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darkdemeter · 2 months

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𝐒𝐈𝐑𝐄𝐍, 𝐁𝐄 𝐁𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃 𝐓𝐎 𝐌𝐄 𝐈𝐈

— BUCKY BARNES COLUMN (ONESHOT)

Dark Pirate! Bucky Barnes x Siren! Female Reader

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

| A/N | DISCRETION |

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

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?

| 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.

*6.1𝐤 ────────────────┘

| M-LIST | TAGLIST:

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

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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.”

#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

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deliciousbasementtrash · 5 months

Text

Playing Nurse for the Batfam

Artist: https://www.instagram.com/twalxxart/ Twalxx

Summary: you are a nurse working for Gotham General Hospital. Batman has offered you a job. You are now a nurse for the entire Batfamily. There has been an emergency and you have been called into the line of fire. You have been injured by the Black Mask, how will Jason react?

Pairing: Slowburn Jason Todd x Female!reader

Warning: Adult language, mentions of gunshots and death

Word Count: 2.4k

Masterlist

Note: These characters are not my own they belong to DC. The only character that is 'mine' is the reader. I am going to be as nondescript as possible for the reader as well for physical attributes. This is a continuation series; I’m not sure how long it will be. Also for some reason, my replies to comments are not showing up. I’m not ignoring your comments Tumblr won’t let me respond :( But please, please comment I live for it

Part 9: If I Have to Throw You Over My Shoulder I Will

***********************************************************

Jason Todd

[Jason, please we need backup. We need you.] Dick had sent about ten minutes ago.

Some dark part of me wanted to do nothing. The part of me that was tortured and beaten. The part of me that was angry no one cared enough to avenge me. But I loved Dick like he was my flesh and blood. And whether I admit it to myself or not… I love Bruce the same way.

Often I think about how my life led me down this way. Was it fate? Was it God? Was it just dumb fucking luck?

There is one theory I keep circling back to. The Red String Theory. At birth, we have invisible red strings tying us to the people we are destined to meet. Was I tied to my parents? Bruce? Alfred? Dick? Tim? Barbara? Steph? Cass? Damian? Duke? Or even… him?

That’s too many. If that’s true, my fate lines look more like a messy evidence board. Or maybe a fucked up marionette puppet. Like I was made to be influenced by those tied to me. Pushed and pulled. Just a vessel of violence.

But the Red String Theory couldn’t be true. At least not for me. I’m so covered in red. You can’t pull a red thread out of a sea of blood.

My morbid thoughts halted when I saw Pizza Joe’s. I parked off to the side. In an alley, no one could see. I approached the gunshots, listening for Dick. Boy Wonder was nowhere to be seen, but I made mental notes of the men that were perched on the buildings.

I made my way discreetly around the building, toward the back. My heart stopped dead in my chest.

Y/n was pinned against the wall. With a gun in her mouth. Fighting with everything in her against the Black Mask.

Something in me snapped. Without hesitation I shot twice at his arm, severing the flexor digitorum profundus and rendering his index and middle finger useless. I shot through his stupid fucking masked head. I shot through his heart. I shot through the bastard's fucking dick. I shot. And I shot. And I shot. No one hurts her. Ever.

I barely noticed Bruce as I stepped over him. I could have checked his pulse, his status, anything. But all I cared about was getting to her.

Anger and fear surged inside me, at the sight of seeing her covered in blood. I started to panic. My chest felt like one thousand pounds of pressure was crushing me. All I could do to calm myself down was to pull her into my arms and hug her tight enough that I felt her heartbeat against mine. She’s alive. She’s alive. She’s alive.

I had stayed away from her this past week. Trying to keep her safe from whatever bullshit I would bring her. But here she was finding the danger all on her own. Without me to make sure she was safe.

Seeing her face, feeling her against my body, lit something up inside me. Anger surged.

“Why the fuck are you here?” I growled.

***********************************************************

Jason grabbed my chin, slowly moving it from side to side, inspecting my blood-spattered face. His mouth was moving but all I could hear was the damn ringing in my skull. Jason frowned and looked at both my ears. I felt a warmth run down the left side of my neck.

Jason leaned into my right side, his cold helmet brushed against the shell of my ear making me shiver. “You’re hurt.” The words were simple. But they were laced with bitterness and anger that went beyond reason.

I looked up at his Red Hood, “Dick needs your help.” I couldn’t tell if I was screaming the words or saying them at a reasonable volume. I couldn’t gauge Jason’s reaction either which annoyed me. I wanted to rip that helmet off and see his face.

“I’m looking at someone that needs my full attention right now. Grayson can handle himself,” he snarled the words at me.

Gunshots sounded loud enough for me to hear. My brain started spiraling into the worst-case scenario. A Dick Grayson riddled with bullets involuntarily entered my mind. “Please help him. Please, Jason.” I grabbed his arm as I begged. His bicep tensed under my grip.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” he ground out. “Get behind me.” Despite his harsh tone, he gently moved me behind him. His broad shoulders and generous height covered me completely. I kept a hand at the base of his hip. Ready to heal him if needed.

There were four shooters surrounding Dick, and three on the buildings, all pointing their guns at him. Jason opened a pocket on his thigh and reloaded his right gun one-handed. He was so smooth with the movement it was like he was doing something simple like buttering toast. He was dexterous at a level I can only describe as masterful.

Jason aimed at an impossible speed and precision. Seven shots rang out. Seven men fell. I don’t even think they realized Jason was enemy fire until they already had a bullet fly through them. It was seemingly impossible.

Jason didn’t give me a chance to assess Dick or Bruce before throwing me over his shoulder and walking away.

“I need to help them! Jason! Jason, listen to me!” I yelled and slapped the back of his leather jacket. He ignored me or I didn’t hear his response. Knowing him, most likely the former.

Suddenly, he moved me off his shoulder and straddled me onto his motorcycle. My mind was acutely aware of his large hands pinning my waist down.

“Grayson is fine. He will take care of Bruce and your car. I’m taking you home. Now.” He was leaning toward my good ear again, his voice was dark and commanding. Lighting a certain part of me on fire. Who am I kidding, my whole being burned.

“I am fine, Jason. Really. You got there in time. Just let me heal the boys and I’ll go with you!” I sneered at him.

“How about no,” Jason sneered back and straddled onto the motorcycle behind me. His firm body was flush against the entire back side of mine. My breathing became uneven when he reached his arms around me and revved his motorcycle before accelerating. I tried not to lean back into him. But he was so warm and I was so tired. Jason must have felt my tension. His hand found my hip, as he continued steering with the other. He pushed back, forcing my body to melt into his.

“I’ve got you,” he said, making me shiver.

Gotham was a blur of lights as Jason drove us back to the Batcave. In a record, 6 minutes. Which I tried not to take personally.

He rode us through the entrance, and as close as he could get to my workstation. He got off quickly as if trying to get away from me. But just as quickly scooped me up from my underarms and placed me on top of my examination table. I blushed at the firm way he moved me around. Like I was his to just grab and move as he pleased. He was an extremely strong man. He made it seem like it was no effort at all.

He roughly took off the Red Hood. His hair was a wild mess. His eyes were dark with what appeared to be anger and concern. His breathing quickened as he looked me over.

“What blood is yours?” He curtly asked, messily digging into my neat supplies. I tried not to cringe as he did. With his mask off it was a lot easier to understand him because I could read his lips and vaguely hear him.

I looked down at my red-stained hands. I curled them up and down. The blood was sticky and cracked. Suddenly, an assault of memories flooded my mind.

The hospital wing after the mass shooting—healing a man being tortured over and over for information—my mom's bloody nose—my bloody legs dripping into my sneakers. Breathing became sharp and rushed.

A hand gently caressed my face, “Hey, hey. It’s just me. It’s Jason,” his voice and touch was gentle. Easing my mind back to reality. When I was no longer trapped in my own mind I realized that Jason was once again cleaning up my hands. He washed the blood off of them until you never knew I had stabbed a man in the neck.

His hands were warm and calloused and thorough. For a moment he just held my hands in his. His thumb traced small circles on the inside of my wrist causing goosebumps to rise on my skin. Slowly, he trailed upward to my forearm, and an angry sigh left his mouth. Wordlessly, he cleaned and tended my cut. Wordlessly, he wiped the blood and brain matter from my face and neck. Wordlessly, he took off my stained hoodie and disgusting scrubs. Until I was left in my white undershirt and tight black shorts.

His eyes were hard and staring just above the curve of my breast. Right where my heart rapidly beat. Right where the Black Mask had made a small but deep cut. And then his eyes trailed upward. Toward my bruised neck, and burned cheek.

“I should have killed him slower,” he growled out. I hadn’t realized how close Jason was to me. Somehow he had gotten between my legs and mere inches away from my face. My cheeks heated, as I took in the oddly delicate features of this harsh man. He had a very light sprinkling of freckles across his nose. His eyes were more of a stormy gray than blue. His eyelashes were so pretty and long I wanted to slap him. And his Cupid’s bow was sharp and defined which highlighted his full lips. I swallowed roughly.

“Thank you, for—for helping me,” I whispered, afraid that if I spoke any louder I might scare him off.

Jason scoffed angrily, “You shouldn’t have been in that position in the first place. I’m going to beat Bruce with an inch of his life—”

Gently, I gripped Jason’s hand, “I chose this. Don’t be mad at Bruce. If anything, be mad at me. I should have been more prepared. I should have brought a weapon.”

Jason leaned his forehead in so it was just barely touching mine. I involuntarily held my breath.

His hands reached for mine as he traced along my old burns. “We are bad for you.” He whispered.

“You guys have given me a part of myself that I thought was lost forever. How could that ever be bad?” I lifted a hand hesitantly up toward his cheek. Jason leaned in like he was desperate for the contact. For comfort. For me.

“I can’t get you out of my head. I want—” Jason’s soft words were interrupted by the screeching of my car followed by the Batmobile. Jason practically jumped five feet away from me. I frowned at the lack of contact.

Well, Bruce is well enough to drive, that’s good. Pretty fucking shit timing though, Batboy.

I lowered myself from the table. I tried hiding my wince, but I saw Jason tense. He reached forward steadying me, before scolding, “Do not push yourself for them.”

Dick came out of my car with a large dimpled smile and a huge ugly shinner. Bruce looked pale but better. I motioned for them to sit where I was just perched. Ready to finish healing them.

Bruce was simple. I just had to re-patch him up. Finish what I started. Dick was a bit more complicated. Homie had the snot beat out of him. One of the bright sides was that he wasn't shot.

When I was done, both Dick and Bruce politely excused themselves to their rooms.

I slowly cleaned up my workstation. Jason silently helped me. His mouth was a firm line.

My hands shook with exhaustion when I was done. My eyes went in and out of focus. My head was pounding from the exertion and the physical trauma. I covered my bad ear, trying to will the ringing to stop. Jason noticed and gently pulled me to him. Before I knew it he had his arm under my knees and back, and he cradled me into the elevator.

I snorted at him, “I’m fine, Jason, really. Don’t go through the trouble of carrying me.”

“I think I want to rip that word out of your vocabulary,” he snapped. “Let me just carry you. Don’t make it a big deal.”

My heart sank, and I whispered, “Okay. I’m sorry.”

“While I’m at it, I’ll take that one too,” he said, pressing the button number 4. Our floor number. “Don’t lie to me and tell me you’re fine. Don’t ever apologize for existing.” He huffed and paused, “Please.”

I nodded, not sure what to say. The elevator ride went by shockingly quickly. He walked past his room and into mine. He set me down on my bed gently. He pulled my blankets back and covered me. I got deja vu as he did it. I smiled under my covers.

Jason pulled an armchair towards my bed. He angled it so he could see both the door and the windows. I looked at him, confused.

He shrugged at me, “I didn’t like seeing a man have a gun in your mouth. I actually don’t think I saw it for more than two seconds before everything went red.”

“So, that explains why you’re watching me in my armchair because…”

Hashbrown barrelled toward Jason. She rubbed her body on his feet demanding attention. Jason swiftly picked her up and held her on his lap. She seemed to soothe him as he pet her. The tension in his body decreased, instead of ramrod straight he leaned back. Almost comfortable, but not quiet.

“Because I need to make sure that you’re okay,” he said after a few minutes went by.

“Why?” I asked, needing an answer.

“I don’t like it when you’re hurt. Or in danger,” he answered.

“Why?” I demanded, again.

He roughly raked a hand through his messy hair, “I don’t know why. I just feel like… like you’re mine to protect. You put all your energy into healing other people. You deserve someone to care if you’re healthy and safe.”

I think only two people in the world have ever cared about that. Sam and my mom. His words were like wildfire to my mind and body.

Warmth bloomed in my chest, followed by boldness, “Do you have to protect me from all the way over there? Or can you protect me in my bed?”

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If I missed anyone please let me know <3

Author's note: Thank you all so much for your kind words, comments, messages, and interactions!! They inspire me to keep writing. I hope you guys continue to enjoy the story, thank you again <3

Hashbrown Cam!

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rodolfoparras · 7 months

Note

happy autumn, remember it's spider's mating season >:D

PLS IVE BEEN THINKING ABOUT THIS SINCE I SAW UR SPIDER MATING POST😩😩

Thinking about an ansty Miguel during spidermating season setting up a den in his makeshift office also known as platform and no one has seen him for days except for when he comes out to eat and shower and because you’re worried and miss him you decide to check up on him only to see the sweet thing stark naked and rubbing his cock up against his den.

He doesn’t even notice you’re there, too engulfed in his own pleasure to notice, eyes squeezing shut chest rising and falling at a rapid pace while he practically soaks the wall of web in his precum

But when he does oh when he does notice you pretty little thing ends up falling to his knees, something of a plea escaping his lips and before he knows of it he’s pinned down to the middle of a web you’ve made him spin.

His legs and arms are spread apart, cock hard and weeping where it rests against his stomach as you tentatively crawl over to him. And with every step you take you tug at the string of web, sending sparks of pleasure coursing through his body as he uselessly trashes around in place.

It doesn’t take much til you’re hovering over his form, nuzzling along his throat, sharp fangs nip at sensitive his skin, and hearing him hiss every time you put your lips on him.

Your hand grabs ahold of the curls at the nape of his neck, the other hand roughly cupping his jaw and tilting his head to meet your gaze.

He looks absolutely wrecked, pants escaping his lips, drool dripping down his chin, eyes glowing red and claws pawing where they’re confined in the thread.

“What do you want pretty? Tell me”

He tries to say something but the words feel as if they are lodged inside his throat, tongue feeling heavier than ever, and fangs and claws itching to dig into something other than the silky thread surrounding him.

“Miguel “ you say again, your sharp fangs digging into his jaw and in the back of his head.

“Anything please please help me it hurts “

#Alec answers #i like this one wow I struggled sm with the draft of this berison but managed an ask rip #Miguel O’Hara #Miguel O’Hara x reader #Miguel O’Hara x male reader #sub male character #dom male reader #scribbles

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thefact0rygirl · 1 year

Text

carved out of stone

joel miller x fem!reader

Premise: The way you fuck is a reflection of the world around you — rough and hard. Joel is determined to show you what it means to be gentle.

Rating: Explicit 18+

Word Count: 2.8k

Warnings: descriptions of rough sex, biting, bruises, penetrative (p in v), oral (f receiving), passionate sex, lots of emotion, creampie

The way you fuck is a reflection of the world around you.

Hard, rough, and chaotic.

Whatever the world took from you, it returned with cruelty. There isn’t any softness left, at least not enough to stamp out the desolation. Gentleness is a reckless act when the world is set to kill. It’s a wild risk, one you aren’t willing to take.

Joel can't blame you. He isn’t exactly preaching peace and love, but you…

You grind against him hard enough to make him flinch, dig your nails into his back until you draw blood, you suck until pools of broken blood vessels litter his neck and chest. Whether you’re on your knees with your ass in the air or taunting him until he shoves you against a wall, you’re always searching for more.

Faster, sharper, rougher.

He gets it. He doesn’t do kind, but sometimes he can’t tell if the noises coming out of you are from pleasure or pain. He doesn’t want to hurt you either — he may be tough, but he isn’t cruel — but you never tell him to stop. You demand it. More shoves, more thrusts, more bruises. It’s the only way you seem to be satisfied.

It's easy for him to get dragged into your ruthless wake. You push and jab at his cold exterior until he responds with his own snarls, fucking you with as much catastrophe as 2003. It’s been so long since Joel let himself get wrapped up in another person’s body like this, and truth be told, he needs it just as much as you need it.

It takes him a month of bruising touches and slapping skin to realize that maybe this is the only way you know how to do it.

You are fury and power presenting as flashing eyes and tight muscles. Any time he tries to go slow or be gentle — shit, not even gentle just light enough to not require a first aid kit — you look at him like he’s speaking another language. It's the same look you gave him at Bill and Frank’s house.

“Leave it alone.”

The piano lid slams down in a shriek of out-of-tune keys. You whirl around, eyes wide and mouth open like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar. Good. He saw the way you were eyeing the piano when you arrived.

You huff, placing your hands on your hips. “Why? It’s not like they’re going to use it.”

“No.”

If this were a cartoon, there would be a rising red line washing over you with flashing warning lights around you. Your annoyance is building. Pressing your lips into a tight line, you try to reason with him. “The strings are steel and copper. High quality too. We could use them.”

He knows you’re right. Raiders will eventually break through the gates and strip the house of all its worth. It's only a matter of time, but he'll be damned if it happens on his watch. Not here. Not this home.

"No."

Your nostrils flare, teeth grinding as you grit out, "It's gonna happen any— "

“It's not up for debate. Go shower and stay the fuck away from that piano."

It's not that you're unnecessarily cruel or heartless. You have a heart, it's just carved out of stone. The Cordyceps buried you in a steel wool blanket, swaddled you until you found comfort in pain. This started as way for both of you to thread anger and loneliness into satisfying primal needs. Gentleness was never included.

When he leans in to trail soft kisses down your neck, you retaliate with a snarl and shove. If he tries to hold you close, you claw at his back like a cornered animal.

It isn't until one night in Jackson when the chance at something less intense presents itself. He has you pinned to the mattress, his hips digging into your own as he traps your arms to your side. He doesn't say anything, only watches you from above and wonders...

His silence makes you hiss, “What?”

Remaining silent, he leans down to nudge the tip of his nose against yours in forewarning. Maybe you'll get the hint. He gets as close as resting his lips against yours before you bare your teeth.

“No,” He grunts, pushing away. “No biting.”

You roll your eyes, but comply. This is a game you’ve played before. Joel tries to be sweet, kiss you, caress you, make you feel all lovey dovey until his patience dries up and he fucks you against the nearest surface.

Only this time your wary look doesn't deter him. He risks moving a hand up to trace your bottom lip, a delicate touch you barely register through your haze of lust.

“What are you—?” You trail off as he presses his lips to the side of your mouth. Your shallow breathes tickle his ear, your body stiff under his mouth. He kisses you again, following the line of your jaw until he stops at the sensitive spot under your ear.

“Do you trust me?” He murmurs, lips hovering over your ear as you let out a frustrated huff of breath.

“Yeah, but what the fuck…” The slow, deliberate press of lips inching down your neck flusters you. They feel so...kind. Like liquid sunlight seeping into your pores. The only roughness is from his stubble and chapped lips.

He stops when he sees the constellation of discoloration and bite marks littering your skin. They’re taunting him, laughing at his attempt at softness. He retaliates with a long, slow lick.

“Joel,” His name comes out a whisper of a breath this time. When he pulls away to meet your gaze, your expression is one of confusion. His gentleness leaves you entirely unprepared. You shouldn't be relaxing like this.

“S’okay,” His thumb traces the hollow bags underneath your eyes. “D’you want me to let up?”

Your brows wrinkle as if it’s a trick question. The tips of his fingers continue to stroke your cheek. Your answer is a snort of frustration, paired with a forceful twist of your body as you glare something nasty at him. “I want you to fuck me.”

“I will. We’ll get there."

The joint in your temple bulges against his palm, "Then hurry up.”

"Yes ma'am." He mutters, not wasting a moment to lean down. You two often end up closer to chewing than kissing, but now it's slower. No bites, no blood, no clanking teeth. Your lips move tentatively against his as if you’re learning how to do it all over again. It's hot and slow, his stubble scratching against your cheek as you start to feel less like a steel cable ready to snap.

Good. That's good.

Joel takes your relaxing muscles as a sign to lift his weight off of you. Readjusting, he presses his mouth to the space between your breasts to be rewarded with a tiny, high moan that makes you shudder.

“You’re shaking,” He whispers. “D’you wanna stop?”

You shake your head no, eyes shut with your lips parted for raw breathing sounds to escape.

“Hey. Look at me, baby," He's expecting it to take more for you to open your eyes, but they shoot open almost immediately like you've been electrocuted.

“‘Y gotta use your words. Do you want me to stop?”

“No. Keep going. It’s just…different.”

“I know, but I won’t hurt you. Promise.”

You nod an okay before he kisses the space between your breasts one final time before moving on to nuzzle your breast, his hot breath fanning over your nipple. It grants him a little moan from you and, fuck, he wants to hear that again. He wants to find all your tender spots hidden between the steel and fire.

You straight up whimper when his mouth closes over a nipple with a wet press of lips and a teasing tongue. As he starts to suck, his arms shift so he is closer to holding you than pinning you down. He's slow, leaving open the opportunity for you to pull his hand away as his hands skim your sides, following the curves of your thighs before settling along the softness of your belly.

But you never do, not even when his fingers brush along the waistband of your underwear.

“Can I taste you?” He’s tentative, attempting to keep his breathing even despite his cock getting distractingly hard.

“Y—Yeah. Want your mouth on me.”

“Okay, I’ve got you.”

He takes his goddamn time, too, starting another wet trail of kisses down your stomach, his hands massaging the warm skin of your thighs, coaxing them open for him. You comply, but not without trying to push your cunt towards his face. He pushes down on your hips, keeping them flush against the bed.

“Stay still.”

If it were like any other night you would have pulled him by the hair down to your cunt. But tonight isn’t another blazing fire of barred teeth and bruising touches. You concede, lifting your hips to help him slide your underwear off as a show of good faith.

“You…Joel…” You can’t hold onto his name, it keeps darting away as he settles between your legs. Using his hands to spread you wide open, he dips down so he is close enough to smell your wetness, but far enough away that he can still hold your gaze.

You’ve seen men look at you with awe, with terror, and some with a kind of possessiveness that has you reaching for a weapon, but never the way Joel is looking at you now. He’s studying you, like he can’t quite understand how he’s earned your trust.

“You’re so—” He begins slow and slurring because he can't find the right words to say.

“What?” It comes out a challenge, if only because you don’t know what to do with the way he’s looking at you. It’s unsettling, something new. You hope he looks at you like that again.

The bite in your voice makes him smile. He shakes his head, letting the scratch of his beard rub against the inside of your thigh before running a hot drag of his tongue against your cunt.

You moan louder than expected, embarrassment making you snap your eyes shut. He builds you up slowly, his tongue finding spots the send shocks of pleasure through you, keeping you on edge as you open yourself up to him. He wants you to melt for him, drip like warm honey. No more of this shattering to a million pieces bullshit, he wants you to know how else it can feel.

And the sound you make when his finger nudges into your wetness —

Fuck.

He’s made you come plenty of times while buried inside of you, but there’s something about watching you fall apart with his mouth on your cunt that is just unbearably hot. He can feel his cock leaking a small puddle of precum on the sheets.

“I’m so close,” You whine his name, eyes shut so tightly he’s worried you’ll never open them again.

“C’mon, baby. Open your eyes. Let me see you.” He whispers, the caress of his fingers as tender as his voice. He’s desperate, adding another finger to coax you to look at him.

When you do, you look completely disarmed as you pant.

“What do you need, baby?” He coos your name, his words punctuated by the wet sounds of his moving fingers. “'Y want me to stop?”

“Don't you fucking dare, Miller.”

He returns to wrap his lips around your clit. He sucks tenderly, intimately, a contrast to the bitterness around you. This time you don’t shut your eyes, you watch him with as much conviction as he is watching you.

When you come, it's a gasp that swallows you up from the inside before it has a chance to escape. His eyes never leave your face, watching as your lips tremble in silence as your cunt grinds against his face.

His face is a mess too when he comes up, pressing his body against yours until his hard cock is leaking against your bellies. He is half expecting you to knock him on his back and climb on top, pin his arms to his sides as retribution for his little stunt.

But you surprise him when you curl around him, pushing your head up to find his lips. There is something weirdly hot about your wetness smearing and transferring from his beard to your chin only for Joel to dip down and lick your face clean. Or maybe it's the way you seek comfort in his embrace. It's hard for him to tell with how hard he is. He's sure he'll come on your stomach any second when you’re breathing, “Get inside me,” between kisses.

“We don’t have to,” His words clipped, his attention focused on not blowing his load.

“Now, Joel!” You groan, desperate and bratty as you wrap your legs around his hips.

“Not gonna last long,” A weak argument when he's reaching between you to grab his cock.

“Don’t care. I need you." You breathe. Plead.

For a heartbeat, he stills, giving you the chance to back out even as you reach down to his hand, your knuckles bumping as you guide him to run his cock along your slit.

“D’you really want this?” It's his turn to sound bewildered, a silent question in his words that makes the air heavy: can I show you softness?

"Yes," You reply, shifting when you feel the head of his cock nudging against your entrance. Your hand lets go of his, moving it up to wrap around his neck. "I want you."

His gaze keeps hold of yours with an intensity you can practically taste as he pushes in. You moan at the steady rock of his hips, each thrust bringing him a little deeper until he’s bottomed out inside you.

This is...new.

Slow and tender, it leaves you exposed to his adoration. You hide away into his neck, his heartbeat thumping against your ear as he reels his hips back, pulling out until only the head of his cock remains before burying himself back in one fluid thrust. Heat rises through your body, warming you up until you're melting. Your hands wrap around him tightly, scared you'll melt right through the mattress.

"Good. You're doing so good for me."

This is the first time you truly feel each other. It isn't some ambiguous tight pressure; you actually feel every vein of his cock pushing against your heat. Again and again, he rocks inside of you like there is nothing else left but you.

"Tell me," He grunts, his Adam's apple bobbing against your temple, "Tell me how it feels."

"F—feels so fucking good — oh, fuck — I need to—" Your words slip off your tongue, dissolving on his warm body. Struggling, you instead pull him forward until your lips are slotted against his. It's not even a kiss, just lips pressed against one another. Connected.

For as unnerving as this is, you don't want it to stop.

Joel’s throaty voice crooning the sweetest words, him thrusting until pleasure grows alongside blooming release. You want to freeze this moment in time, put it into one of those little snow globes you collected as a kid, save it forever.

You don’t expect to come again, but then his thumb presses down on your oversensitive clit until everything builds back up again.

"Give me one more. C'mon, baby, squeeze me. Come for me."

It isn't long until the jagged hot climax sparks up your spine, your muscles clenching down around him as you cry out his name. You’re still simmering in the afterglow, your blood boiling like you're laying on top of a bed of embers. Joel finds his own release soon after, your name heavy in his mouth as his cock throbs sticky pulses of cum inside you.

Using his last bit of energy, he pulls you on top of him as he falls back onto the bed, his softening cock is still buried inside your cunt. He's not young anymore, he's not about the get hard again but he still stays buried inside of you, if only to feel closer to you.

Your face is still pressed against the side of his neck when he feels an odd wetness there. He's about to mumble your name when your next breath is a shaky sob. You try to control it, hold your breath only to hiccup from the pressure in your throat.

"Shit, sorry," You choke, tears smearing against his neck. "Don't know why—"

"Don't be sorry. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pushed —"

"No," You cry out, your hands gripping his arms hard. "It's not that. I liked it, I'm just...Fuck..."

"S' okay. I got you." He nods, his arms heavy as he holds you closer to him.

You’re digging your nails into his arms again, but this time he doesn’t mind.

Thank you for reading! If you enjoyed, please consider telling me with a reblog and comment. It means the world to writers and helps us share our work on here 💚

#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x y/n #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller one shot #joel miller tlou #pedro pascal fanfiction #the last of us #the last of us fanfic #the last of us fanfiction #vee writes

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evil-robot-cat · 3 months

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I'm drawing (full grown evil) Sephiroth and Cloud in their New Year garb and now that I'm really, *really* looking closely at it, what strikes me more than anything else about this set of costumes is the red braided cord. This is the weeb site, every single one of you already knows about red thread.

Sephiroth has it minimally. To hold his sheath in place, pinned at his collarbone, and in the center of the back (where Cloud stabbed him).

But Cloud is absolutely bound in it. Around his neck, around his arms and legs, circling his waist, around his fingers, his feet, hanging from his ears, everywhere. If you pulled away that shroud he's got on, you'd probably find his whole body tied up.

It feels like these are points of control.

The strings on his puppet.

#sefikura #Sephiroth #Cloud Strife #ff7 ever crisis #FF7 #stuff in FF7

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deathisararemercy · 1 year

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Ties to The Past

Death x ghost/soulmate!Reader

“Wait…is it really you, old friend?” If you had any blood in your body, it would’ve run cold. There was no mistaking that voice. The wrinkled old spirit in front of you, the soul who was standing next to the lifeless body in the bed, the person Death had come to reap, was a former friend of yours from when you were alive, years and years ago.

A/N: Sorry for the lack of a post yesterday. After posting something nearly every day for about a week, it felt weird not doing so last night. However, I come bearing a 3k part two to this 2 am post, aka Red String. This story has shifted a bit, but I hope you all enjoy. I have more planned out for this AU. It shouldn't be more than five or six parts, and I'll hopefully finish it by the end of next week, if not the end of this week. In the meantime, this is a little reminder that my requests are open (guidelines in pinned)! Thank you for all the love on Red String!

Part One | Part Two |

“I’m sorry, mi fantasma. You can’t come with me on this one.”

Your eyes widened in shock before narrowing in suspicion. “Why not?” You floated over the wolf’s head, peering down at him. After what seemed like forever, you figured out how levitation worked, and it was now your favorite means of getting from place to place. Being a ghost had its perks, aside from the whole being dead thing.

Death, however, was not tolerating this at the moment. He batted you away with a grim expression on his face. “I can’t tell you.” Seeing your hurt expression, he sighed. “You won’t want to see this particular soul. They’ve done some…unpleasant things.”

You groaned, floating a bit further ahead of him as you gestured around you. “We’re in the middle of a small little seaside town,” you said incredulously. “What kind of ‘unpleasant things’ could this person have done?”

You had a point. The town the two of you walked (or floated) through was the epitome of an idyllic seaside life. The mid-afternoon air carried in from the sea was crisp and smelled faintly of brine. The red roofed houses were full of life and color. People, unaware of Death’s presence and certainly not of yours, called out to one another, selling wares, fruits, and fish, and children raced down to the seashore. Seeing the ocean’s horizon and the endless shades of blue filled you with excitement.

Slowly, you returned to the earth and walked alongside Death on the cobbled road, your red thread growing warmer at the physical proximity. “I’ve seen you work a ton of times before, Muerte. Good people, bad people. Old people, young people. I think I can handle another soul collection.”

“Don’t get cocky now,” he chuckled. He tugged on his hood to further obscure his face, though no one could see him at the moment. “I mean it, cordero,” he muttered. “When we arrive at the house, I want you to stay outside.”

You had died a long time ago. But when you did, your red soulmate thread appeared and connected you to Death. And not metaphorically or rhetorically or poetically or theoretically or in any other fancy way. Your soulmate was Death, straight up. Ever since he cut the silver cord connecting your soul to your physical body, you’ve traveled with the wolf and kept him company. Though he never said it aloud, you could tell he appreciated this, and that a small part of him needed it too.

Wolves are social creatures, you thought to yourself as Death changed the subject to a cat who was shot out of a cannon not too far from these shores. Death loved stories. His tail always wagged a bit whenever you told him a story about your life. Even after you thought you had run out of stories to tell, he always managed to dig up a memory of yours that you had thought you had completely forgotten. It amused and interested him to hear you talk about your life, and it kept you sane too. After all, it must have been…decades since you died. The fear of forgetting your life always haunted you, which was annoying because you were a ghost, and you were supposed to be the haunter and not the haunted.

At least if there was one person you knew you were haunting successfully, it was Death. Your red thread made sure the two of you were never too far from one another, but even without that thread, it would be practically impossible to separate you from his side. If being by his side and providing each other company as the world moved on and on and on was supposed to be your “happily ever after,” you weren’t going to complain.

But you were going to complain if he didn’t let you join him on this one little job. “Why don’t you think I can handle myself?” you asked him one last time. “Don’t you trust me?”

The wolf stopped suddenly. If you had a physical body, you would’ve walked straight into him. You stood in front of him now with a stern glare. The thread felt heavier than it usually did. An unreadable expression was on Death’s face. His eyes twitched a little as he spoke. “It’s not that I don’t trust you.”

“Alright then.”

“It’s that I’m worried for you.”

This wiped the glare off of your face. You faltered. “What?”

Muerte pointed up at the window of the large house you two stopped in front of. “Up there in that bedroom is the soul I have to collect. An elderly person who has lived a life full of popularity, wealth, and status and died peacefully in their sleep during a post-lunch nap.”

“Sounds…pretty nice,” you mumbled. A scowl crossed your face. “So what? You think I’m going to get hurt because I’m going to see a person who lived a full life? I’ve seen plenty before!”

“It’s not just that, mi fantasma,” continued Death slowly. “They did not live a truly full life. They’re alone right now. And no one will know that they’ve died for quite some time. Despite their riches and ranking, no one was truly ever close with them. At least, there is no one they hold close anymore.” He placed a paw on your shoulder. “I have the feeling that they might resist me while I try to do my job, and I don’t want you to have to see me get…” He paused, tilting his head a bit and chewing on the words. “Violent.”

Realization dawned on your face slowly, softening your features. “Oh.”

“Oh,” he nodded. The wolf sniffed the air a bit. “I have to go in now. Stay here, alright?” He gently tugged on the string, warmth filling your bodies. “I’ll be right back.”

He began to whistle his eerie little tune, and in a blink, he was gone. Your thread showed that he was already up in the bedroom. You sighed. You weren’t going to complain. You were going to listen and be a good little ghost and respect his wishes and stay outside.

But you were worried about him.

You had no doubt that Death could handle himself in a fight. He was tall and strong, and his reflexes were terrifyingly quick. Though you’ve seen him use his sickles to cut cords, you knew he could use them very well in a fight. He was an immortal being, for folk’s sake. No one escapes Death. But even so…

A chill went up your spine as you tried to lean casually against the wall of the house and fell through to the other side. You jolted upright, finding yourself in the living room of the house. You could hear quiet murmuring upstairs. Well, you were already inside. One small peek wouldn’t hurt would it?

Right?

There was a loud crash and your chest suddenly burst into pain. “Muerte!” You phased upwards through the floor and found yourself in the bedroom.

Death stood with his back to the wall, startling when he saw you. He didn’t look hurt, but his eyes were burning a violent scarlet.

You rushed to the wolf’s side, hands searching for injuries. “Muerte, are you alright?”

He tightly shut his scarlet eyes before shaking his head and opening them. They were a bit less red, but the intensity remained. “I’m fine. But that,” he said, pointing to the other side of the room, “That’s a problem.”

On the other side of the room was the phantom. They were still connected to their physical body by their silver cord, but their spectral form was fizzling in and out of existence in anger. Black and red, hazy and undefined, its aura was one of nothing but anger.

“Here’s what I think we should do,” Death began as he struck his sickles together. “We- what are you doing?” he sputtered as you left his side and walked up to the phantom.

It screeched and it hissed, and the air around it seemed to burn hot, a sensation you hadn’t truly felt since your death. Everything sounded like static, but you stared intently at where you hoped their face was.

“You’re dead, and there’s nothing you or he,” you added, gesturing towards the wolf, “can do about it.” You glanced at the spirit’s physical, lifeless body. Their wrinkled face was in a grimace. Shutting your eyes tight, you focused on being able to touch the body and shifted the face’s expression to one of peace.

The phantom was less agitated, letting out a small confused shriek. “You can’t go back to your body or the life you used to have. I know it hurts,” you added quietly, “Having to let go. Realizing you can’t wake back up. But that big wolf over there?” You gestured at Death, who stood silently behind you. “He’s a really nice guy. And he’s going to cut that cord of yours and send you off to the spirit world. You’re going to be alright.”

The phantom’s edges began to sharpen, becoming less blurry. It drew closer to you. Behind you, you could hear Death’s low growling. The red thread in your chest seemed to bunch up in a tight knot. You held your breath. And the intense air in the room was gone, and the phantom was no longer a faceless specter, but a spirit more akin to the body in the bed. In fact, that face looked very familiar.

“Is it really you, old friend?”

If you had any blood in your body, it would’ve run cold. There was no mistaking that voice. The wrinkled old spirit in front of you, the soul who was standing next to the lifeless body in the bed, the person Death had come to reap, was a former friend of yours from when you were alive, years and years ago. You had a falling out just before you died actually, if you remembered correctly.

“H-hi..” you said quietly. You offered a small wave.

They didn’t wave back. “You don’t look like you’ve aged a day since…”

“I decided to stick around the mortal plane for a while,” you said lightly, trying to lean back against the wall before realizing Death was behind you. You heard him quickly sheathe his sickles, and he caught you as you stumbled into his arms. But his hands were tight on your shoulders as he set you back up while you laughed nervously. He didn’t let go.

Your former friend blinked slowly. Oh, this was going just splendidly. You plastered a bigger grin on your face as you left Death’s grip and walked around the room jauntily. There were paintings all over the walls of different people with your old friend in golden frames. As you took a look around the room, you realized how lavishly it was decorated with bright cushions and heavy drapery, unusual for a seaside house. “Glad to see you lived a nice and full life! It looks like you had a lot of fun and are- were- erm, doing really well for yourself!”

“I did.”

“I’m kinda jealous, you know. I died pretty young,” you chuckled, enunciating the ‘t’s and wagging a finger.

You cast a glance at Death, who still stood in front of the spirit. His gaze was… questioning. Are you okay? he asked silently with a slight tilt of his head. The red string connecting the two of you tightened.

You shook yours slightly in response, but circled back to your old friend. “But I’m still hanging around and all that. I might not be alive but I feel alive getting to hang out with Muerte everyday.” Oh, what the hell. That was such a stupid thing to say.

The spirit raised an eyebrow. “You hang out with this guy? Isn’t he Death?”

The wolf rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m Death.” He drew his sickles again. “And I think it’s time for you to go.”

“Hold on, hold on. Why are you sticking around him?” Your friend’s brows furrowed. They took your hands in theirs. “Why don’t you come with me?”

Death stiffened as you let go of their hands. “Well, the funny thing is…he’s my soulmate.” You splayed your hands out awkwardly, letting the statement sink in.

The room was still for just a moment. “Your red string. Is connected. To Death?” The spirit said slowly. And then they burst out into laughter. They wheezed, clutching their sides as you stood awkwardly in front of Death. “You?” they laughed. “With Death? Oh, I’m so sorry. That’s some really messed up luck. Fate was not on your side.”

“I’m starting to remember why we had that falling out,” you said through clenched teeth.

“Oh, please. Relax. I just thought you were doomed to die alone without a soulmate. I mean, you remember all those people you’d talk to. You were so desperate to find your soulmate. And you end up dying and this guy is your soulmate? What, is he keeping you captive or something? Come on, let’s just get to the spirit world. Together! Then I can introduce you to all the famous people I met. Maybe one of them will really like you, who knows?

“This entire thing with Death was probably just a mistake. Who could ever love a big bad wolf like him?”

You were ready to punch a ghost in the face, but Death beat you to it. “It’s time for you to go,” the wolf growled, stalking forward.

The spirit raised their hands over their head as if that would stop Death himself. “W-wait!”

With one clean swipe, Death slashed their silver cord. The spirit was freed from their physical body. Death gave them no time to react. With an upwards motion, his sicles cut through the fabric of the universe. The light of the shimmering doorway to the spirit world blinded everyone in the room momentarily. But the light didn’t stop Death. Before the spirit began to process what was happening, he shoved them through the door before deftly grabbing the edges of the ripped seam and pulling it shut. He slashed the air with his sicles to clear the air.

It was all over in the matter of seconds.

He stood still, breathing heavily. His hands gripped his sickles tightly, shaking.

You could feel the string grow taut, and you hesitantly drew closer to the wolf. “They’re wrong, you know.”

He blinked, suddenly remembering you were there. He stepped towards the window, laughing as he looked outside. He refused to meet your eyes. “I know. But I’m Death. They don’t get under my skin. They can think whatever they want. They can’t escape me and they certainly can’t change who I am. I’m fine, really.”

“I hate to break it to you,” you said gently, “But I’m pretty sure you’re lying to yourself right now.”

“I’m not,” Death grumbled. He sheathed his sickles. Looking back at the body on the bed, he gently tucked it in before heading to the door. “Let’s get out of here.” He stomped out of the bedroom, leaving you to follow.

“Wait!”

You quickly ran out to follow him.

“Muerte!”

On the stairwell, his ears twitched a little. He turned to look at you, halfway out of the bedroom door. “¿Sí, mi fantasma? What is it?”

You opened and closed your mouth, trying to figure out what to say. You stepped forward, while pulling him closer by pulling on the red string. “Don’t believe a word they said. I chose to stay in the mortal realm. I wanted to get to know you and I wanted to be there for you. All my life,” you choked out, “All my life, I looked for a soulmate. I met so many people with so many fascinating stories and lives. But even though I wasn’t alone, I still felt lonely.”

“Are you trying to say that you think I’m lonely?” Death teased.

“Yes!” you blurted out. “Yes, I think you’re lonely! But I don't want you to have to be lonely anymore! I don’t think you’re a big bad wolf! You’re- you’re a big good wolf! You’re strong and gentle and- I can’t believe I’m saying this- you are really attractive!”

What.

The.

Folk.

“Oh my fairy godmother.” Your hands flew to your face as you knelt to the ground, unable to process your outburst. “I want to die. Again.”

“I love you too.”

You looked up. “What?”

“I love you too.” Death looked down with a smirk. He bent down, elbows on his knees. His smirk softened to a smile as he placed a hand on your shoulder. “I know what you were trying to say. Thank you… I needed that.” He hesitated. And then he kissed your forehead, gentle and sweet.

The red thread seemed to come alive and your entire body felt like it was burning, but in the best way possible. Without thinking, you grabbed the string and tugged it down, leading Death to your lips. He didn’t object. And for however long that kiss lasted, you finally felt alive again. You could smell the dirt and seabrine in his fur, soft and cold under your hands. You felt the phantom sensations of your heart racing. He was tender and soft, though as you both pulled away, you could see a hungry look in his eyes, as if he were ready to devour you in an instant.

God, you wanted to kiss him again.

“We better get going,” you coughed, rising to your feet quickly.

Death followed suit. “Certainly.”

The two of you walked out of the house and into the street. Death didn’t put on his hood. But your hand did find its way into his. He gave it a small squeeze.

“I love you, Muerte.” You said quietly when you reached the edge of town. The two of you stopped. Dusk was quickly settling down over the seaside town. The two of you stood on the edge of the main road. He gave you a long look, red eyes cutting through the dark. “Do you believe we’re soulmates?”

“I do.”

He said this without hesitation or doubt. And by the look in his eyes, you knew he believed it.

==x==x==

“I must say though, I’m surprised you find me attractive. I didn’t think I’d be your type.”

“Please. I don’t want to die another time out of shame.”

#puss in boots #the last wish #puss in boots death #death x reader #puss in boots muerte #muerte x reader #x reader #.writing

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charlietheepicwriter7 · 4 months

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A very merry Christmas to you, @2-depressed-4-u . It is I, your secret santa from @mlsecretsanta . I have had a wonderful time talking to you this year (even if I wasn't supposed to, oops), and hope you have a wonderful holiday.

And now, without further ado, your present.

I Don't Need Sleep, I Need Answers

If his father could see his room at that moment, Adrien was sure the man would faint with shock. Fortunately, Gabriel Agreste was needed in China to investigate one of his companies’ main manufacturers, so Adrien was in the clear… for now.

His room looked like his couch was almost pushed up against one wall, but he’d left a foot of space between it and the wall so he had full access to his masterpiece. Along the north-facing wall was a chaotic conspiracy board, with red string threading from picture to picture. Some of his pieces of evidence were printed out from his computer, like the article about Marinette designing for Jagged Stone or the picture of Ladybug kissing him from back during the Oblivo incident. Others were hand drawn to the best of his ability if he couldn’t find an appropriate image online.

But in the end, all the pictures led back to a center image: his limited edition poster of Ladybug.

Plagg hovered near one of the most important pieces of evidence, the feathered bolo hat Marinette had made. “Hey, kid… when’s the last time you got any sleep?” he asked, his eyes flickering between Adrien and his evidence wall.

“I don’t need any sleep,” Adrien spat, climbing over and onto the back of the couch so he could connect some string between a picture of Marinette and badly-drawn recreation of Multimouse. On the hand drawn page, he wrote no earrings????, with multiple question marks going off the page and onto the wall. “I need answers.”

“I thought you’d decided that you weren’t going to look for Ladybug’s identity anymore?”

The boy scoffed. “I thought so too, but you didn’t see what I saw! During that last akuma battle, Ladybug left, and then… Marinette was there! She always hides during akuma battles, she wouldn’t just run around during one, unless…” He pinned another picture to the wall, wrinkling the paper with his force. “She was Ladybug.”

Plagg sighed. “Or she was trapped in the area and took it as her chance to run. Or she was hiding but someone was in danger, so she rushed out to help. Or some other reason why she’d risk her life. Why don’t you just ask her, kid?”

“Because if she’s Ladybug, she’d just lie!” Adrien explained. “I know how this works, Plagg; we’re not supposed to know each other’s identities. Ladybug sticks to that rule better than me… and no matter how good of a person she is, or how much Marinette hates liars, she’d still be willing to lie to protect herself.”

“If she’s lying to protect herself, then wouldn’t she be safer if you didn’t discover who she is? If you stopped your investigation now, before someone gets hurt?”

Adrien shook his head, picking up another picture of Ladybug. “You don’t understand, Plagg. She shouldn’t have to look out for herself. I should be the one to do it for her.”

I Don't Need Sleep, I Need Answers

Adrien’s plan started the next day at school.

Keeping an eye on Marinette proved impossible when she sat directly behind him, but he kept a keen ear on her and Alya’s conversation. While he didn’t think his Lady would be so blasé to discuss her superheroine life where anyone could hear her, he was expecting at least some reference. Alya was her best friend after all; he’d certainly let things slip to Nino throughout his months as Chat Noir.

But no. There was nothing. When not distracted by classwork, all they talked about was the Ladyblog, and Marinette’s new commissions for Kitty Selection. So, it was onto plan B.

When Plagg was trying to talk him out of this—and really, wasn’t that evidence unto itself, that Plagg was trying to talk him out of investigating—he’d said that Adrien reminded him of Alya. Reminded him that Alya had once done the same thing to Chloe, and gotten akumatized for it. But Adrien wouldn’t get akumatized! For one thing, Marinette was in no way like Chloe. For another, Adrien, and Alya back then, had direct evidence that Chloe wasn’t Ladybug, since Chloe was often seen with or around Ladybug.

Outside of the Multimouse incident, had Adrien ever seen Ladybug save or even talk to Marinette?

No.

But Plagg’s words had reminded him that he wasn’t the only person who’d ever searched for Ladybug’s identity. And his best ally sat behind him and to the left.

Adrien pulled Alya to the side during lunch, with Marinette watching curiously and Nino shaking his head in amusement before engaging Marinette in a conversation. Adrien knew he could count on him. And when he found an abandoned classroom to talk to Alya, he swallowed and began to explain.

She’d looked nervous, when he began, but as he kept explaining all his evidence as to why Marinette could be Ladybug, a thoughtful expression bloomed on her face. But that didn’t mean she automatically believed him. And then she asked a damnable question. “What about Lila?”

Ah. He’d forgotten about Lila.

He preferred to forget about her rather than think about—

Alya continued. “Because she and Ladybug are best friends, you know? But I’m pretty sure Marinette hates Lila. Not that she’d ever say she hates Lila, but she refuses to go to girl’s day when Lila is invited, and she leaves sleep-overs early when she’s there, but Lila has no idea why—”

Oh, Adrien had a good idea why. And it was the same reason why Adrien had convinced his father to only allow single or boys-only shoots for him this spring, that it was more fashionable that way.

“Maybe it’s a ruse?” He offered instead. “Maybe Marinette’s only pretending to dislike Lila so she doesn’t find out her identity? It’s not like Lila has ever said she knew Ladybug’s identity.”

“Well, she did imply it once…” When did that happen!? Adrien might be mostly ignoring Lila at this point, but how did he miss that? “But she backtracked when I asked some more questions, so I think she only suspects she knows who Ladybug is. But if Marinette is Ladybug, then we could talk to her and she doesn’t have to pretend to hate Lila anymore!”

Alya gave a blinding smile. Adrien didn’t have the heart to tell her that Marinette definitely would not change her opinion of Lila if they discovered her identity.

In fact, she might yell at them both.

I Don't Need Sleep, I Need Answers

With Alya on board to stalk Marinette for all the wrong reasons, Adrien had started to feel a little more secure in his plan to discover Ladybug’s identity. For the rest of lunch and the remainder of class, Alya used some leading questions on Marinette to try and get any information, but she was like a steel wall. Alya had even thought up a cool audience participation event where Ladyblog would post everyone’s fan heroes that sounded really interesting.

(Marinette said she’d want to be a black cat hero! She was so cute—)

But there was nothing that pointed towards Marinette being Ladybug. After school, once Alya had begged off girl squad duties and Adrien had lied about an extra long fencing meeting, the two met up to stalk Marinette.

First, she spent a few hours at Eiffel Tower, designing. Then, she spent an hour in a fabric store, picking out a few yards of champagne fabric, all of which looked the same to Adrien’s discerning eye, but were clearly different to her. And finally, she met her parents at a local Italian bistro for dinner. And despite spending their entire afternoon stalking her, they’d learned nothing.

Nothing except the fact that Marinette had an adorable habit of talking to herself when she was alone, but that wasn’t strictly evidence.

Alya sat back on the bench, pulling her disguise hat down to cover her eyes. Marinette and her family were clearly visible from the restaurant window. “Maybe she isn’t Ladybug?” Alya asked. “I mean, Ladybug usually patrols in the afternoon, and she hasn’t left our sight all day!”

That was more because Adrien had offered to talk Ladybug’s afternoon patrol that day, but Alya didn’t need to know that. He hiked the newspaper with holes cut out for eyes higher onto his face. “She could be having an off day?”

“No. Adrien, what was your real reason for—”

Suddenly, the ground shook and people screamed as an akuma, eye-screaming pink and cackling at the top of his lungs, whipped past. They shot to their feet. Alya begged off to chase after the akuma and Adrien let her, his eyes glued to the window. Her family was still there, but Marinette was gone. Was she in the restroom? Or…

“Adrien, what are you doing?”

“I’m just going to check,” he told his kwami, running to the backside of the bistro. If Marinette was Ladybug, she’d have to escape out the back, right?

“There’s an akuma! Come on, you have to—”

“I just need to check!” He scolded. He was almost there!”

“Damn it, kid!” Adrien froze. Was Plagg… mad at him? Plagg was never mad at him! “This has gone on long enough! Is your love life really worth other people’s lives!?”

No. No it wasn’t. And Ladybug would hate him if he even considered for a second skipping out on a battle just to look for her identity.

Really, there was only one choice left.

“Plagg, claws out.”

“Finally!”

He’d have to try again another day. Think of a new plan of attack. But for now, he was Chat Noir. And Chat Noir had a fight to win.

I Don't Need Sleep, I Need Answers

The next day, Plagg immediately wriggled his way into Marinette’s purse, where Tikki sat, contently eating a chocolate-chip cookie.

“Sugar Cube, you’ve got to make sure your user is more careful,” he said, rubbing his head with his paws. “Adrien almost found out her identity!”

“What!?”

#miraculous ladybug #ml secret santa #lila salt #adrienette #ladrien #c: adrien agreste #c: marinette dupain-cheng #c: alya cesaire #c: lila rossi #c: nino laffiate #c: plagg #ml salt #merry christmas!!

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thewritetofreespeech · 11 months

Note

Could I request the students of Jujutsu Tech meeting Gojo's lovely s/o?

She's a gentle and sweet woman wielding the deadly ability to manipulate threads.

Another loud crash echo through the building as dust kicked up, then settled, around the coughing, injured high schoolers.

“Damnit! We can’t get close to him!”

“It’s not a question of close you idiot.” Nobara barked at Yuji, holding her shoulder; which she had landed on badly. “It’s that that thing has eyes in the back of its head and a reach for miles. We can’t do an ambush if we can’t sneak up on it.”

The special grade curse gleefully whistled. As if to agree with its prey. The hundreds of eyes littering its head, shoulders, and torso, scaling down its back, all quivered with enthusiasm at the idea of them trying to sneak up on it. Even with three of them, all with difficult tactical abilities, there was no way it seemed to break past it’s literally thousand-yard stare and wavey tentacle talons of arms.

“You guys make a break for it.” Yuji and Nobara both let out surprised grunts as Megumi stood. “Try to head for the front exit and meet Ijichi-san. Maybe he can get you back to campus and find someone else in enough time to still hold the curtain.”

“We’re not going to leave you here!” Yuji snapped. Furious at the idea.

Megumi sighed. Already made his decision that this was the best idea for everyone. His hands were already making the sign for Rabbit Escape, to give Nobara & Yuji coverage to get out, when the curse’s long arm reached out like a deadly accordion right at his head.

“Megumi!!”

The pair called out and caught Megumi’s attention. Causing him to look up just in time to see the hulking claw poised around his head to crush it. Just hanging there. Twitching. Like it was trying to close but couldn’t.

“My, my, my….” The sound of footsteps, and unmistakable voice of [Y/N] echoed through the room as she suddenly came out from the shadows. “I never pegged you for the heroics type, Megumi-kun. If I was a few years younger, I might develop a crush on you.” If the situation wasn’t so direr, Megumi would have blushed at his mentor’s wife complimenting him like that.

“Sorry to keep you kids waiting. Traffic was a bear. Although, I’m sure not as much of one as this guy.” The ‘guy’ in question growled and flailed miserably. Unable to move as it was suspended, apparently not of its own free will, in the air. “Those fools. Sending children to do a grow-ups job. It’s disgraceful.” Her hand reached out to delicately grasp and now visible tread in the room. Literal hundreds of red threads suddenly coming into view. Wrapped tight around the curse and pinned to any surface imaginable to keep it pinned. “Much like you. You’ve had your fun, but now it’s time to go. If you choose to go peacefully, I would have made this easier.” The strings pulled tighter in her grasp. Cutting deeper into the curse in a strangle hold. It’s once gleeful cries now one of painful screams. “But you’ve hurt my husband’s precious students. I can’t let that go unpunished. I’m usually a gentle woman. But since you’ve chosen violence.”

The strings tighten and tighten and tighten. Pockets of flesh bulging at their pinching crosshairs before their burst. The screams becoming a gurgling sound as they tighten around its throat. Until, eventually, the strings all pull together too tight, and the curse was cleaved. A flurry of parts exploded over the room before they eventually burst into cleansing, exorcism fire.

The students of Tokyo Tech stunned.

[Y/N] turned on their heels and faced their shocked faces with a smile that they all recognized. “Who wants ice cream?”

Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi all follow after her still in shock. “Did you know that [Y/N]-chan was that strong?” Yuji whispered to Megumi.

To which Megumi shrugged and said, “I don’t know. Gojo-sensei always said they were. That’s why he married them. But Gojo-sensei says a lot of things.”

They all met Ijichi outside, and [Y/N] instructs him to take them to the nearest ice cream shop. He seemed hesitant, at first. Starting off with a comment of ‘they needed to get back to school’ but quickly clammed up about it.

[Y/N] bought them all ice cream and they sat in a booth until Gojo-sensei showed up. Asking where his sundae was. “Of course, I knew how strong [Y/N] was.” He confirmed when regaled about the story and asked if he knew. “She’s my wife after all.”

The group finishes their ice cream and Ijichi was instructed to take them back to campus. Gojo telling him that they would take the scenic route. “Thanks for saving them.” He said as they watched the taillights fade off into the distance.

[Y/N] continued to smile, but dropped her arm from waving. “Of course. I couldn’t let anything happen to them. They’re your precious students. And I’m pretty fond of them as well.”

“It’s pretty sexy how you went all ‘momma bear’ over them.”

Gojo smirked as [Y/N] elbowed him in the ribs. “Don’t be gross. I may have my conflicts with the school that prevent me from teaching, but I still take my job as a sorcerer and de facto den mother seriously.”

He took a step a head of her with his long legs, then turned and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “That is why I married you.” [Y/N] blushed and returned with a shy smirk. “Let’s go home. I’m sure the kids are worried sick about us already.”

#;ask and ye shall receive (request answers)#jujutsu kaisen #jujutsu kaisen imagines #jujutsu kaisen scenarios #jujutsu kaisen satoru #satoru gojo #satoru gojo x reader #jujutsu kaisen satoru gojo #jujutsu kaisen gojo #megumi fushiguro #nobara kugisaki #yuji itadori #jjk scenarios #jjk imagines #jjk satoru gojo #scenarios #imagine #female reader

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zqmbiescorpse · 1 year

Text

GLADIATOR, PART 1

johanna mason x female reader

a/n: i'm listing tags below because they give a good description, include important information and this was originally intended for ao3. for the first part and for some of the second, johanna isn't there because i wanted to do some world building and you, the reader, has somewhat of a backstory and a last name but this is not at all a self insert i promise.

summary: after winning the 72nd hunger games, quite a name had been made for you in the capitol - quickly becoming a favourite across panem. because of this, naturally, you find yourself thrown back into the horror of the games due to the 3rd quarter quell, representing district 5 one last time. though, not all is lost, fellow tribute and close friend, johanna mason of district 7, finds herself in the same position.

tags: graphic depictions of violence (sometimes), johanna mason, katniss everdeen, peeta mellark, finnick odair, johanna mason x female reader, catching fire, mockingjay part 1, mockingjay part 2, 72nd hunger games, 75th hunger games, gore, eye gore, detailed descriptions of eyeball squishing, disabled reader, female reader, reader is missing an eye, reader is missing limbs, missing fingers, traumatic events, blood, choking, johanna mason needs a hug, rebellion, slow burn, mutual pining, scared of feelings, fluff, angst, making out, kissing, confessions, peeta has his prosthetic leg, maybe smut idk, tension, awkwardness, wlw, i love johanna so much

warnings for this part: gore, detailed descriptions of eyeball squishing (i'm sorry), murder, traumatic events, choking, suffocation, stabbing, blood (tbf it is the hunger games)

wordcount: 1.01k

(part 2) (masterlist)

Weapons long disregarded, tossed away into the sand, leaving you both unarmed - only your fists, or what you had left of them, could be used to beat the other to death. He was bulky, and taller than you. Still, you managed to have him pinned to the floor once more, with your hands wrapped tightly around his neck, slowly crushing his windpipe. You hated every second of it, the fear in his wide eyes looking up at yours, a disturbed red creeping into the whites.

Your grip wasn't as tight as it could've been, with only eight fingers, the middle and index missing on your right hand, your dominant hand. Hell, the pinky on your left was hanging on by what must have been a thread, only a red string of skin. You decided it was seven fingers remaining, desperately thinking of anything else aside from the spluttering boy beneath you. He was so close to death, you knew it and so did he.

With nothing else to save himself, the male district one tribute reached for your head, both his dirty, grazed hands placed on either side. They were large, nearly covering your entire face, and undoubtedly strong. You became more panicked, unsure of what he was going to do next, however, as you attempted to apply even more pressure to his neck, he also began to squeeze.

An eruption of agony shot through the right side of your skull, his thumbs burying deeper and deeper into your eye. For a brief moment, your grip weakened due to the unbearable burning sensation coming from the socket, which had been invaded by the boy's chipped fingernails, stabbing and squishing at your eye. This gave him enough of an opportunity to sit upright, gaining back control of the brawl, continuing to push even harder; really just digging his thumbs in as hard as he possibly could.

You were screaming now, the sounds causing your throat to feel sore and rough, though, how could it compare to the searing pain you felt elsewhere? Your eye was well out of place, edging forever inward, your vision on the right side now completely black, blinded. He started to scream too, echoing those of a primal being on a path to victory after suffering through a tormenting battle. The force was so intense you began to feel an uncomfortable sensation build up rapidly besides the excruciating pain; your eyeball was going to pop. Burning hot blood was gushing down the side of your face, running down all over your fellow tribute and falling down into his mouth, coating his teeth and his tongue with a thick red ooze.

You couldn't take it anymore, removing your hands from him in a desperate attempt to save whatever mush would be left in your socket in hopes of a salvage. Unfortunately for you, reaching up to claw at your own eye left you perfectly vulnerable and open. With one last push, he stuck his fingers as far as he could, such an immense amount of force you could've sworn the boy was moments away from crushing your skull - poking and prodding at the sensitive nerves within your damaged socket.

Another strangled screech violently came from within you as you felt a squelching burst trigger pure anguish, wet tears and warm blood trickling together down your face - mixing together to cause a disgusting mess. Too absorbed in the torturous suffering, you failed to remember the other blood thirsty tribute still present, who was now preparing to finally take your life.

You stumbled back, a new sense of disorientation upon you as you tried to put distance between yourself and the approaching Grim Reaper, the boy taking his time getting closer, a weird expression contorting into his features; the realisation that he was enjoying this made you crumble. Shuffling backwards frantically, one hand digging through the sand, the other glued to where your eye should be whilst the crimson substances flowed between your three fingers at an unstoppable pace.

So much pain. So much exhaustion.

The whole fight had been intense and raw, seemingly going on for hours. Scrapes and gashes littered your frail, disfigured body and your bones ached beyond belief. If that smug fuck hadn't made his way towards you any quicker, your chances of bleeding to death were a lot higher than dying by his hands. It deeply disturbed you how that same boy was powerless beneath you just minutes ago, terrified and so desperately wanting for his life. Then, there he was, smiling like a lunatic, caught up in the victory that hadn't yet arrived - seeming overjoyed to witness your suffering.

An early celebration, indeed. Part of you, at that moment, thanked any higher power you could think of, eternally grateful that the Careers couldn't help but be arrogant assholes who view themselves as undefeatable kings and queens. In the time wasted by the boy from district one strolling his way over to you, you had managed to come across your weapon, a long sort of sickle, sticking out of the sand not too far behind you.

You waited, fingers twitching at your side. You didn't want to reveal the weapon concealed by your back at the moment, but rather, let the foolish boy get closer. He should've ended you when he had the chance.

Mustering all the strength you had left, you ignored the throbbing that was pounding against your skull and swiftly grabbed the curved sword, hand tight around the handle as you lunged forward, knocking the tribute back down into the sand - beneath you for the final time.

Not an ounce of hesitation prevented you from what would soon haunt your every thought. At that time, you had no needs other than the one to end this, every sensation in your body numb, apart from a blazing desire in the pit of your stomach. The sharp blade plunged deep into his chest over and over and over again until the cannon boomed in the far distance, signalling his death. You had won.

#the hunger games #the hunger games catching fire #johanna mason #johanna mason x reader #x female reader #lqbtqa #fanfiction #katniss everdeen #finnick odair #thg haymitch #Peeta mellark x reader #finnick odair x reader

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thistlefaethfort · 1 month

Text

GREEN

— read this first or this might not make sense!

— ao3 link!

She had found her fingers helplessly tangled up in the yarn. At first, it had gotten caught in the button on one of her brown leather bracers, but she hadn’t realised and started using the next colour, then the next until they had all braided together in something more complicated than she would ever have been able to do on purpose. Lengths and lengths in a rainbow of colours lay across her lap as she tried not to panic about getting it all straight. Normally she was good with knots and rope; she was a ranger, she was proficient at trapping and snaring, but the yarn was going on the corkboard of things they were keeping track of for each of the kids.

At first, she had been half joking, she thought it would have been something the kids all snorted at and ignored whilst her, Lydia, and Jawbone all stressed about it. Lately though, in the past week, small forms and post-its with updates about schedules and letters for parents had appeared pinned to the edges in different colours and handwritings.

The board had gotten cluttered, so with fingers that nearly trembled with care, Sandra Lynn had unpinned everything and placed it all in piles with a polaroid of the corresponding Bad Kid she had taken recently — only ever when they were smiling — with her clunky old camera: Gorgug’s was a picture of him smiling shyly at his friends from the makeshift stage in the Thistlespring’s backgarden after he had performed at their barbecue (Digby and Wilma had asked for a copy near teary eyed). The one of Fabian was him asleep and grinning anyway with his friends all curled up on his new bed downstairs around him (she had, almost vindictively, sent a copy to Gilear and Hallariel). Riz was captured mid-laugh in his photo, balancing on top of the front door and swishing his tail to stay up whilst the Bad Kids all reached for him to try and take the crystal speaker he was holding aloft. It was hard to make out the photo of Adaine, she was mid-spin under her Jawbone’s arm as the two danced, but her face was nearly split in half with a beam. She featured in the next, from that same party — Jawbone must have stolen the camera between dances with his kids — carefully retying the bright yellow tie around Kristen’s neck whilst she cackled with her head tipped back. Fig’s was simple, shot in soft glowy lighting, a happy tiefling wrapped in her girlfriend’s wings.

And each photo was supposed to have matching, plain yarn. Yarn that Sandra Lynn was so focused on that she didn’t notice the other movements in the room until the string started to tug slightly. When she started, she had laid the board on the floor of the living room and sat crosslegged in front of it while she made piles, and then started untangling; the room had been empty apart from Lydia who was half-heartedly napping behind her on the couch, and she hadn’t noticed that at some point Riz had arrived and started on some type of work on the mismatched armchair.

Dextrous, smaller hands were working from the other end, unravelling the glittery fibres from the blue and yellow yarns from the places they had become ensnared with the super soft, fluffy texture of the purple. For good practice, Sandra Lynn supposed, the red, pink, and green were wound around them intricately.

She ducked her head again and they worked together silently, punctuated only by the dull drone of Cleric’s Anatomy and the gentle exhale of Lydia’s snores. At some point the threads untangled and split into two groups so they each worked on their own. She took longer with her pile, winding them into spools attentively because she found it harder to untie each part without causing any damage.

When she looked up, her eyes caught on the braid — a new, clean version, not messy and unintentional like before — in Riz’s hand and she inhaled, surprised. It was like a bracelet with all six of their colours, twined into a seamless pattern.

Sklonda called her every other day that Sandra Lynn didn’t call her first, and most of the time they laughed. They drank cups of black coffee to support the rapidly growing number of teens under her roof and the rapidly growing piles of work appearing under Sklonda’s. The rest of the time they commiserated for each other, for their babies. She knew that Riz didn’t have a lot of friends, not when he was younger, and still Sklonda found herself fiercely defensive in her son’s name in case he was being bullied again. Sometimes the other bad kids made fun of him, she knew that, but she knew it was all in good faith. She had been the one to cast find object for Fabian when he thought, in his move to Mordred, the necklace Riz had given him had gotten lost.

Her fingers carefully turned the last of the green yarn about the thing keeping it neat, and she hummed. It was a good colour, emerald, but bright; like the leaves that the sun shone through deep in the forest. For a few of the colours, she hadn’t been able to find the colour she wanted in normal string, so Riz’s was covered in fluff like it had had an electric current run through it. It had fit so she hadn’t minded picking it up anyway; Electric, emerald green. Like eating something sour and staying up too late watching movies, refusing to go to bed even though you and your friends were all falling asleep on each other’s shoulders. Like seeing something so unbelievably important that you couldn’t quite process it yet. It was a chaotic, intelligent colour.

Sandra Lynn had lived a lot of her life in chaos, but she thought maybe it was a different type of chaos to the type that the teenager thrived in. Riz seemed to drink in stress like caffeine and bounce off the walls from it. She didn’t know if asking him to do something that would make him settle or sit down would do any good because she thought it was likely he would do the task as fast as possible, all the while distracted by what he really thought he needed to be doing. Instead, she had conspired with her new friends, all parents worried about their own and all the other kids, decided that they would all leave conspicuously relaxing tasks lying around.

In the Manor, they had left a large series of board games and puzzles around the den that all of the kids and Jawbone seemed to be dipping in and out of.

Maybe they had all made it too complicated, looking now at how consumed the teenager was with knitting together row after row of intricate patterns, glancing periodically at his crystal (she didn’t waste time trying to figure out who would be home soon that Riz was waiting for) and the paperwork he had been doing. Sandra Lynn contemplated trying to copy him herself, body doubling him so he got sucked further in, but the thought of tangling the string again made her want to claw her eyes out.

She sucked in a long breath and stretched her back until her muscles stopped aching before shifting to face Riz completely. She thought maybe he wasn’t listening all the way, too focused on the million other things she was sure were clouding his mind. Her words were soft when she spoke, careful not to spook him. ‘Would you teach me how to do that? I think all the Bad Parents would like a bracelet for all of you.’

His reaction was immediate, leaping on the chance and guiding her through starting a braid off, enthusiastically saying ‘yeah, yeah’ every time she changed colours the right way. His face was screwed up in a concentrated frown, but his shoulders were slowly unbunching from by his shoulders.

It was worth missing her usual bedtime to finish up the kids’ board of shit they had to do later if she could get him to untense for a little while.

It would be much later that night that, when she was cushioned between Jawbone’s chest and the expanse of Lydia’s back in their bed, half asleep and half examining the glittering bracelets wrapped around both of her partners’ wrists that she would remember to send the picture of Riz that Lydia had taken to the groupchat: His tongue was caught between his teeth and his head was tipped over the arm of the chair as he pulled at one of the last few bracelets they had made together before Adaine had arrived.

#sharkie writes #fantasy high ficlet #fantasy high #fantasy high junior year #fhjy #dimension 20 #the bad kids #riz gukgak #sandralynn faeth #lydia barkrock #jawbone o'shaughnessey #adaine abernant #gorgug thistlespring #fabian aramais seacaster #figueroth faeth #kristen applebees #sklonda gukgak

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forlorn-crows · 1 year

Note

Crowwwwwwwww I'm thinking of trans Mountain crying while getting peggeddddddddd can u help pls 🙏

trans ghoul tuesday, all this pegging talk . . . you know i had to do it to 'em.

enjoy my love

"These really do fold up nicely, don't they?" Cumulus teases as she pins his knees to his ears. Mountain’s wet with slick and saliva, cunt puffy and red where the air ghoulette had been teasing him with her mouth. His clit twitches as Cumulus traces the head of the dildo against it, slow and even. Mountain moans at the pressure and digs his claws into the sheets.

“You’re so pretty like this, sunflower,” she hums. “Been waiting so patiently for me to fuck you, huh?” He whines at her words, another rush of slick drooling out of his hole as he clenches around nothing. He’s always like this under her: wet, blushy, needy.

Mountain’s mouth hangs open in a wordless cry as Cumulus drags the strap through his folds, so slick and velvety. “‘Lus, please,” he breathes. “Please, been so good for you.”

“Aw, you have, haven’t you, darling?” She rubs a soothing hand over the backs of his thighs, over the scattered marks just as purple as her toy. “And you’re still being so good, look how wet you are,” she coos, dipping a finger between his folds. Mountain moans softly as she swirls it around his entrance, smiling when it comes out glistening.

Cumulus’ gaze flicks up to his face, flushed a deep pink. He bites his lip as he watches her hold up the slick-coated digit, hovering just in front of her face. She reaches up to him then, smearing her finger over his mouth, grazing ever so gently against the chipped fang poking out over his bottom lip. He moans, immediately darting his tongue out to taste, to welcome her into his mouth.

“There you go, have a taste,” she purrs, petting his tongue as he suckles. She continues to stroke over the soft hair on the backs of his thighs, admiring the goosebumps that pop up in the wake of her touch. He throbs when she gives the sensitive skin a little pinch, his little dick so fat and full of blood even without her touching him.

Mountain moans around her finger and bucks his hips, pleading with glassy, half-lidded eyes.

“You want me to fuck you, little clover?” Cumulus pulls her finger from his mouth, a thin trail of saliva stringing out between its tip and the corner of his mouth.

“Yes,” Mountain says eagerly. His legs are just barely beginning to tremble, and his clit still throbs with every little pinch. The earth ghoul wraps his hands along the backs of his knees, holding himself open for her. He cranes his neck back with a groan as she dips that finger in between his folds again, prodding slightly deeper and making his back bow off the bed.

“Please, Lus,” he begs in a broken voice.

Cumulus brushes his damp hair back away from his face with her free hand, tucking it back behind his horns. “Okay, okay my darling. Let me give you what you need.” She gives him one last thrust with her finger before she pulls away, teasing his plump clit on the way out. Mountain gives her a surprise trill in response, a noise that makes him blush with a thread of embarrassment.

“That’s awfully cute, sunflower,” she smiles, rubbing the excess slick onto the toy. Cumulus presses her hands into the backs of his thighs, just below his own hands. The toy rests neatly between his folds as she thrusts slowly, taking her time slicking it up. There’s no shortage of it, not when Mountain whines and clenches out another glob that attaches itself right to the base of the strap.

“Doing such a good job,” Cumulus chirps. She runs her hand over the silicone briskly to coat it the rest of the way. She rubs the tip of the toy around his entrance, teasing the first centimeter of it inside. Mountain’s nails dig into the flesh behind his knees, tendons flexing in his hands. The softest of noises bubbles up in his throat as he fights the urge to pull Cumulus in.

The air ghoulette hums and presses more of her weight onto Mountain’s legs, slowly pushing the length of the toy in.

“Fuck, that’s—oh—” is all he can say as she fills his cunt, stretching him just enough. She slides in easily, a fact she continues to praise him for, until her hips are flush against him. Cumulus gives a sympathetic groan as the earth ghoul huffs out little uh’s as he’s made to sit with her deep inside.

Cumulus places little kisses to his calves, smiling at the way his eyes screw shut and his mouth hangs open. “Just what you wanted, huh, little clover?” She rolls her hips ever so slightly, earning another gasp.

“Uh huh,” Mountain moans, pressing onto the toy with any leverage he can. “Please, ‘Lus, need you to fuck me.”

Cumulus leans down to capture his mouth in a tender kiss. She rolls her hips again, still kissing him sweetly. Mountain whines through his nose, letting go of his knees to grab at her face and lick against the seam of her mouth, trying to turn it filthy.

The air ghoulette pulls away before he can get a proper taste. Mountain’s legs follow her body, unfurling to rest on her shoulders as she inches out, slow and deliberate. The earth ghoul’s trembling now, breath quick in anticipation.

Without warning, she drives home, burying the toy to the hilt in his cunt. Mountain keens, thighs threatening to squeeze together as he throws his head back. She pulls out again, thrusting back into him with the same enthusiasm. His clit throbs with it, fat and flush in the middle of his folds.

It doesn’t take long to set a comfortable pace, one that has the earth ghoul whining steadily and clutching at the sheets.

“So good, ‘Lus, fuck, so so good,” he starts babbling after a few minutes. He can barely keep his eyes open now, alternating between rolling back into his head and staring through droopy eyelids.

“You look so good, So pretty on my cock, sunflower,” Cumulus praises.

“Fuck.” Mountain’s hands roam over his chest at the comment, feeling himself up.

“Even prettier when I touch you . . .” she trails off, running her hand down the earth ghoul’s leg and coming to rest just above his pubic bone. Her thrusts slow substantially, reaching a lazy, teasing pace. Mountain’s chest heaves, every nerve under her hand alight with need. Her hand dips lower, lower, lower, until: “Here.” Cumulus presses her thumb to Mountain’s clit just as she presses all the way in once more.

“Yes, like that, just like that,” he chokes out, stomach twitching with each pass over his dick. He’s almost dripping now, Cumulus’ toy sliding in and out of him with no real friction as she picks up speed again. She shifts the angle of her hips, focusing her thrusts upward and using her free fingers to press against Moutain’s lower belly as she thumbs his clit.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” Mountain chants, slipping his own fingers under her thumb instead, guiding her hand to press more firmly against his abdomen.

“That’s a good boy, darling, there you go.” Mountain groans long and loud at that, fingers stopping and starting against his length with each thrust.

“‘M gonna cum, gonna—fuck oh fuck—” His moan cuts off as the wave of pleasure crashes over him, body spasming and bowing off the bed. Cumulus fucks him through it, slowing only when he collapses against the bed half a minute later, gasping and twitching, hand still idly circling over his clit.

“‘Lus, please,” he begs, knees pressing together in front of her face.

“Oh, I know you’ve got more in you, don’t you little clover,” she says, a little meanly.

“W-wha—” Mountain barely has time to ask the question before Cumulus is flipping both of his legs to one side, holding him in a slight twist. She leans back and thrusts deep and hard, reveling in the confused and fucked-out look on his face.

“Oh fuck oh no,” Moutnain says through ragged gasps. He’s still twitching and throbbing with overstimulation, forced to take what she gives him. It’s nothing less than the hottest thing she ever does to him. He can feel the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes already, threatening to spill in hot, angry lines down his cheeks.

“Aw, let me see those sweet little tears, sunflower,” Cumulus purrs, digging her nails into his thighs.

Mountain sobs as another orgasm rips through him, tears spilling from his squeezed-shut eyes, flowing freely.

#ask #miasma #im gonna turn off the ask box on you woman #(i would never)#fanfic #the band ghost #the band ghost fanfic #ghost fanfic #mountain ghoul #mountain my love #cumulus ghoulette #mountain x cumulus #cumulus x mountain #i love them your honor #ficlet #PEGGGINNNNG ill never shut up about it. esp not if its my husband #transghoul tuesday

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heathen-faggot · 2 years

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Shaker Jar Curse

Ever know so vile you cannot wish more ill will upon them than you already do? Well, this is the one stop, meanest, nastiest, curse I could come up with. Here's what you are going to need.

please remember to curse responsibly, this is a VERY powerful curse and really should only be used in a dire situation and for the worst of the worst people. Remember, if someone or yourself is in a terrible situation, please rely on the mundane before consulting magic.

A medium or large sized jar

Black thread or twine

A taglock for your target(full name, birthday, picture, the more specific the better)

Sigils with your intention

Chili pepper

Ground ginger

Black garlic(regular works fine)

Cheyenne pepper

Pepper flakes

Cloves

Whole black peppercorns

vinegar( I used red)

vodka( IF YOU ARE COMFORTABLE USING IT OR HAVE ACCESS TO IT)

Dead bugs( i used a spider and a stink bug) check your musty basements for dead bugs

Thorns( i used rose thorns)

Rusted nails and screws

Pins and needles

Black and red candles

How to:

Write your taglock and sigils on a piece of paper along with your intentions, what do you want to happen to this person, what are you angry about, how do you want this curse to affect them.

Add your ingredients to the jar, I recommend doing the vinegar last for a lack of mess. Speak your intentions over the jar, ask your deities for help if you so desire

Seal the lid of the jar tightly, take your string, knot it nine times and each time you knot it, speak your intentions and channel your anger and pain. Then knot the string around your jar and tie tightly

Take your candles and melt the wax on the top and seam of the jar, make sure you do it especially around the lid to prevent leaks and also that negative energy from escaping, do as much wax as you like

Shake the jar whenever you feel angry or hurt to make the effects of the curse worsen and intensify.

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yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy · 5 months

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Fugging fugg it.

Silco x Genderfluid!Sex Worker Reader WIP

———-

Tell me, is there a specific impetus that determines whether you present as a boy or a girl?'

You glance up from the bowtie you're making with the drawstrings to your pants. His slender fingers, the fingers that were wrapped around your cock only minutes before, splay like a divided fan to frame his face. Two fingers the vertical span of his cheek, the others curled beneath his lower lip. Thoughtful as he studies you.

It is impossible to beat the feeling back--your chest flutters with something light. Gratified. That dangerous, dangerous thing that can lead people off a cliff and into hell if one isn't careful. That thing that you know he can *see* that you have strung between the both of you with an invisible cord, your heart to his eyes, his mouth. That *predictable* sentiment, the hollow, pathetic hunger for affirmation that is far more perilous to possess in the Undercity than recklessness, greed, or sheer stupidity.

He knows, and he sits, a spider balanced on a splay of silk you have woven for him. Enthusiastic, willing pawn that you are. A hint of interest, and you are running.

You wonder if he can read the conflict that roils in your heart, the survivalist’s battle with this embarrassingly predictable nature that plagues the scores of mensch that tread the earth of Runeterra. Brotherhood. Freedom. Power. Does he know how greatly you struggle to remain able in his presence, how small you are made to feel despite his trust in your capacity as a courier and a reconnaisseur?

An obedient peon when necessary, of course, always obedient, but a person yet still, an individual. He must see you struggle. Does it amuse him to see you endeavor not to unravel? Does he recognize your efforts, and how? A mark of hubris, or tenacity? A bug pinned under glass, or a child fumbling toward freedom.

'Or both.' Your tone is dry, bordering on sarcastic. You have faced this line of questioning countless times from people too stupid or too insincere to understand. But as soon as the words leave your lips, you regret them. This was not some alley drunk foreign to the concept of an engaging personality.

To your immediate relief, however, his chest hitches, the most imperceptible exhalation of air let through his nose. His eye flickers off to the side before returning to you. A finger taps his cheekbone. Amusing. ‘Or both.' He echoes.

'We've slept together quite a few times, and never once have you asked me such a thing. Why the sudden interest, sir?' You deliberately add the moniker out of habit, and self-preservation. Let it never be said that you *deliberately* mouthed off to *the* Silco. Post-sex murder is an anticlimactic way to go.

Another soft hum, the note round and warm in the middle. 'Idle curiosity.'

You raise an eyebrow. It's not that you don't believe him, but it's clear that there's more to it. You tell him as much. Politely, of course.

The thread of uncertainty fades. He seems receptive to your reporte today, or perhaps he thinks offering up his motivations will result in a reciprocity that he'd otherwise glean with subterfuge and verbal acrobatics. He pulls back from his desk and opens a drawer by his knee to retrieve a leather book, and beckons you over with a lift of his chin. You tighten the strings to your pants and do as he bids.

It's an almanac for this year. Odd thing for him to have, you think. He seemed more like a newspaper man. Splaying it open on the desk before him, he flicks to the section laying out the calendar months and slides it over to you while pointing at the month of April. If you recalled correctly, you started sleeping together around the end of that month...

At first you don't know what you're looking at. Certain days are marked with a single dot, all through the past few months. Blue, green, and red dots. It takes you a moment to parse out the data, but:

'You've been tracking my gender every time we've slept together?'

'I thought it..interesting. At first there seemed to be a pattern, but by July my working theory was in shambles.' He tilts his head to give you an appraising look. 'You are woefully inconsistent, boy.'

You can’t help it, you bark out a laugh.

He tsks, good eye narrowing in a baleful glare, yet his lips twisted in a way that betrayed his lack of genuine offense toward your outburst. 'I'm glad my confusion is so amusing to you.'

'Ahah, sorry, I just didn't expect this...' you gesture to the book, '..social studies project.' Without asking, you pick it up and run your finger over the neat printed columns. You glance over at him and find him fishing out another cigar from his humidor. Turning back, you shrug. 'You could've just asked.'

There is the familiar sound of the cutter. Snip. 'I believe this would fall more under 'psychiker medicine'.' The cutter lands on the desk with a metal clunk, and then the telltale click-and-flick of the lighter.

Your smile turns sly, and you lean forward, pressing your arms on either side of your chest to push what little flesh existed there into a tiny facsimile of cleavage. 'Would you like me to be a girl next time, daddy~?'

Rolling his eyes mid-inhale, Silco takes the cigar from his mouth and allows a waterfall of smoke to billow from his nose. He flits his occupied hand at your chest as if to say 'put those away'.

You playfully stick out your tongue, clipping it between your teeth, and give a little shimmy before straightening to resume getting dressed. You feel his gaze on your back as you round the desk to retrieve your shirt.

'It would behoove you to watch your cheek where I'm concerned, Darling.’

——-

Uh, these people liked a post I made a long time ago asking if anyone was interested in this idea so you quite literally asked for it.

@spoczkot , @spooklia , @rockz-in-a-box , @fluffydogboo13 , @aftonsfatnuts , @jas-mjp

#silco x you #silco #silco x reader #fan fiction #wip wednesday #my writing

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house-of-stone-at-sunrise · 7 days

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Fortnight - post mortem

"Fortnight"

(feat. Post Malone)

"I was supposed to be sent away, but they forgot to come and get me

I was a functioning alcoholic till nobody noticed my new aesthetic

All of this to say, I hope you're okay, but you're the reason

And no one here's to blame, but what about your quiet treason?"

To be sent away is to be committed to the psych ward, or sent to jail. From the music video (MV) it seems that in this case it's a reference to an involuntary stay in the psych ward - she's chained up in a bed being made to take pills, however, asylums and prisons are a theme throughout the album as a whole.

In the opening scenes of the video she is dressed up to look like 1920s movie starlet Clara Bow (who is referenced directly as a song title later on the album.) Her hair is pinned up with an extreme number of upside down bobby-pins which on the right side of her head make the roman numeral for 13, and she is wearing a wedding gown.

Clara Bow is known to have engaged in lavender marriages while having secret affairs with women during her stardom. "dropping hairpins" is a piece of historical queer slang, meaning dropping hints that one is queer, and the inverse, having your hair pinned up means that you're pretending to be straight. Hair pins reference back to the lyrics of Right Where You Left Me "Dust collected on my pinned-up hair." I read this scene as "maximum closeting," by force.

The entire room is shown to be upside down and at an angle which reminds me of the classic Emily Dickinson poem "tell all the truth but tell it slant" Given Emily is a favorite poet of TS the Dickinson reference is likely intentional and it's fair to assume that there are red herrings and metaphors in abundance throughout this song and this album. Remember the 'redherring' error code on the website pre-release.

This song and video also reference A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens, which tells the story of a person released from prison who has mental health issues due to being tortured during their prison stay, who is then taken by their family from Paris(!) to London (!!) Book 2 of A Tale of Two Cities is titled "The Golden Thread" which reminds me of Invisible String "one single thread of gold tied me to you," and in the second book we're told the tale of how the golden haired daughter provides financially for her family in addition to repairing and maintaining their good reputation. A Tale of Two Cities feels oh so very appropriate as a touchstone for listening to this album.

"I was a functioning alcoholic" is this metaphorical, literal, or both? Other mentions of use and abuse of drugs and alcohol in her discography include Closure "I'm fine with my spite and my tears and my beers and my candles" Clean "Ten months sober" and Don't Blame Me "My drug is my baby I'll be using for the rest of my life" I think in this case I think it might be both metaphorical and literal. The loss of her love drove her to drink, but also, she was addicted to her illicit love and maybe got away with it until others noticed-?

"All of this to say, I hope you're okay, but you're the reason. And no one here's to blame, but what about your quiet treason?" reminds me again of the song Closure "It wasn't right the way it all went down looks like you know that now. Yes, I got your letter, Yes, I'm doing better. I don't need your closure" It's just as direct, but less aggressive in tone. She hopes her muse is well but they are the reason that she is where she is.

"And for a fortnight there, we were forever

Run into you sometimes, ask about the weather

Now you're in my backyard, turned into good neighbors

Your wife waters flowers

I wanna kill her"

A fortnight is two weeks, though, it may be a metaphorical stand-in here just meaning that for awhile it seemed like they were going to be together forever, but now they are acquaintances who make small talk.

"Now you're in my backyard, turned into good neighbors" reminds me of the ever so quotable line "Good Fences Make Good Neighbours" from Robert Frost's poem Mending Wall, the irony of the poem is that while setting clear boundaries with a wall prevents petty disputes over property lines the constant need to maintain the wall they've built brings the neighbours together to talk. The line is often quoted by people who've never read the poem without heed for the irony. As a reference here it seems very sarcastic - we're good neighbours look how polite and appropriate we are with our boundaries set in stone.

There are many references to gardens and flowers in the TS back catalogue but for me this in particular recalls the lyrics from Clean "The drought was the very worst. When the flowers that we'd grown together died of thirst." and this line translates to me as I hate your partner because they're growing a relationship/family with you, whereas ours is dead.

The MV shows TS wiping her face to reveal tattoos that almost match those of Post Malone who plays the part of love interest in the MV. The differences are the addition of two tattoos that spell out DDP, an extra heart, and a change from a playboy bunny to what looks like a diamond. The tattoos seem to have been covered with make-up while she was chained up in the asylum, and they disappear as soon as she steps out into the other room - only to reappear onto the face of Post Malone. I don't have any theories about what DDP stands for I would love to hear other peoples. Seeing TS with secret tattoos reminds me of Dress, "made your mark on me a golden tattoo." another song about secret love.

"All my mornings are Mondays stuck in an endless February

I took the miracle move-on drug, the effects were temporary"

Mondays being the most notoriously hated day of the week because it's the start of the work week for many people, and Feb being post-celebration winter in the northern hemisphere, I read this as - all I do is work I'm stuck in a bleak winter that won't end. I've tried every option available to get over you but it didn't work.

When she enters the writers room she's wearing a mourning dress, which could lend another layer i.e. all my mournings are mondays i.e. all of my break-ups are work/business.

The whole video is in black and white except for the sparks that fly off the pages into the air between their desks, and the fire once she sets things ablaze.

"And I love you, it's ruining my life

I love you, it's ruining my life

I touched you for only a fortnight

I touched you

But I touched you"

This is pretty direct but in context I read it as - I'm still in love with you, I feel stuck, I can't move on and my public image won't let me let you in, we may have only been together for a short time but we were together and I can't/won't forget it.

In the MV there are an endless array of masked figures also in black mourning attire, all with masks and hats sitting at identical desks disappearing into the horizon. Are these the other tortured poets from history, made to mask and hide behind their typewriters in a black and white world?

"And for a fortnight there, we were forever

Run into you sometimes, ask about the weather

Now you're in my backyard, turned into good neighbors

Your wife waters flowers

I wanna kill her

And for a fortnight there, we were together

Run into you sometimes, comment on my sweater

Now you're at the mailbox, turned into good neighbors

My husband is cheating

I wanna kill him"

"My husband is cheating I wanna kill him" This could be literal cheating, however, she is not literally married so maybe that's a hint - maybe he's violating the terms of a contract? After all she's probably not in love with him since she's pining so badly after the muse of this song-? So, why would she still want to murder him? Maybe they were supposed to get lavender-married but he cancelled the wedding and now everything is in upheaval?

She is laying on the ground with PM in the middle of an image of herself made up of pages reading from "The Story of US" book, "So many things that I wish you knew. So many walls up, I can't break through" they seem to be stuck there and then they break free, pages flying in the air, and hold each other laughing. The tattoos are now gone from both faces.

"I love you, it's ruining my life

I love you, it's ruining my life

I touched you for only a fortnight

I touched you

I love you, it's ruining my life

I touched you for only a fortnight

I touched you

I touched you"

In the MV she's back in the asylum now, hair undone/pins gone, strapped to a table surrounded by men about to have electro convulsive therapy (ECT) administered, a black dog runs through the frame. The ECG read-out is showing "I love you it's ruining my life" in the read out of her heart beat. One of the panels in the background reads "Master Control." In literature The Black Dog represents depression.

So, when her hair is unpinned she wants to be publicly out as in love with a woman, and the men who surround her and control her and her music deem it inappropriate, they want to 'fix' her. But, when the ECT runs sparks fly, the machinery overloads, she screams, and PM runs over to release her from the table.

"Thought of calling ya, but you won't pick up

Another fortnight lost in America

Move to Florida, buy the car you want

But it won't start up till you touch, touch, touch me"

"Thought of calling ya, but you won't pick up. Another fortnight lost in America" You won't answer my calls so we've lost another fortnight of our lives to the American culture wars - reminds me of Miss Americana & The Heartbreak Prince and Paris, which are also songs about running away.

They are now outside in a raging storm stuck on top of a mountain with treacherously steep sides, TS sits atop a phone box in a dress that looks like chain-mail, while PM is inside the box making a call begging..

"Move to Florida, buy the car you want but it won't start up till you touch, touch, touch me." TS has said in interview that moving to Florida in this album is a reference to people running away from their mistakes and starting fresh. She's telling the muse to ditch their partner and runaway with her, this ties back to Getaway Car which opens with "It was the best of times, the worst of crimes" which is a direct reference to A Tale of Two Cities which opens "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way".

"Thought of calling ya, but you won't pick up

Another fortnight lost in America

Move to Florida, buy the car you want

But it won't start up till I touch, touch, touch you"

TS is back in the writers room, tearing open the draws, letting the pages fly into the air, crying, then stone faced in her mourning dress while the pages swirl around her burning. It reminds me of Dear Reader "Dear reader, burn all the files desert all your past lives" The version of her in the asylum smashes down the window.

And finally the version of TS on top of the phone box reaches down and holds hands with PM. She's created imagery of herself stuck inside cages, boxes, glass boxes, etc over and over through the years and this is the first time we've seen her outside and making contact with another human.

Conclusion: our protagonist has been held by force in the image of a virginal heterosexual bride, going slowly insane while she pretends that the woman she truly loves is just a friend, and she's now completely fed up and her bearding situation has gone to hell, she's asking her love to runaway with her and she's willing to metaphorically set fire to her history/her body of work to be with the one she loves.

#gaylor #lgbetty

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