowed you to patch his broken soul up, to gather the pieces of his shattered heart to put them back into one, would he feel the light peeking into his darkness, hope lurking behind his desperation, your love running to embrace his pain.

let all your damage damage me

but it's james who watches from a distance, noticing how you are in a daze, unresponsive because you are hurting. no matter how much his heart burns for your pain, it does not cure yours. he abhors the way the hurt manages to climb through your soul and settle deep into its core. akin to the darkness without the moon's light, your eyes are hollow from any halo, and he can't endure the pitch black.

he scorns himself for failing to handle your pain, for the lack of smile on your lips that he has kissed once between laughs and breathless giggles, for the stain of tears on your cheek that his fingers caressed once during the comfort of your sleep in his arms. he always has the solution, always knows what to say, what to do to ease the hurt, always finds a way to the broken hearts, souls and minds. so, why, can he not make you smile this time? why is it that his hands that once embraced your body can't tug the agony away from you?

he is willing to make a deal with the devil for the mere sight of your happiness, to give everything for your jagged heart to rest a bit, to free you from the torment in your soul at the cost of his own peace. he is eager to break his own heart to heal yours, to welcome the wicked hurt that's been haunting your soul into his soul for yours to escape, to extinguish the light in his eyes for yours to shine.

he'd happily carry your burden on his shoulders with a beam on his face, letting it wound him with its heft for a tiny possibility of felicity for you.

you wouldn't be the first renegade to need somebody

but it's sirius who hides his august name behind the gleeful jokes and witty quips, who ignores the disgusted looks and scornful insults from his own blood and plays pretend with people lesser than him for a sense of belonging, who convinces himself and the people around him that things are the way he wanted, he dreamed, he intended, that he does not wish for another possibility where he doesn't need the affection of others than his own family whom he deserted, betrayed, and deceived, that the matching scars on his body with his brother don't remind him of the little guy who resembles him in too many ways but also who is terrifyingly different. he feigns his happiness.

he is a liar, and you know it. you know the primal yearning for love from one's own blood, from the people one grew up, shared a meal, and sometimes memories with that were too pure to be corrupted with age. he doesn't admit as there's nothing to admit. he has friends and family that don't share the same blood as him but is still his, nonetheless, and you.

you, who knows that he is far too broken to avow the most hurting wishes and rescind the darkest memories. thus, you don't voice the words. you don't tell him that his craving for love and affection is not peculiar, but it is human. Instead, you show him with your soothing kisses and careful gestures. you urge him to cry in your arms, to let himself make mistakes, to smile without a veil of defence.

you show him that if he needs somebody, he will find one.

#Spotify #the marauders #remus lupin #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin x reader #sirius black x reader #james potter x reader #remus lupin angst #sirius black angst #james potter angst #remus lupin x you #james potter x you #sirius black x you #remus lupin drabble #james potter drabble #sirius black drabble #marauders #harry potter #remus lupin fluff #james potter fluff #sirius black fluff #remus lupin x y/n #sirius black x y/n #james potter x y/n

[ccrites]

it's a compliment, I swear (part 2)

Part 1 here

CW: sorta noncon kissing? vague mention of torture, no actual descriptions

johnny's a creep and an asshole but he's your creep and asshole.

anyway hope you enjoy!

.

.

.

There’s something even more odd, being recognized– no, receiving some recognition for what you do.

Yet you hate the feeling that all eyes are on you.

Shouldn’t have bitten off more than you could chew. And Soap is a lot to chew.

His recovery takes long, longer than you’d thought. You can’t bring yourself to visit immediately. In the moment, something had happened, you reckon, you wouldn’t call it attachment, but it was definitely something possibly unhealthy.

(You’ll swear up and down that you’d been too busy, but something pulls at your core, an invisible string tied to him.)

(Testing you, you think.)

He asks for you to visit at the infirmary, when you’re back from another mission with the rest of the crew. You’re covered in dust, grime, and sweat, but no blood.

Can’t have a repeat of last time.

The wicked smile is back on his fucking face when you pull the curtain away from his bed. He’s looked worse for wear, sure, but it’s almost infuriating to see him, tan skin all wrapped up in bandages around the midsection, covered in yellowing bruises and other cuts you’d missed in the heat of the action.

He looks almost… pretty.

You hate him.

“Why are you not wearing the gown,” you frown, pulling the sheets from under his arms to cover the expanse of his naked skin, “It’s like you’re asking to catch a cold, Sergeant.”

“Psht, I’m hot enough ta keep warm,” he scoffs, rolling his eyes and bringing his arms back up and over again. “Feel for yerself.” You try to bat them away, gently, but he does that thing again. 

That thing where he’s too fast for an injured man and grabs your forearm roughly, bringing it up to his forehead. The back of your hand touches his skin. 

“You’ve got a fever,” you comment, too quick to have actually assessed anything. He’s barely warm, but it’s the only way out you can think of, right now. You pull back, but he holds on tight. “I’ll tell Lidia on my way out to bring you some paracetamol, for now–”

“No, bonnie–” 

“I’ll push for antibiotics if you run hotter, maybe an infection–”

“There’s no need for tha’” he grumbles, letting his hold grow limp. “All I’ll ask for is a get well kiss, that’ll heal me right up,” he adds, a hopeful tilt in his voice.

“Why?” You narrow your eyes.

“A kiss from my savior. ‘S romantic, don’t ya’ think?”

There are a million ways to argue with that logic. That you hadn’t done anything but basic first aid, that you couldn’t have done more with the material at your disposal, not when he’d done the first thing not to do when facing a stab wound…

Something screams inside you, no, don’t you dare, this is not healthy.

Yet you can’t say no. Not when the feel of his tongue on your palm burns electric and sears through your memory. Not when the feel of his organs, soft and fragile and squishy as you’d stuffed the gaping wound in his abdomen contrasts with the feel of the same abdomen that your hand rests lightly on, breathing regularly under your touch, hard muscles and defined shapes, all rippling scars and sculpted strength.

Not when he looks at you like you’re his sun, his moon, and all his life.

Gosh, maybe you just need to get laid.

His blue eyes look sincere, and maybe you’d dreamed the crazed look before, maybe you’d been right, it had all been a pigment of your imagination, a by-product of adrenaline and desperation to do what’s right.

What’s the harm in a small kiss, not on the lips? There’s no hierarchy to be worried about, no prying eyes to see you. It’s not like he’s your patient, not exactly (based on technicalities alone, but that’s a fallacy you’re not ready to exploit just yet), so maybe you can just–

You lean over, gingerly avoiding placing any weight on his body while your other hand brushes his grown out hair out of his face, debating whether to place a gentle kiss on his cheek, or his forehead.

He makes the choice for you when he leans up with much more strength than he should and pulls you in for a violent, teeth-clashing, lips-brusing kiss, swallowing your gasp of surprise like it was the elixir of life.

You shift your hand up, trying to push back, trying desperately to figure out where to push him away from without hurting him, but he seems indifferent to your protests, both of his palms now wrapped around your jaw and neck, suckling and biting at your lips with the desperation of a starving man.

The more you pull back, the more he redoubles his efforts, and at some point, you fear that the position he’s contorted in can’t be good for his wound, so you let him pull you down, relax in his hold, and he lets out a pleased hum, the mockery of a kiss (dear God, your lips will be bruised after this) softening into something almost not painful.

For a second, you almost enjoy it.

You pull back at the first opportunity, gasping for air. His chest heaves, breathing deeply, grinning and looking like a predator satisfied with having caught his prey.

Speaking of…

“Your–”

He brings his fingers up to his mouth, swiping two across his teeth, then inspecting them with an air of feigned indifference. They’re tinged red, like-

You take a step back, out of his reach again, and cover your mouth as you swipe your tongue between your lower lip and your teeth. It stings. 

Motherfucker.

He hums. You glare back, and there he is again, licking between his fingers, eyes closed, clearly enjoying it. A mock déjà vu, a glacial stone sinking in your stomach. You hate that you instantly wish it were your fingers he’s licking. Something else, he’d be licking-

“Y’taste as wonderful as I’d imagined, bonnie.”

You’d never thought it would be so satisfying to hit a downed man, but the resounding slap in the silence of the infirmary, and the sound of his own shocked gasp make your chest hum with immense pride, just for a split-second.

Right before the realization of hitting a Sergeant hits you right back.

His palm cups his cheek, out of shock or pain, you don’t know. You spin on your heels and are out of the room before you can find out.

You don’t see the twisted smirk pull at his lips.

Maybe it’s guilt, maybe it’s madness.

You hate that something changes, almost as soon as he’s out of medical.

Thinking back, you almost preferred it when you were being ignored. Anything was better than this.

The lingering glances, which, weirdly, you never caught unless he wanted you to see him looking at you. A perfectly normal camaraderie, in appearance at least; people outside of your teammates suddenly congratulating you for your new position, while said teammates never kept you out of arm’s reach. But never closer.

Well, except for him.

Always standing close, closer than comfortable, brushing shoulders, ignoring the discomfort, pushing past boundaries like they’re made to be crossed. Always when the glances fade away, when no one’s there to see him. To see you. Barely normal by the time the Captain adresses him.

It all feels like a test.

The walk to the heli, on a hot summer afternoon on a dusty base somewhere in the middle of nowhere, feels like you’re the cattle being brought to slaughter. 

Yet people wish you luck, friendly fist bumps being handed out as you grab onto a handle and hoist yourself up, (ignoring the “helping hand” on your ass), the rumble of the engine not loud enough to cover your thoughts. Your hands hold the headrest in front of you to keep them from shaking, almost tight enough to pierce through the leather cover as the bird lifts up. Everyone sits in their place in meticulous order, ready at a second’s notice to jump into action, a heavy tension over your heads as the minutes tick down. His palm holds your knee steady, as he bounces his. Fucking asshole. It almost makes you dizzy.

This mission had been delayed enough. Soap’s healed nicely, pushed to be let in on the action, and the Captain wasn’t one to keep him out of it. Not like you could argue, not when success was so close, that everyone could taste its sweetness.

It should be enough to keep you from getting distracted, yet it’s not.

Machines dressed as men. There’s no hesitation, no mercy. They plow through bodies like they’re nothing, and closing behind them feels useless, but you follow through. The background noise of shouts and wheezing bullets is just that, background noise. As long as no one’s getting downed on your side of the fight, it’s not your problem.

Until it is.

It’s not been easy, having to actively direct your sympathy towards only a subset of people, towards only one side. But it’s your job. Violence needs healing, a safety net to fall back on, pushing back the tactical retreat until it is absolutely necessary, and going through with it all till the very last moment.

It hardly feels necessary when the opponent is a man dressed in boxers and a dirtied shirt, a thinning crown of hair tousled from being ambushed in his sleep. 

Violence hardly feels needed with such a power imbalance, four men armed to the teeth around him keeping you out of sight momentarily, yet the satisfaction of seeing the enemy pay for the countless innocent lives he’d taken overshadows necessity.

Soap’s the one that throws the first punch, (with the same hand he’d held so softly on your back– stop that) and you catch yourself flinching when the impact tears the man’s face along a barely healed scar.

Thrashed ‘is face up. Almost ‘ad ‘im.

It’s raw, and angry, and personal. Price makes demands, calmly asks for answers, and Soap gets to let loose. Ghost and Gaz calmly stand to the side, let them go at it. It’s what makes you realize you’d never been a part of this. Never wanted to.

Violence in numbers is so easily discarded, so easily overseen. A still warm body, cooling face down in a random street, an emotionless face oozing with blood out of a bullet hole, body slumped against a wall, all practically normal occurrences.

This… torture. You’re not cut for this. Pain for the sake of pain, uncaring if an answer is hissed back, only striking harder when the man spits red-tinged saliva at Price’s feet.

“Need a breather?”

Ghost is silent, appearing next to you out of nowhere, and it makes you flinch.

“What?” you breathe out, unaware you’d been holding your breath. The air smells distinctly of iron when you try to force your lungs to inhale again.

Ghost shifts on his feet and you look up. His hands are crossed on his chest, the bulk of him blocking the light, a menacing shadow overseeing all. The whites of his eyes twinkle in challenge as he flicks his gaze back to the scene in front of you.

Was this the test?

A sickening crunch and a howl of pain cuts through the ringing in your ears. You hear someone bark a laugh in response and catch yourself gritting your teeth to keep from hissing in empathy. You shouldn't be having any, no, not for the man responsible for one of your teammate’s almost-death. You see Soap’s focus, a stone-cold determination on his face as sweat pearls on his forehead.

And yet…

“I’m fine,” you whisper, but it’s still too loud. Heads turn, Price frowns.

You shouldn’t be here.

The balding man – one of the target’s lackeys – starts laughing. It’s maniacal, crazed from the pain and the blood running down his face. He spits out words, you don’t understand any of them, you were never meant to deal with these types of situations, but when you recognize an insult, then two, followed by the word female dog – was this man trying to call you a bitch? – Soap whips out a knife, holding it flush against the man’s throat. His Adam’s apple bobs and the blood from his face mixes with sweat as it runs down his neck.

“Sergeant, stand down!” Price orders.

“Fucking arsehole doesn’t get to speak to her like that!” Soap growls in the man’s ear, pulling him by the hair to expose his throat. The knife shines in the dim light, and your vision gets blurry.

Not important.

Not worth it.

Price walks calmly around the chair the man is bound to. He touches two fingers to the side of the blade, and Soap wordlessly obeys, pulling back with a silent huff. The Captain’s hand replaces Soap’s, maneuvering the man’s head like he’s inspecting an animal. A symbiosis between leader and subordinate. Predator and prey.

Cattle.

Slaughter.

“If he wants to speak in colorful words, he can address’em to her directly. Face to face, eh?”

The defiance in the man’s eyes is clear. Disdain. Hate. This should be easy.

You can’t.

“I don’t do harm like that,” you respond to Price, immediately regretting the words when his eyebrows shoot up, disappearing behind his hat, “Sir.” you add hastily.

The four men look at each other in a silent conversation you don’t want to be a part of. Then Price pushes the man’s head to the side with such force, the chair tips. He flails, powerless as he is. Price steps out of the room, Gaz in tow, and you get sick to your stomach.

This is the test.

You want to throw up.

“We can do this one of two ways, lass,” Soap says, grunting as he lifts the chair up. You notice the puddle of blood where the man’s head had hit the floor, and notice how his thin hair sticks to his cheek. Ghost walks to stand in front of the door, and there it is.

You’re trapped.

This isn’t about the torture, or the mission. This isn’t even about some sort of revenge.

It’s about dancing around whatever it is that Soap wants from you.

(Maybe it is revenge.)

(Maybe you should’ve let him bleed to death, the bastard.)

“I can let you do the talking, and have my fun with this rotten arse-face,” Soap continues, bending to tighten the restraints, making the man hiss again, “or you can be the one to settle your differences, while we do a small Q and A session between men, how d’ya say?” he grins darkly, squatting behind the man. Having three pairs of eyes trained on you doesn’t help untie the knot in your throat.

You swallow shakily, and can’t help but look toward the door, hoping for some kind of reassurance, but it doesn’t come.

“I can talk.”

Soap sighs, making a show of rising to his feet slowly, and the man starts pleading, ignored by everyone but you. “I’m a bit disappointed, I’ll say. Was hoping to see you make the bastard bleed. Tear’im to pieces.”

Ghost shifts. “Need him alive, Johnny. Price’s got a message to pass.”

“Sure thing, L.T.” Soap grins again, taking the knife out of its sheath and twisting it between his fingers. “Shall we begin?”

It takes the better part of an hour to get enough intel from the man. Each hit, each cut, each pull, each strike harder than the last. You repeated Price’s questions, and despite Soap’s (Johnny’s?) encouraging smiles – he was covered in blood too, every impact spraying more red on his clothes, (there was nothing encouraging about– fucking hell–)  you got all the info you needed.

Soap sighs, pleased, and approaches you. You’d never managed to step away from the scene, a rough shove from Ghost putting you back into the action every time. The man whimpers as Soap steps over his broken foot, pulling you close. 

You’re out of it. You’re unsure when you’d started distancing yourself from what was being done in front of your very eyes, disassociating like it would remove the guilt you’ll be certain to feel once you’ll try to sleep next. Numbness should feel safe, yet it’s started to feel like drowning.

He pulls your chin up with bloodied fingers, brushing hair away from your face with clean knuckles.

Butcher.

Lamb.

He presses his lips softly to your forehead. “Y’did well, sweetheart.” 

.

.

#cc writes #john soap mactavish x reader #soap #it's a compliment i swear #cod #call of duty #soap x reader #141 #tf141 #fanfiction #john soap mactavish #ghost #simon ghost riley #captain john price #john price #captain price #torture

[thund3randrain]

Rewatched the entire descendants trilogy for the memories (and unending cringe apparently 😬) and had an ✨epiphamy✨

Marauders x Descendants AU anyone?

Regulus Dorcas Barty and Evan as Mal Evie Jay and Carlos respectively

James as Ben, Audrey as Lily (but make her better I'm not disrespecting my girl like that)

Uma could be Bellatrix? But we give her a redemption arc?

That could make Harry and Gil Rodolphus and Rabastan Lestrange?

Jane could be Peter? Chad and Doug as Sirius and Remus?

Dizzy and Celia... Marlene and Mary? (idk im trying)

Honestly I kinda see it

Rotten to the core, ways to be wicked and its goin down but with these characters?

Hello?

Sign me the fuck up

#idk im bored #i cant sleep its 2am #i just wanted to post something #jayden's thoughts #marauders era #marauders #the marauders #the marauders era #marauders au #james potter #sirius black #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #regulus black #barty crouch jr #evan rosier #dorcas meadowes #marlene mckinnon #mary macdonald #bellatrix lestrange #rodolphus lestrange #rabastan lestrange #lily evans #jegulus #sunseeker #starchaser #descendants #disney descendants #crossover

[meetinginsamarra]

My Fave Sherlock BBC AUs - Magical Realism

Around mid-month I’ll do a fic rec list with my fave AU genres or tropes. Summaries are taken from OP on AO3.

Not always tagged with “Magical Realism”, these fics feature supernatural beings and/or circumstances. No vampires, demons and merfolk here, they already have their own lists. No ghosts as well, they’ll get a rec list of their own later.

“The Horse and his Doctor” by khorazir @khorazir

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3591864

Invalided after a run in with a poacher in Siberia, veterinary surgeon John Watson finds it difficult to acclimatise to the mundanity of London life. Things change when a friend invites him along to a local animal shelter and he meets their latest acquisition, a trouble-making Frisian with the strangest eyes and even stranger quirks John has ever encountered in a horse.

“The Summer Boys” by khorazir

https://archiveofourown.org/works/8460733

About half a year after the fateful events at Appledore, Sherlock and John embark on a private case in Sussex. For Sherlock, it’s a journey into his past, bringing up memories both happy and sad that he has locked away for almost thirty years. For John, it means coming to terms with the present – and a potential future with Sherlock.

“Rise and Fall” by All_I_need @the-reading-lemon​

https://archiveofourown.org/works/5968354

Sherlock Holmes is a Fallen looking for a distraction. John Watson is an invalided soldier looking for a flatshare. When they meet, both get more than they bargained for. But while Sherlock keeps John in the dark, someone else is patiently making sinister plans for the two of them.

“The destruction of ice” by All_I_need

https://archiveofourown.org/works/18898750

The year is 2081 and Sherlock Holmes never expected to encounter a threat to his Silence, the conditioning that keeps him sane and unfeeling. John Watson, on the other hand, never thought he'd find a flat in London. He certainly didn't expect to find one that comes with a Psy flatmate: brilliant, emotionless and more intriguing than John would like. When a series of brutal, random murders shakes London to its core, it is up to them to stop a vicious psychopath - preferably before Sherlock's latest experiment gets them both killed.

“The Wicked Path of Destiny” by hogwartswitch

https://archiveofourown.org/works/3531719

To save the man he loves, Sherlock sacrifices his life to become the God of Death for eternity. He walks the earth in a new, monstrous form, but a part of him has always remained human. John Watson has been touched by tragedy from his first breath. After losing all of his loved ones, he finds himself at the wrong end of a bullet. A prophecy, an act of sacrifice, and an epic quest for redemption link their destinies irrevocably.

“Darkling, I listen” by You_Light_The_Sky @youlighttheskyfanfiction​

https://archiveofourown.org/works/396130

No one who enters old London ever comes out. They say that the beast devours them. When his sister disappears, John ventures into the dead zone beyond the wall, and finds a brilliant madman under a terrible curse...

“Not the hands that kill” by You_Light_The_Sky

https://archiveofourown.org/works/388864

Having wings does not make Sherlock Holmes a guardian angel, not in the way that John Watson is his.

“A study in strays” by philalethia

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1397611

John Watson moves to 221B Baker Street. Unfortunately, the flat's already occupied.

“Left” by lifeonmars​

https://archiveofourown.org/works/639976

John Watson is left-handed. He’s tried not to let it affect his life, but as any Lefty knows, that’s almost impossible.

“How to sell your soul and get it back” by WhatIfIAmInsane @whatifiaminsane​

https://archiveofourown.org/works/9811478

Sadly unfinished but still so good!

Sherlock made a deal with the devil, quite literally. After years of drug abuse and neglect his body wouldn’t let him go on. Obviously, it happened right when he had finally found something to make his life interesting. The logical response was to offer his soul in exchange for a working transport. That had happened when he was 27. Now, at 34, he gets an unexpected visitor. The devil needs a favour and is offering Sherlock’s soul as payment.

“Hell Sent, Heaven Bound” by ConsultingHound

https://archiveofourown.org/works/15915207

Ex-War healer and current angelic guard John Watson is not having the best day. He overslept, he’s underpaid, and now there’s someone tagging the Council’s building walls. However things may be about to get interesting: there’s an unusual stranger hanging around (the definition of tall, dark, and handsome), a literal underground cult is brewing, and rumblings are coming from hell. Can he keep his neighbourhood safe, how and why is he being connected to all this, and who the hell is Sherlock Holmes?

“Chaos Theory” by entanglednow @entanglednow​

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1718366

"You want me to let him go, of course," Mycroft says, before John even opens his mouth to speak.

“Mineralogy in slow motion” by entanglednow

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248079

All John wants is somewhere to spend the next few months, while he's blind as a bat. Just the next few months. The doctors were optimistic.

“Genius of the bottle” by GoldenUsagi @fancybedelia​

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1718333

The last thing John expected to find in the desert was a bottle containing a genie named Sherlock.

“An impermanent destination” by GoldenUsagi 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/2229504

Out of all the species on the planet, dragons were the only ones that had a human level of intelligence. And that’s why they were the most dangerous.

“Anachronisms” by GoldenUsagi 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248034

“Do you ever wonder if there’s something wrong with us?” “We’re gods created by an age that had no use for them. I would be surprised if something weren’t. We were never welcomed by the others, nor adored by humanity. We should have withered long ago.”

“Secrets of the mind” by kryptaria  @kryptaria​

https://archiveofourown.org/works/445564

In a world where almost a tenth of the population are born gifted, psychics and nulls live side-by-side, without fear or prejudice. Children are tested in their late teens. Those who are gifted are trained in the safe use of their gifts. After training, they are tattooed with the mark of their gift, proudly displayed for all to see. Throughout history, the most feared serial killers and mass murderers have been multis: psychics born with multiple gifts. To be a multi is to be fated for a lifetime of incarceration for the good of society. There is no way to hide a psychic gift — no way to escape detection.Unless you’re Sherlock Holmes.

“Trenchcoats and Capes” by jomochi (Jominerva)

https://archiveofourown.org/works/6087484

He’s twirling a strand of hair around the finger of his other hand. His coat, which honestly looks more like a cape than anything, is spread out beneath him. His chest rises and falls slowly with calm breaths, the tight black material of his suit stretching to accommodate the movement. John has seen many pictures of him but not one did him any justice. The sight before John is breath-taking. It isn’t right. Evil shouldn’t look this good.

“Curse of the Were-Tuna” by WhoGroovesOn

https://archiveofourown.org/works/4607241

John couldn’t help but feel as though the large tuna beyond the glass was staring at him, which was weird because it’s not like fish had eyelids, they always seemed to be staring at things.

“Stranger at the gate” by bendingsignpost

https://archiveofourown.org/works/334825

As far as initiation rites go, kidnapping a human doctor from a defended town ought to seem extreme. When James Moriarty offers him the challenge, Sherlock never considers saying no. (Fantasy vampire AU)

“Man and Beast” by Jupiter_Ash

https://archiveofourown.org/works/496440

Sherlock is a werewolf who is captured by a facility which wants to experiment on him.  When John is placed into his cage they expect Sherlock to attack him, but instead, he tries to mate with John.

#my fanfic recs #my fave AUs #Magical realism AUs

[juicyc0utur3]

On my hands and knees begging for a Kieran Valentine smutfic 🙏

OMG FINALLY IVE BEEN WAITING FOR A VALENTINE REQUEST I LOVE HIM SM

warnings: smut, soft domming, biting

nsfw under the cut

you moan again at the feeling of his calloused hands on your core and his lanky fingers curling deep into your stomach. he smirks and chuckles, moving up to kiss your flushed face. “doing so good, darling..” you squirm, him having stopped curling his fingers inside of you, and you desperately reach one of your hands down to rub at your clit. he lightly smacks your hand before you make it, and leans in close to your ear. your chest stings from bites and hickies and you cry out sharply.

“now who said you could do that?”

he stays by your ear and after what felt like a million years, curls his fingers again and hits all the right spots, drawing you close to your orgasm again. your pretty face is engraved into his memory; teeth clenched, brow furrowed, mouth agape. he lived for seeing you all needy and aroused like this.

he moves his other hand to your clit and begins to rub much rougher than you were earlier, what you assumed was a punishment for your ministrations earlier. you cry out in pain and bliss, releasing onto his hands and making a wet mess. “aww, you like that, pretty girl?” you nod and he smirks and continues to rub your clit, and pumps his fingers deeper. “fuck, val, too much,” you sob, moans and whines ripping from your throat that fueled him to go faster.

you couldn’t think straight even if you wanted to. you were putty in his hands that he could meld anyway he felt like. he goes back down and playfully bites your stomach, leaving a faint mark, and replacing his fingers on your clit with his wicked mouth. you cry and moan out, forgetting how to do anything but scream his name, and feeling his dull fangs and his hot tongue sucking on your cunt. overstimulated, you noisily cum on his fingers a second time before he pulls them out and sucks them clean. “good job, pretty.”

#kieran valentine #vampire #crush smut #emo bf #emo boy #valentines day #valentine monster high #monster high #monster high smut #smut #mh #why do ghouls fall in love #draculaura #draculaura monster high #2000s emo #emo #boo york boo york #monster high fanart #monster high fic #soft d0m #vampire smut

[stewblog]

Monkey Man

Dev Patel was already one of the most promising and interesting talents within his generation of actors. But with Monkey Man, Patel shows he’s got the chops to be just as interesting and talented behind the camera as well. 

Monkey Man is being marketed as “John Wick But In India.” And while it’s clear that Patel has taken at least some action lessons to heart from the Wick films (a character in the movie even specifically name drops the character), this inaugural directing effort from the Slumdog Millionaire star is something much more jagged and raw, both in terms of action and vibe. 

Patel plays “Kid,” a name he’s never actually called as he only ever offers “Bobby” as an identifier. The name is swiped at a moment’s notice from the container of kitchen cleaner he’s using, but it’s meaningless. He has no identity. He has no life. He has only a heart of rage and vengeance burning inside of him. His sole mission is to kill the policeman who killed his mother and destroyed his village, and he’ll go to any lengths to accomplish this. 

What ensues is, at its core, a fairly standard and by-the-numbers revenge flick. Desperation leads to anger, anger leads to failure, then training, then a final and thrilling showdown. Every beat is familiar, bordering on rote. What fuels Patel’s film, though, is less its common tropes and more the ways he fills in the gaps between these all-too-familiar elements. Monkey Man is a movie with a lot on its mind and Patel wants very much to say meaningful things about the state of India’s politics, religion, poverty and corruption. I am (as it is likely quite obvious) not even passively knowledgeable on India’s political state, nor the state of its Hindu leaders. Some of the specifics and nuance may be lost to a Westerner like me, but the heat of Patel’s anger at these institutions remains palpable. 

Does that anger translate to depth? Obviously Patel is using this film as an outlet for his frustrations, but it’s difficult for someone in my position to gauge just how much he actually has to say beyond “The State Of Things Is Bad.” Not that the audience is owed more than that, but it often feels like the message comes at the expense of making the contained elements feel more fleshed out. Bobby is little more than a cipher. He goes for most of the film never having a meaningful interaction with anyone that he wasn’t using as a means to an end in his quest for violence. There are flashes to his youth, fleeting memories of his mother and the heroic tales of the Hindu god Hanuman that color his childhood. I suspect this is part of Patel’s grand statement, that a heart hollowed out by anger is only capable of vengeance, but it does make the character less interesting on the whole.

Despite this, and the film’s somewhat sluggish start, Monkey Man is still a remarkably confident first outing. Patel paints the screen with a palette of deep hues and a visceral attention to the details of a life lived amid the slums. It’s a film that feels visceral in its depiction of a world that is inherently violent, even (and especially) when led by those professing peace. Anchoring it all is Patel’s tightly wound performance. Whatever shortcomings there are in Bobby’s characterization on the page, it is at least partially ameliorated by the fire found in Patel’s eyes from beginning to end. 

If nothing else, Monkey Man is a terrific calling card for future projects, an undeniable statement of arrival and intent. Whatever shortcomings are threaded through this first film, it’s evident that Patel has the drive, chops and vision to be something greater. I can’t wait to see what his next work will be. 

#dev patel #monkey man

[dexnnovk]

Where is my love?

a/n: can you tell how much I adore angst? Idk how i feel about this one, but i kinda like it??? Hope you’ll enjoy <33

summary: Stephen finds himself in a different universe. He goes to the Sanctum Sanctorum where he meets someone who’s been long gone, you.

pairing: Stephen Strange x variant!reader

word count: 1.8k

warnings: hurt no comfort, angst

The darkness around him felt heavy, oppressive, almost surreal. He was in New York, but it was nothing like the city he knew. Silver moonlight broke through heavy, dark clouds showing him even more of an atrocity that he wasn't able to see at first. A few mockingbirds were sitting on a dead tree, they tried to sing, but the sound that came out was almost like screams of tortured souls. This universe was rotten down to its core, even howls of the wind were dreadfully unwelcoming. He was pretty sure that he got stuck in an empty universe with no one to help him.

He walked through vacant streets wondering what happened to this place. All of the buildings were destroyed, with no grass on the ground, only dirt. Street after street of abandoned houses drowning in the darkness of this world looked the same. Each house was once a home, a home belonging to a family and now there was only hollowness and coldness. If there was hell he was sure that this was exactly how it looked like. The closer he got to the Sanctum Sanctorum the quieter the world got, even the wind seemed to be gone. When he finally saw the building shivers went down his spine, he had never seen so many dead birds laying around one place. He was never the one to believe in bad omens but this one made him want to turn around and run as far away as he possibly could. The dead bird is considered to be a symbol of discontentment, loss, grief and hopelessness. They also symbolise that the place that you're in is unsafe and he was aware of that. He looked at one of the birds lying next to his feet and noticed something on its crown, a symbol that he has seen only once before, in the book about the darkest magic. It looked like whoever did this was in possession of the darkhold and what was even worse, knew how to use it. He took a few deep breaths and walked towards the doors. If there was a way for him to come back to his universe it was through objects and books from the Sanctum. As he approached them the smell of rotten corpses was unbearable. Whatever was inside was probably as vile and wicked as what was outside.

Before he was able to push the door open, a portal appeared underneath him causing him to fall. He hit the wooden floors of the building's hallway. He immediately stood up ready to fight the person that opened that portal, but he was alone. His only companion was the silence that allowed him to hear his shaky breath. Much to his surprise, he didn't smell the corpses anymore but the sweet, familiar scent of paperwhites. He decided to follow it and as he did he entered the living room that looked just like the one in his New York except it was messier. He looked around and found plenty of ancient magic books tossed around the tables, some artefacts and a few weapons. What got his attention was a small frame laying on the floor a couple of metres away. It looked oddly familiar. He wiped out the thick layer of dust that revealed a broken glass underneath which was a picture of you and him. He was always happy while being next to you. No matter where his life was taking him as long as you were near he felt safe. Tears formed in his eyes, in his universe you were gone, you sacrificed yourself for the universe. Another version of him probably went through the same loss. Lost in the memory of you he didn’t hear someone coming down the stairs.

“Hello, Stephen” this voice, the one he would recognize anywhere, yours.

His eyes widened, you looked nothing like he remembered, you were tired, no, exhausted. Dark circles were under your fatigued eyes. Your face was sickly colourless, almost corpse-like. He was carefully analysing your features. He didn’t even realise that a sad smile formed on his face. You walked towards him and for the first time in this universe, he felt comfortable.

“y/n,” he said, trying not to break down in front of you. He missed you dearly. Back at home, he thought about every possible way to bring you back or at least to let him say goodbye. He tried to touch your cheek but you stopped him by grabbing his wrist. That’s when he noticed your fingers. They were black, cursed by the magic of the darkhold.

“Why?” he asked you.

“There was no other way” you stated. Before you were able to continue you got interrupted by coughing up your blood. “Fuck” you mumbled to yourself.

“It’s killing you,” Stephen said, it was obvious how concerned he was. You weren’t his, but he couldn’t bring himself to act like he does not care.

“I know” you responded.

“Then why? Why are you using the darkhold? I’ve seen this world… it’s almost dead” his voice was a little shaky.

“Because as I said there was no other way” you don’t remember the last time that you said anything and considering your health condition it was a miracle that you still were able to do so. “We fought against Galactus, we were losing. If we’d lost that day the whole multiverse would have paid a horrible price for it. You absorbed the power of all six infinity stones just to buy me a little time” you chewed on your lower lips nervously as you felt tears filling up your eyes. “You distracted him and I tried to trap him in a pocket dimension but he was too powerful already. I managed to do so but…” you took a deep breath.

“But even the spell from the darkhold wasn’t enough to keep him locked up. You have to protect it” he finished your sentence.

“Yes, that’s why I look like this” you turned your head and felt disgusted as you saw your reflection in a window.

“Did… I leave you?” he asked anxiously.

“In a way,” you said and he felt his heart stop. How could he leave you knowing the price that you had to pay for keeping the multiverse safe? “You couldn’t handle the power of all the infinity stones. I killed you and destroyed all of them except for the time stone” you explained. “I kept the time stone so I can be here and protect the spell” you continued.

“You’ll be here until the end of everything?” he tried to touch you again and this time you allowed him. The feeling of his palm on your shoulder made you grin.

“Yes,” you sighed knowing that all that you can expect is pain and suffering.

“You don't deserve this, you deserve the world. That’s not how things should be for you” he said, his voice shaking.

“Where am I in your world?” you asked and just by the expression on his face you knew the answer “Sometimes we need to put ourselves aside Stephen. I’ve had plenty of time to learn about the multiverse and us. In every universe, one of us, if not both, has to deal with eternal sacrifice. I wish it wasn’t like that, I wish there was at least one version of me and you living a happy life” you smiled at him. “But I don’t think it’s meant for us”.

He would love to say that you were wrong but he’d be lying. He was trying to remember if he ever dreamt about you laying in bed playing with his hair and not having to deal with any sort of threat. His dreams were always the same, either you or he were dying.

“Can I ask you about this picture?” he pointed at the frame he found earlier.

“That was the day you proposed. We went to my favourite restaurant in Italy…” you closed your eyes and gulped. “I miss my Stephen, every day. Being here all alone isn’t helping with that, but trying to change anything is just a pointless resistance to the destiny” you coughed again. “I miss you too. I mean my version of you. I had all of you and then none of you, in just a few seconds I lost everything. I didn’t even get to say goodbye. I watched you die and I couldn’t do a thing about it” he said.

“I’m so sorry” you gently cupped his cheek and looked into his eyes. After a moment of hesitation, you placed a gentle kiss on his temple.

“You came here because you need to get out, right?” you said. You could read his thoughts, this one was buried deep down, almost hidden. Not from you, but from him.

“I don't think I want to” he responded.

“I can help you” you stated. “I know a spell that can open a multidimensional portal. It will send you home” shy smile formed on your lips. “How is your universe?” you asked.

“It’s beautiful. I wish I could show it to you” he grabbed your hand. “Leave this universe, leave with me, please” he was practically begging you.

“If that was an option for me I’d do it ages ago. If I leave and the spell breaks…I can’t afford that risk. I’ve carried the burden of the darkhold on my shoulders and I’ll do it for as long as I’ll have to. You see Stephen, everyone in the multiverse plays a part. I wasn’t born to be happy and have my little, sweet, dreamy life. I was born to suffer, take burdens and cause destruction. That’s how it is, was and always will be, all so the others can live in a peaceful world. The same goes for you” you sighed. “You're not meant to stay with me. My death was an absolute point in your life and yours was an absolute point in mine. We can not change it.”

“I know,” he said. You walked towards the large windows and within one swift move of your hand, you created a circle out of candles. He walked into it and stood next to you, your bodies inches apart. “I want to try something,” he said and pulled you into a kiss.

“Thank you” you wished you could keep the warmth of his lips forever. “Once I start we won’t have much time left. I want to say goodbye”

“This is our last goodbye, isn’t it?” he asked.

“I’m afraid it is” you answered and he nodded. Dark mist filled the room and you began to cast the spell. His eyes weren’t leaving yours until the light beam blinded him.

He was on his earth surrounded by so many people and yet he felt lonely. Then he noticed something in his palm, a paperwhite from the sanctums living room on the other earth, a symbol of hope.

MASTERLIST

#doctor stephen strange #stephen strange angst #stephen strange fanfiction #stephen strange fluff #stephen strange x you #stephen strange x reader #stephen strange x ofc #stephen strange #mcu doctor strange #doctor strange angst #doctor strange fanfiction #doctor strange fluff #doctor strange x reader #doctor strange x you #doctor strange x female reader #doctor strange mcu #marvel fanfiction #marvel #marvel x you #mcu angst #marvel angst #marvel fluff

[owliellder]

Music Recs (for writing)

I thought it would be fun to make a post of the type of music I listen to when I'm writing while also providing music recommendations cause i love finding new music myself. obviously I'll add more as I go along

I use music to help with feelings (like angst, love, fluff, etc) since I struggle conveying those naturally and I only really use apple music because spotify has always evaded me, so I'm literally just going to write each song and then link it on youtube 😭

also heads up, my music taste is EVERYWHERE so there is no rhyme or reason to any of this

Fluff/Happy Mix:

Fall On Me by R.E.M.

Fresh by Daft Punk

Keep Feeling Fascination by The Human League

Around and Around by John Denver

Sultans of Swing by Dire Straits

Feel It All Around by Washed Out (don't mind me, just adding Washed Out's entire discography here)

You'll See It by Washed Out

Angst:

Veridis Quo by Daft Punk

Face to Face by Daft Punk

Wicked Game by Chris Isaak

It's Raining Again by Supertramp

Take The Long Way Home by Supertramp

Eyes Without a Face by Billy Idol

Goodbye Again by John Denver

Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve (this is a very specific type of angst I feel)

Belong by Washed Out

Phone Call by Washed Out (this version of the song can only be found on youtube)

You and I by Washed out (again, this specific version is only on youtube)

Clap Intro by Washed Out

What Once Was by Hers

Just Wait Til Next Year by John Maus

Sprawling Idiot Effigy by Nero's Day at Disneyland (I do not suggest you listen to this one unless experimental music is your thing cause I tend to listen to Nero's Day at Disneyland when I am too under-stimulated to write)

(In) Love:

Love Story (Instrumental) by Lana Del Ray (I put this on loop for hours it's such a beautiful instrumental)

Digital Love by Daft Punk

Cheri Cheri Lady by Modern Talking

There Is a Light That Never Goes Out by The Smiths

Linger by The Cranberries

Annie's Song by John Denver

The ENTIRE Paracosm album by Washed Out (trust me on this one it all flows as one song)

Eyes Be Closed by Washed Out

Amor Fati by Washed Out

Everything in You by Adventure Time (ft Half Shy) (the Fionna and Cake series ruined me)

Nights in White Satin by The Moody Blues, London Festival Orchestra

Baby I'm Yours by Cass Elliot

Stay by Oingo Boingo

Spice 😈:

not a lot of this yet since i tend to listen to my BG music when writing smut

Lose Yourself to Dance by Daft Punk

Make Love by Daft Punk

Hurt/Comfort:

Something About Us by Daft Punk

Instant Crush by Daft Punk (ft. Julian Casablancas) (I really like Daft Punk)

Why (12" Version) by Carly Simon

Gypsy by Fleetwood Mac

Dreams by Fleetwood Mac

Back Home Again by John Denver

Poems, Prayers, and Promises by John Denver (I also really like John Denver)

Kids by MGMT

The Ghost Inside by Broken Bells

Andromeda by Weyes Blood

Luck by Washed Out

Far Away by Washed Out

Fly Away by John Denver

General Scene Building/BG:

now this is my favorite part since these are what I use most often when writing. you can pick out obvious tone indicators here in the titles 😭

a way i've learned to tap into certain feelings for when i'm writing is by using my own feelings on personal experiences, so a lot of these playlists i'm linking I have a lot of personal connection to (also because they're all so damn specific)

you're inside the last memories of a dying person (playlist) by nobody

you're an astronaut lost in space (playlist) by nobody

i feel like i've been here before (playlist) by nobody

|| nobody here || Silent Hill fog core playlist by Armand Tormo

February 22, 2001 - A liminal playlist by Dan

recalling moments of a christmas that never happened (playlist) by nobody

you're visiting the grave of an old friend while remembering the moments you spent together (playlist) by nobody

you found a place where spring is eternal (playlist) by nobody

you're staring at the ceiling while creating romanticized stories in your head (playlist) by nobody

you're walking under the golden trees watching the melancholic leaves dancing in the air (playlist) by nobody

Lost in the Poolrooms (a visual vaporwave mix) by K1K1n

Music for Vibin' on Jupiter's Hydrogen Sea (vaporwave mix) by olimar124

Unknown Songs (Lost Media Comp.) by Christopher Cherigo (one of my hyperfixations is unknown songs lololol)