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woefulrest · 23 days

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𓈒 　　 ℐ 　　Macalo Layout𓈒 　

day 04 of @daintykill’s event ! ( ignore how I skipped three days .. )

like and reblog to use — credits required 𓈒

credit @ / vashwoodyuri (divs) and @ / rosendoru (psd) respectively ^_^

( no kin / id / me tags unless Lolita ^_^ )

#⠀ ⠀ ◜ ⠀ ℐ℘ ˙ ⠀⠀layouts.#dainty250 #tumblr layouts #layout #macalo #from the red fog #stop idk what tags to use SOB..

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imsilay · 8 months

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How about König rescuing his obsession from an abusive boyfriend and then claiming her while he watches helpless?

LATIBULE

mdni, cw: abuse, cursing, hair pulling, punching, beating, broken bones? (idk im terrible at tagging :/ )

word count: 0.8k

i’m gonna make pt.2 :) edit: POSTED! here

cr: paldedpul on twt (i’m not sure)

Your cheek burned and you gasped with pain when your boyfriend hit you across the face. “You fucking slut. You’re no good for anything.” he hissed and grabbed a fistful of your hair. He yanked it back and caused so much pain that your mouth fall agape. You tried to reach his hand and push him away from your hair but he didn’t gave you time to reach. Another hand found your throat and he pinned your back against his chest, pulling your hair and squeezing the oxygen out of your lungs. All you could do was squirm and cry. You felt so pathetic, helpless. The man you loved was taking his anger out on you because things didn’t go as he wanted.

At the time you thought everything was over, the door broke open. Your boyfriend’s head snapped towards the door and his grip loosened. Your body fell down and you coughed, gasping for air. Before you could process what was going on, your boyfriend’s body fall next to you with a loud thud. Then someone sat on his stomach and punched him in the face, hard, so hard that you heard his jaw break. The man didn’t stop. He was furious. How could that bastard hit his little one? How could he hurt you while König was afraid to touch your hair? Who did he think he is? The only reason König let him to be with you was the smile on your face when you talked about him. And yet, that bastard was here, hurting his little one. A deadly mistake. Punch after punch, König mercilessly hit your boyfriend’s face without caring about his pleading.

“‘m gonna break your bones until you pass out from the pain. Then i will do it again, again and again. Until there’s no broken bone in your body. Arschloch.” König hissed. Then he grabbed him by the collar and pulled his body up, as if he was a bag of potatoes. König threw him in the chair, his face was covered in blood and he was groaning in pain. “But first…” König forced himself to look at you. His heart ached as he saw your tears. That was the last thing you deserved. He just wanted to snap that stupid boyfriend’s -not anymore, now he was a living dead- neck. “Beg forgiveness from meine Königin.” (My queen.) König grabbed his hair and pulled his head up to face you. Your boyfriend was crying and begging for forgiveness from you for half an hour. Whenever you tried to say it was enough, König pulled his hair harder and forced him to beg with a broken jaw some more. It was just the beginning of the endless pain Konig would cause him.

After he decided it was enough, Konig tied him down to the chair and walked to you. With his hands covered in your ex’s blood and trembling uncontrollably, König fell on his knees and embraced your body tightly, until every centimeter of your body was covered by his massive frame. "Don't cry." he mumbled like it was hurting him physically to see you in pain. "What that arschloch did to you?" He kissed the top of your head and caressed your hair with his trembling hand. He was so afraid to touch you, you barely felt the hand on your hair. "It hurt." you sobbed. As your cries increased, you clung to his body, burying your head into his neck and wetting his t-shirt with your tears - he hugged you tighter. “Meine Königin…” he whimpered like an injured animal. “Don’t cry, bitte. I beg you.” his whole body tensed with the want for your ex’s blood. He wanted to draw blood, to cause pain from beyond that bastard caused you. “‘m gonna kill that bastard.” he mumbled and kissed your hair again. He was using all his willpower not to fall for his anger. “Say something.” he buried his head into your hair and held you tighter. Trying to contain his anger. Hearing you cry was worse than the torment he received in his past. It was worse than the time when they cut a deep wound on his chest or pressed hot iron on his back. He wished for another wound rather than seeing you cry that much.

By the time your sobs stopped he was at the edge of going crazy. “König.” you finally mumbled and his heart skipped a beat. “Ja, meine Königin?” he immediately answered, like if you command him to kill he wouldn’t think twice. Your ex’s pained groans filled your ears as you lifted your head from his neck and looked into his eyes. “How did you know?” you questioned. Because you haven’t told anyone about your abusive boyfriend. "I thought i was going to... " he shushed you by slamming his lips into yours, your head was now inside his mask. He pulled your body into his lap and hungrily kissed your lips. He was gentle though. The sudden want to possess and claim you as his was overwhelming, but he didn’t want to force you for anything after your traumatizing experience. "Let’s get you out of here, meine Königin." he mumbled after the kiss and kissed the bruised skin of your neck.

a/n: please support me by reblogging, if you liked the content ofc <3 your comments also makes my day :* and i love to reply all of them :>

also i want to thank y’all for all support on my previous post. it really made my day :’)

#konig x you #könig smut #konig cod #konig smut #konig x reader #konig x y/n #könig #könig fanfiction #könig x reader #könig x y/n #silay #i know it’s könig

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joonipertree · 5 months

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idea for the Boxer!Katsuki and Artist!Reader AU! What if, ON TOP OF a rly bad day w college and being overwhelmed w work, we lost our paints :( n we luv our paints so we cry, but katsuki’s there to make us feel better and get us a new set :3

Thank you so fucking much for this. Idk if you knew but I'm actually making a portfolio for art school and Ive been crying every other night because of how stressed I am and how much I feel like I'm a bad artist. So writing this was cathartic

Part 1, Part 2

Tags: Dom/sub undertones, reader acting out and Bakugo being stern, a peak of what kind of shit I want with older men hsjsjsj, fluff, hurt/comfort, soft katsuki

Katsuki was one of the last people you wanted to see when you're in a bad mood. And that might sound terrible but it's because you never wanted to show such a harsh, negative side of yourself to someone you cared about. You were very much a 'feel and then reappear more regulated' type of person. But Katsuki never let you go home on your own anymore, picking you and dropping you off even on days where he had something to do.

So you trotted towards him with a scowl and no energy to fake anything and he noticed instantly, his own concerned scowl mirroring yours.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing." You said and opened the door, closing it a bit too loudly. You cringed at the sound but buckled yourself in and turned away before the man got in the driver's seat.

"You're shit at lying."

"Fuck off."

Instant regret, a deep inhale from your part as you tensed.

Fuck.

His large hand came on your thigh and you stiffened, all he did was give it a warning squeeze before pulling away. The message was clear. 'Watch it'.

"I'm not willing to discipline you until I know nothing horrible happened but you do know I don't like that shit from you right?"

You said nothing.

"Give me an answer, doll."

"I'm an adult."

"Yeah, you are. And you're a smart one that knows that we have rules. That I'd be taking you over my lap if you talked like that."

Tears pricked your eyes but you blinked them away, not willing to turn your head to show him.

He knew anyways and he dropped the subject, starting the car and driving off.

Katsuki pulled to a stop at a place that wasn't anywhere near your apartment. You were confused as he got out of the car. Your eyes followed him just as he entered a boba shop.

Oh.

A couple minutes later, he came out with a drink for each of you. You remembered when he said that there just wasn't any point of it, that it seemed stupid and too sweet. But pretty soon, he had his own usual order, which was just Brown Sugar boba tea with the sweetness to a minimum.

Katsuki gave you the drink without even looking your way, sipping on his own. You stared at it for a total of ten seconds before timidly taking a sip. The sweetness broke you out of your sour mood, eyes blinking as you focused on the flavour of your favourite tea. The boba was chewy and soft and it grounded you a bit.

Only after you took a sip, did Katsuki start the car and drive.

When you reached home, the apartment the two of you had started sharing a month prior, Katsuki only gave you time to take off your shoes and put down your bag before he had you over his shoulder.

You struggled, hitting his back and asking him to let you go but he didn't listen...not even feeling it.

And when your ass plopped itself onto the couch, your attempt at running away failed when he easily manhandled you in place.

"I'm not patient enough to coax it out of you, so tell me why you're upset. I'll make it better."

You wanted to refuse but the tears were already dripping down your face.

"I'm so bad at art. I'm so f-fucking bad at it. I don't-" you sobbed and his arms were instantly around you, pulling you onto his lap as you cried into him.

"There's so many deadlines and so many things I have to do and nothing is working. And I don't even know if I'm cut out to be an artist. I'm not good enough, I was never good enough for it. I'm gonna fail-- Katsuki I'm so tired."

Your boyfriend rocked you back and forth, giving you kisses everywhere he could reach, on the side of your face and your head and your hair. And you let the tears fall, hiccuping violently and sobbing without restraint.

"I even lost my fucking paints and I can't live without them and I saved up for them and I'm just doing everything wrong."

You let Katsuki envelope you, squeeze you and warm your inside as you let it all out.

When your sobs died down, Katsuki didn't stop peppering kisses everywhere. It took him a second to speak.

"I didn't know shit about art. It all seemed like fancy, time consuming pictures to me. Hell, even now I don't know shit. But when I saw your art, I felt stuff I thought I didn't know how to feel. And that was the first time I realised that maybe life didn't have to be as shitty as it was. Maybe things didn't have to be ugly."

"When we went to those art galleries, yeah they were cool and pretty but not gonna lie, nothing ever left me speechless like your art did. And yeah...I'm biased as fuck, especially because I thought that the look in your eyes was the prettiest out of everything. That sounds cheesy as shit but you make me feel cheesy as shit."

You had stopped crying, left drained and nuzzled against Katsuki while you looked for an anchor to hold onto. And he held you.

"I like seeing you paint the most though, I like how you focus...I like how you curse under your breath, I like how you grin when something looks right, I like how you scan art supplies before you buy them. I like your paint stained hands and your paint water mugs even when I've accidently taken a sip from them. I like that how you laugh when I do that shit. I love that look of pride you have when you're done and staring at it.

It makes you happy so even if I don't understand the point of it, it means a lot to me because of that. So, whenever that thing stops being fun for you, and really stops being fun for you, I'll support you if you wanna stop. But I gotta keep seeing your work, baby, cuz it's like the inside of your head and it's really neat."

You let a few more tears drop, sniffling and looking into his eyes. There was no ingenuity, only pure emotion. And you let him kiss your tears away, you let him pat your head and you let him make you drink water and feed you.

Because it was never a burden for him to do those things, but a priveledge.

The very next day, the same set of paints were in your bag. Brand new and untouched. Along with three different watercolour paper books. 100% pure cotton, 350 gcm.

With a note that said 'you're still down for a spanking for that shitty mouth of yours. Don't make it a habit.'

#katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #bakugou x reader #mha x reader #bnha fic #bnha fanfiction #bnha x reader #katsuki x y/n #katsuki x you #bakugou x you #bakugou x y/n

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atsulovee · 3 months

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NSFW ALPHABET - fem dazai . . . ❣

➻❥ cw: technically gn!reader but intended to be read as wlw, smut, switch dazai, switch reader, drug use, strap-ons, very mild yandere themes?? idk how that happened ➻❥ wc: 2.0k ➻❥ notes: we need more wlw content in the bsd smut tags please i'm so desperate. femzai...save me femzai... femzai save me.... i only used the letters of dazai's name for this one so let me know if you want the full version :) ➻❥ divider: @/kithsune

Oral - (preference in giving or receiving, skill, etc.)

♡ fem dazai is a lot like regular dazai in a lot of ways, but one of the most notable differences is how much of a princess she is. she just adores the way you look with your head between her thighs, your pretty face framed by her scarred thighs, doting on her as she moans and whines like the brat she is. she’ll never say no if you want to be eaten out, of course! she loves digging her fingers into the plush of your thighs as she fucks your pretty cunt with her tongue, feeling you cream on her tongue… maybe it’s a cliche, but she would love to suffocate between your thighs ♡ she’s very experienced, too! during her years in the port mafia, she had become an expert in human anatomy and physiology and it certainly had more uses than torturing the poor souls who knew too much. she knows where every sensitive nerve is, exactly when to move, and how to do it to make both pretty girls and handsome men fall apart in seconds. ♡ after she became an executive, she somewhat frequently found herself in bars, bringing anyone who caught her attention to bed with her. she never really had a lot of down time and it was always a little dangerous to stay that vulnerable for so long, so dazai often found herself either eating some girl out or getting serviced herself as quick as possible, which certainly wasn’t hard with both her experience and skill.

Stamina - (how many rounds can they go for? how long do they last?)

♡ it varies from day to day. some days, her libido just dips out of nowhere which leaves her with only one orgasm in her. but on better days, she’s more than excited to push both you and herself to your limits. Most times when you get intimate, it lasts hours. Thorough foreplay and passionate sex. ♡ when she doms, she focuses more on your pleasure which means she’ll last as long as you can. and even then, she’ll mumble soothingly into your ear as she continues to work her fingers in and out of your pussy, feeling your cum drip down her fingers and into her palm. She refuses to stop for the night until one of two things happen. either she edges you and overstimulates you until you cum for her at least three times or you use your safe word. ♡ when she subs, however, she likes when you push her over her limits until all she can do is whimper and sob out your name. when she lets you have control, you have control. you decide when she cums, you decide how she gets railed, you decide when you stop. the safeword counts when she says it too, of course, but she hardly ever sees the need to say it.

Aftercare - (what they’re like after sex)

♡ any version of dazai is a total princess, through and through. unless one of you squirted and cleaning up is absolutely necessary, all she’ll wanna do is cuddle and love up on you. ♡ if she was particularly rough and you’re out of it by the time she’s done with you, she’ll begrudgingly get up to grab a washcloth to clean up the sticky mess between your legs. she’s pretty chatty afterwards, too. as she cleans you up, she’s chuckling and teasing you about the mess you made. ♡ “such a pretty, messy little thing…” she mumbles, though her voice is all you can hear in the almost silent room. the damp washcloth continually inches closer and closer to your still wet cunt, warm and soothing. ♡ ahem. anyway. ♡ if you’re too sleepy to hold a conversation, she’ll just run her fingers through your hair as she peppers kisses over your sternum and up your neck as her fingers play with the soft fat of your chest. ♡ and no matter what, she expects you to return the favor or else you’ll get an earful from your clingy, whiny girlfriend.

Motivation - (what turns them on, gets them going)

♡ aside from all the expected things (like seeing you in lingerie, watching sweat drip from your neck and disappear between your tits, seeing you out of breath and spattered in someone else’s blood-) she loves when you get passionate about something. she loves listening to you rant, looking at you with lovestruck eyes as you pace around the living room. she loves watching you get pissed, though she feels a little guilty about that one, because she can’t help but fantasize about how you could ruin her. she’s far from weak but she certainly is no blackbelt. ♡ everyone knows dazai thrives on getting reactions out of people, so even the smallest blush, groan or sneer from you as she whispers her filthiest ideas and fantasies to you is enough to make her thighs quiver. ♡ the way you, jokingly or not, call her a pervert or a creep as she tells you how she’d love to die between your legs or how pretty you look when you whine and squirm as one of your vibrators tortures your clit.

Unfair - (how much they like to tease)

♡ it’s dazai. that’s all that needs to be said. ♡ but for real, no matter if she’s subbing or domming, she’s going to be teasing you ruthlessly. if you cum quick, she’ll praise herself and call you easy. she’s just so good, of course her pretty little whore would fall apart immediately <3 ♡ if she has to work to make you cum, she’ll only get meaner as she purposely puts off your orgasm just to make you cry out for her. ♡ even when she’s on the bottom, laced through her cries of ecstasy, she’ll be complaining about you being soft with her, asking you if that’s all you’ve got. But you both know she’s just trying to provoke you into wrecking her until she can’t walk the next day.

Dirty secret - (pretty self explanatory, a dirty secret of theirs)

♡ she’s a woman with plenty of skeletons in her closet, so it’s no surprise she has a couple of perversions. i’m such a firm believer of pervert! Dazai and i’m preaching it every day. ♡ she thinks about spitting into your mouth as she puts you in the mating press as she wears a strap on. she loves wearing your underwear, especially right after you have. she wants you to fuck her throat with the strap on even as she gags and retches. her thoughts have become infinitely more debaucherous the moment she decided she wanted to have sex with you. ♡ One of her favorite things to do is either wear no panties at all or wear yours and inconspicuously bend over in front of you whenever she has the opportunity to.

Aphrodisiac - (sex while drunk/ high. do they like it? how is sex different?)

♡ alright we all know that to some extent, dazai has a substance abuse problem. that being said, having sex while under the influence is one of her favorite things ever, point blank. ♡ getting just buzzed enough that it feels like her head is in the clouds as you bring her body to cloud nine is the closest she’ll ever get to heaven, she thinks. ♡ sex is always slower, lazier but you both always collapse afterwards, trembling and moaning as your slick drips down your thighs. ♡ she’s also absolutely the type to just leave her computer open with like a billion articles about how weed enhances orgasms. ♡ most of the time, one of you will stay sober while the other is inebriated just to make sure one of you is conscious enough to know if things need to end. when she’s high, dazai gets giggly and lazy, melting like pudding in your hands as you have to manhandle her to make her do anything. she babbles the entire time, words slurring as she whines about how amazing it feels and how much she loves you and how she doesn’t deserve someone like you. ♡ (you didn’t hear it from me, but she definitely cried a few times from how gentle you would be with her)

Zones - (what are their erogenous zones? what spots on their body should be touched, bitten, kissed, when someone wants to get them in the mood?)

♡ it’s just something about your gentle touches to the small of her back, the soft kisses to her inner thigh, and the feel of your warm breath wafting over her neck that just makes her melt. that’s definitely one of your trump cards. if she’s ever particularly bratty and you wanna make her all pretty and docile, even the smallest caresses of those areas and a soft whisper asking her to be your good girl is enough to make her submit. ♡ however, if you wanna be rough with her, then digging your fingers into her waist and the back of her thighs is the way to go. even if she tried, dazai could never tell you why that certain pressure makes her gasp and writhe beneath you. holding her knees to her chest as you wreck her cunt, raking your nails against the back of her thighs, it’s enough to make her cum, even if you were only barely touching her cunt. ♡ she also for sure has a thing for both pulling hair and getting her hair pulled. she loves the way your manicured nails rake through her tousled, brown hair as she fucks her tongue in and out of you, lapping up every drop of cum you’re willing to give her.

Alone time - (how do they get off when they’re all by themselves? do they watch porn, is it all in their imagination, do they jerk off, do they use toys?)

♡ absolutely has pictures and videos of you to get off to when you aren’t around to help her get off. hell, when she gets particularly needy, even just a photo of you in a low cut, form fitting dress is enough to make her pussy ache. ♡ it wasn’t exactly a common occurrence, but dazai has watched porn before. it’s only ever when she’s desperate and she has absolutely nothing else to turn to. though usually, the shitty acting, bad scripts, weird angles, and over the top moaning is a major turn off for her. ♡ especially now that she has you, she finds porn to be extra annoying. ♡ i feel like dazai never really bothered with toys before she met you, honestly. every time she’s had sex, it was most often a one night stand initiated randomly so there was no time to get sex toys involved. and if it wasn’t just for fun, then she was sleeping with someone for a mission and at that point she just wanted that to be over with. ♡ anyway back to the actual point. ♡ it was your initial idea to being up sex toys to dazai and she promptly fell in love. ♡ she owns a multitude of vibrators. clitoral, g-spot, massagers, at least one of each type. she also got a couple dildos for you two to pick from whenever you wanted to use them. her favorite to use during alone time is one about 6.5 inches long with just the perfect curve for her. the plastic may have made her cum several times, but it’ll never replace her darling girlfriend <3

Intimacy - (how are they during the moment? the romantic aspect)

♡ honestly, it would’ve taken a while for dazai to be willing to get genuinely intimate with you. of course, there’s always that hopeless romantic bravado she puts on for everyone to see but she was worried the moment she realized she got attached to you. ♡ the moment she got something she cherished, life would swoop in to take it away. and so she stayed away from you as much as she could. if you work as a waitress in the cafe, dazai would mysteriously never show up when you are on duty. if you’re an agent, dazai always has an excuse as to why she could never partner up with you. ♡ it’s humiliating, but she’s scared. ♡ but months passed and you insisted on seeing her and, even just for a little bit, nothing seemed to change. things have been going uphill to a certain degree ever since she joined the detective agency and she knew she couldn’t just cower away forever… ♡ so she decided to take a chance. ♡ there have been many times that when you have sex, dazai will bury her face into the junction of your shoulder and try not to cry. It’s during those soft moments where she decides to slow down and take her time in helping you fall apart. ♡ like with everything else, she flips from being silly and light-hearted to slow and serious in a moment’s notice. ♡ she’s not always super romantic and she can be clumsy when she tries, but god�� ♡ she loves you so much.

𝖠𝗅𝗅 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 ©atsulovee (2024). 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝖼𝗈𝗉𝗒, 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗀𝗂𝖺𝗋𝗂𝗓𝖾, 𝗈𝗋 𝖼𝗅𝖺𝗂𝗆 𝖺𝗇𝗒 𝗈𝖿 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄 𝖺𝗌 𝗒𝗈𝗎𝗋 𝗈𝗐𝗇, please and thank you! 𝖣𝗈 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗋𝖾𝗉𝗈𝗌𝗍 𝗆𝗒 𝗐𝗈𝗋𝗄𝗌 𝗈𝗇 𝗈𝗍𝗁𝖾𝗋 𝗉𝗅𝖺𝗍𝖿𝗈𝗋𝗆𝗌! 𝖱𝖾𝖻𝗅𝗈𝗀𝗌 are highly appreciated :)

#bsd x reader #bsd smut #dazai x reader #dazai smut #bungou stray dogs smut #bungou stray dogs x reader #secret journal #from your dearest flower

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acourtofswiftiesandshadowdaddies · 4 months

Text

Opposite (part two)

Part 1 | Part 2

Azriel x reader, Cassian x best friend!reader, Eris x sister!reader, Lucien x sister!reader

Warnings: swearing, angst, fluff, elain slander, two overprotective brothers, ooc nesta (idk she punches elain), making out (at the end)

Summary: Cassian winnows reader to the Autumn Court comes back to the night court and beats the ever loving shit out of Azriel. After a couple of weeks Azriel heads to the Autumn Court with Rhysand for official business, he sees reader happy without him and his heart breaks.

a/n um this is a bit late i’m sorry, i’ll tag the people who asked to be tagged but if u want to be tagged just lemme know and specify which character you want to be tagged for 🫶🏻 and i don’t know what’s treason in fae world and what’s not so bare with me

As I leave the apartment, I get startled when I see Cassian. “What are you doing here?” my voice is barely above a whisper.

“I know I can’t convince you to stay so at least let me take you to the Autumn Court,” he says his voice breaking at the end.

He grabs my hand and winnows us away.

I see the guards lining the palace, they give a slight nod at Cassian and me.

Knocking on Eris’ bedchambers. He looks startled to see me there especially with someone from Rhysand’s court.

My father, Beron, had me locked away until Eris let me out the day of his coronation. Ever since then we have exchanged letters and I have seen him and Lucien as an emissary of the Night Court.

His eyes dart from me and the big brute standing next to me. Cassian was the first to speak, “High Lord” he addresses with a curt nod.

Eris reciprocates the nod with “General Commander”.

“I’ll be off now” That’s the last thing I hear before Eris pulls me in for a hug. “What’s wrong, dove?” his voice is a soothing melody.

I pour my heart out and more to Eris as he awkwardly comforts me. The effort consoling me.

Back at the Night Court

“How could you?” Cassian punches Azriel’s face. “Cassian, stop it,” Elain begs.

Nesta scoffs at her, “Nesta, Feyre, do something,” she pleads. “Why?” Feyre asks, “You have a beautiful mate, so why would you break that poor girls heart by going after her mate,”.

Elain scoffed. “She deserved it, I mean she was so ugly why would someone pair someone like Azriel with a pig like her,”.

Feyre has barely a second to process the words that leave Elain’s mouth and how Nesta lunges at Elain.

Nesta lands punch after punch onto her face. “Cassian might not hit you but I certainly will,”.

Feyre gasps at the scene in front of her.

Her two sisters at each other’s throats while her mate’s two brothers about to kill each other.

She calls Rhysand through the bond, sighing in relief when he shows up almost immediately.

Rhysand grabs Cassian of a bloodied face she can sort of make out to be Azriel and Cassian after a while grabs his mate from the fist fight she was in.

Nesta is panting while staring at Elain, “Don’t you ever speak about her again she was a better sister than you have ever been.”

Azriel grabs a towel and wipes the blood of his face. “But Feyre, he loves me,” she says sobbing.

Feyre is about to reply when Azriel groans out, “No I don’t Elain” he continues when he sees her shocked expression. “Yeah the fucking aphrodisiac wore off,”.

He walks out the room.

A blanket of silence is thrown across the room. Rhysand is the first one to speak. “Aphrodisiac, but that’s grounds for treason,” he looks toward Feyre not wanting to throw her sister in prison without her approval.

But Feyre is already staring at her older sister. “As your High Lady, you have been sentenced to prison on grounds of treason and interference of a mating bond, how many years will be decided at the court date set next week. Guards take her away” With a nod and a flick of Feyre’s wrist, Elain disappears from the room.

Cassian takes Nesta up to their room. Feyre sighs and falls into Rhysand’s arms, “After the finalised sentence we’re going to go visit Y/N.”

3 Weeks Later

Eris had decided to bring Lucien over for a while. So while Eris had to deal with court matters, Lucien and I visited the people of the Autumn Court and baked and gardened.

The very first week was hell, I felt like shit, I would stay in my room wallowing in self pity. But then at the very end of that week. Eris barged into my room during one of my crying sessions.

He had used his High Lord voice to command me to take a shower and get ready for dinner with Lucien. Eris could be scary when he wanted and that moment was definitely one of those times.

They both tried their best to not remind me of Azriel and I appreciated their efforts.

One morning while we were eating breakfast together (Lucien had insisted that we eat breakfast and dinner together).

Lucien blurted out, “The Night Court is coming today, you know I heard some gossip about the spy-”.

He got cut off by a glare from Eris and time seemed to freeze at the mention of Azriel.

“What, ouch why are you- oh” Lucien mutters. “Sorry Y/N/N”.

“It’s ok you guys I don’t care anymore,” I assure them with a gentle smile. “Anyway what were you saying Luc?”.

“Nothing” he brushes it off nonchalantly.

An uncomfortable silence falls over us. “Luc you wanna come with me to the front gardens while Eris is off busy being a High Lord,” I say trying to break the awkwardness. He nods excitedly.

“Ok you guys have fun but stay safe,” Eris says placing a kiss on my forehead. “Don’t worry Eris safe is my middle name,” Lucien yells out laughing.

He picks me up on his back and we run to the front gardens. “Come on Luc faster,” I giggle out.

My laughs are cut short when I see Rhysand, Feyre, Cassian, Nesta and Azriel.

He looks drained out and tired but my gaze snaps from him to the others.

“Rhysand, I presume you’re here for my brother?” I say tilting my head to the side. “You would be correct,” he replies.

Lucien looks over at me. “So,” he starts “Where’s your sister?” Nesta’s gaze hardens as it flits from me to Lucien. “The other one I mean,” he rushes to correct himself. I try to hid my smile but Nesta catches it and smiles back.

“She’s actually in pri-” Cassian speaks for the first time but he gets cut off by Eris, who seems to have found us. “Rhysand I see you’ve met my family,”

They continue chatting and heading to the castle but Azriel looks broken.

Lucien and I head to the gardens, he picks out a beautiful patterned leaf but all I can think about is Azriel.

The chilly wind decided to pick up just as we sat down. Heading inside I smile when I see Lucien’s hair whipping around his face. When we reach the safety of the castle, I shoot out fire from my fingertips into the pit.

Lucien sits down in front of the sofa where I was sitting, “Y/N/N” he sings out, “Can you please braid my hair?”.

Sighing dramatically I say, “I guess”.

I brush out his beautiful red hair and braid it the way he likes. Just as I finish the braid, Eris comes out with Rhysand, Feyre and the others he guides them to the door and Eris is about to shut the door when Azriel stops him.

“Can I talk to her?”

I can feel Eris’ gaze harden and he opens his mouth to say no when Azriel whispers out a broken “please”.

I finally snap “Eris it’s fine we’ll just be five minutes,”.

We head into one of the spare bedrooms.

“I missed you”

“Time is ticking, shadowsinger” I gesture towards the clock.

He takes a deep breath, “I love you and I’m sorry but Elain is in prison for treason”.

“What for?” I question curious. “Illegal possession and misuse of aphrodisiac. And interference between a mating bond,”.

I let out a breath. “So you didn’t cheat?”.

“No” he replies confidently. “She confessed to only kissing me and she couldn’t do anything else before I found out about her using it on me,”.

So that’s what everyone was trying to tell me.

“And when was that, Azriel?” I prod. “Right after you left, Cassian beat me up” He explains.

“Cassian beat you up? I’m sorry” I whisper.

“It’s alright” he says but then a cheeky smile graces his lips, “Maybe a couple of kisses will make it better?”.

“You’re an asshole, Azriel” I mumble back with a smile. “You love it.” he says back.

“I do” I sigh.

He gives me a boyish grin before smashing his lips against mine. My hands instinctively run through his dark locks. He pushes on the bed and crawls on top of me.

Gods I missed him. As if voicing my thoughts he breaks the kiss and breathlessly mutters “I missed you,”.

I roll us over and kiss his neck, biting and sucking his tanned skin. Going back to his lips I kiss them intensely, biting his lip.

Smiling in satisfaction as he groans into my mouth.

The door swings open.

“What is taking you guys so long, did you kill him or-” Lucien shouts.

“Lucien get out!”

a/n I MISS YOUR TANNED SKIN YOUR SWEET SMILEE anyway hope this doesn’t disappoint.

Tag list: @skyrider9 @piceous21 @crazylokonugget @fxckmiup

#acourtofswiftiesandshadowdaddies #acotar #a court of silver flames #acotar series #azriel acotar #azriel x reader #azriel x reader angst #azriel x reader fluff #azriel shadowsinger #elain x azriel #aphrodisiac #opposite #series #a court of fey and flowers #a court of thorns and roses #a court of wings and ruin #a court of mist and fury #sarah j maas

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yeyinde · 11 months

Text

infinity in the palm of your hand (eternity in an hour) | reincarnation AU

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (OG) x Reader | Johnny "Soap" MacTavish (Remake) x Reader

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before.

And then you find him.

MATURE | 18+ —TAGS: AU, canon divergence: reincarnation; fluff; tagging as fem!Reader due to usage of "bonnie" (not a name—Reader is not named), and mentions of a dress but no other descriptive imagery is used —WARNINGS: grief, loss, unhealthy coping mechanisms, existential crisis, allusions to smut; cosmic horror (but??? it's a romance????) —WORD COUNT: 11,9K —NOTES: I like the idea of fated pairs, soul mates, but I can't write this concept without somehow diving into the cosmic horror of something, someone, controlling you from behind the scenes. So. Um. Idk what to call this abomination. It leaks horror but is meant to be quite fluffy. It's romance. It's a love story. But it's also kinda eldritch. Oops. This was also originally a request I got back in November (I'm so sorry!). I have since lost the request, but Reincarnation Anon, this is for you!!! 🖤

In Greek, there are two words for time:

Kronos—chronological, the clock: fixed—measured in seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years. The world runs on Kronos. On its merciless rigidity, it's apathetic, unending trek forward. It is cruel, sometimes, but it cares little for you, or anyone else who exists inside its unforgiving realm. Time is linear. A steady March.

And then there is Kairos. In its essence, and in utter simplicity: timelessness.

It's often found in grief when the world around you shatters and implodes. When it lapses into pain and agony. Into how and why and—

Nothing makes sense. Nothing matters.

You've never experienced any such loss. Gran, grandad, friends, family—all alive and well. And yet—

You're grieving for something, someone—a man with kind eyes and a soft smile like the valley in spring: fresh rain over the boscage in bloom—that you've never met before.

And then you find him.

Or, rather, he finds you.

(Over and over and over again—)

It starts in university.

Start, of course, is an operative word. It's an incipient event: a slow burn in the back of your head that gets hotter and hotter, but you can't quite discern why. You just feel wrong. Shaken. The foundation in which you walk wobbles. Crumbles.

There is an unseen precipice under your feet covered by cobblestone. You know it's there—are aware of the yawning chasm that wants to swallow you whole, but you don't know where it is.

And then—

There is no phone call, no blunt condolences for any particular loss, just—

A knock on your door. It's just your flatmate, but the rhythm cuts through your head, right down the middle.

Agony. The world around you flips, topples off its axis, and just keeps spinning, spinning, spinning—

It hits you with the force of a tsunami. A deluge of biblical proportions that uprooted everything you'd ever know, casting you out into a frothing abyss, ravaged by mountain-tall waves that left you asunder. Awash in a tumultuous sea.

It would make sense, you suppose, had you lost someone, but you haven't.

The most you've lost was a pet.

And yet—

You sob, scream, and claw at your chest until your skin is torn and shredded, trying futilely to get to where it hurts the most. It's agonising. Brutal. They sedate you—no choice is given when you're so frantic, so desperate. The world slips away. The pain abated.

But it doesn't stop it.

They call it grief, and you don't know why. You haven't lost anyone. Mum, dad, gran, grandad. All alive and well. All there, standing clustered around your hospital bed (admitted when you wouldn't stop screaming) looking quite bewildered by you. By the things you say—missing something, someone, gone, just gone—and the way you're acting.

And it scares you just as much as it does them, but you can't just push it aside, let it go. There is a gaping hole in your chest, one punched straight through your sternum. It's gangrenous, and rotting; the stench makes you dizzy, makes your head spin. Your heart is necrotising between your ribs and spine, but no one knows why. No one understands the agony you feel because everyone is alive.

They all say the same: we don't know. Depression, perhaps. You just need time.

Time does nothing to heal the wound. You can't run from the hurt—it's never-ending—but you get better at hiding it, at dealing with pulpy remains of your still-beating heart that slugs on despite the mouldering wound ripped open in the centre.

They tell you it's Thursday, now.

Before you'd throw something, thrash, and scream yourself hoarse because what does it matter when your heart is dying, decaying inside of your chest.

Now, you just nod. Thursday, is it?

Time doesn't exist to you anymore. It's just an endless stream of days and nights that get easier to withstand as the foreign clock on the wall ticks down the seconds you don't feel.

The world is a murky haze of confusion and pain. You move on only because you have to.

Things—

Well. They don't get better, but they get bearable, and you suppose that's the same thing, isn't it?

And then you dream.

They come in flashes. Snippets. Little moments of a place and time that doesn't exist, that isn't real. This life was not one you lived. The taste of elderberry has never graced your lips, but you think of the sweet, tartness like it's an old comfort.

It makes you ache.

Simplicity bleeds into familiarity into love into—

—you should… you should sit for this—

Crushing heartache. It carries the flavour of gunpowder, and is soaked in charcoal; the soot stains the tips of your fingers when you reach out, curling them in the rough lapels of a gunmetal grey jacket still carrying the scent of ichor, and loss.

—i… i can't promise you forever, but i can promise you now—

You dream of a man. Of hands on your body. Eyes gazing at you—an alluvial fan in hazel, green, and gold; the shadows cast in the shallow valleys make you yearn for something.

Something, something—

You wake up, hand to your splitting chest as the agony rips it into pieces. Heartache, grief. It drapes itself over you like a storm cloud. Looming there, ever-present, and ready to chisel open a deluge of pain so visceral you weep. And weep. And—

Your pillow is wet. Nose stuffed, eyes gritty. You've been crying, sobbing, in your sleep again.

It's a cycle. Memories flood your head until it's splitting apart at the seams, making room for that life it wants to force you to remember, acknowledge, and pretend exists, and one you're in now.

It breaks something inside of you. Cracks the levee. In the midst of crumbling concrete, and a roaring deluge, you hear a voice.

(You stare at the bottles lining the shelves in your vanity, and tell no one.)

—excuse me? You dropped this—

HERE

There is a tavern on High Street.

It's nothing special on its own. Just a building, just a pub. You pass it twice a day on your commute to work, and it should be background noise. A blur of scenery and objects as you stroll through the streets. A melding of the world around you, an inconsequential smear of cobblestone and brick.

And yet—

Your eyes keep finding it, seeking it out. It's involuntary. Automatic. You pass the grocer and the pharmacy, head angled down toward the grey stone below, and then, like an unignorable force, a gravitational pull, your head lifts. The fairy lights are strewn around the outside coruscate in the gloom. You nearly trip.

It's strange. Odd.

It's just a building. Just a tavern.

—got some of the best brews in town—

But you remember it. Are familiar with it in a way that makes absolutely no sense. You've never gone inside, never heard anyone speak about it. It's a building on a street of many. Ordinary. Plain. Nothing about this place should stand out to you. It isn't eye-catching or garish. It's—

—cosy little spot—

It's an anomaly. Much like—

Well. Much like everything in your life.

There is a gnawing in the pit of your stomach, one that's so achingly familiar that your head swims from deja vu that shouldn't exist. It fits inside like an augur. A portant.

How can the unknown be a comfort to you? How can it blister your heart with such ferocity that you find yourself pawing at your face to stem the deluge of tears that cascade down your cheeks in rivets?

Whatever it is, it's calamitous and entirely unignorable.

Your life is asunder, in shambles because of it yet each hiss in your ear addles your thoughts until you become overwhelmed by it all. Until the echoes that tell you to wander down a random side street, sign a lease for an apartment you can't afford, to leave the safety of your home country, and—

On a whim, you packed your things up on the behest of that strange, Eldridge feeling eating you alive that made you cut ties with your old, peaceful life, and book the first plane ticket to Elgin. No plan, no money.

(You'd call it an afflatus had it not been so drenched in the unknown.)

It's paradoxical: you cry when you see that stupid church in the distance, your feet drag you to places you've never been before, and now.

Now:

You can't stop staring at a nondescript pub in a sea of many.

Ignore it. Leave it. You take another route, head down, hands shoved deep in the pockets of your jacket to keep them from trembling. It'll pass. It'll go away.

It doesn't.

It pools in the pit of your stomach, noxious and rotten, until you wake up drenched in sweat, hands grasping for a phantom who no longer exists—

—wanna come with me?—

You break on Saturday.

—i like when you wear that dress—

You wear it, and hate yourself a little bit for it. It's stupid, and out of place, but you do it, anyway.

—booth in the back is where i always sit, want to come join me—

The inside of the tavern is just the same as you remembered it—

No. No.

You've never been here before.

You smell malt in the air; the same amber that spumes in your veins. You dance in circles between the tables, giggling at the people who smear by in a haze of gold and red.

A hand reaches, snags your waist. "Where are you going, pretty thing? Wanna come sit with us?"

It makes you laugh, and laugh, and—

"There a problem?" Heat against your bare back. Ironclad arms around your middle. His voice is a rumble. A thunderclap. "She's with me. Go on now. Get."

You pull away from him, smirking, and—

The air is punched from your lungs. Longing sits in your throat, heavy and thick. It aches. God, it aches. A phantom pain that never quite dissipates. A raw wound left to fester; exposed and open to the elements. It never heals. Never scabs. It oozes grief and headache into your bloodstream and makes you feel lost. Dazed. Confused.

It's silly.

Stupid.

The warm blends of burnt umber and gold make you tremble. Everything inside is—familiar, in all the ways it shouldn't be.

You can't be here. Can't—

Something quivers inside of you. The sting of a guitar being plunked by indelicate hands. It snaps, breaks. You turn, eyes wild, wide—

—hey, where are you—

"...goin'—?"

A chest. Warm. Familiar.

Your neck aches when you jerk your chin up, hands beaded against the hard, firm flesh of a stranger who feels all too familiar, too—

Hazel. A boscage in spring. Warm milk—

"Honey…"

It's out before you can stop it.

Green and golden widen until they're drowning in a sea of arsenic white. An island of bloom, spring, carved in the middle of a barren, icy land. Lids fall, lashes dust across the shadows of the valley smeared beneath the red seal of his lower lash line.

Your breath catches when they slide open, a slow crawl over a varicoloured plume of witch elm and wheat.

—dark eyes, a furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips—

No. No.

It's different. This isn't the man who haunts your dreams and whispers sweet nothings into your ear. This is not the cut of a man who once curled his fingers over your hips, lips glued to your pulse as he spent himself inside of you—

Heat sears your cheeks.

His mouth opens, and closes. Opens again. No words spill out. His confusion is an oppressive silence.

You swallow down the bitter tang of panic that pools on your tongue, nails digging into the soft fabric of his shirt.

This isn't that man.

He just—

"Sorry," you think you say, but it's all a blur. There was a blue ravine in his eyes, one with shallow shores, and crystalline waves that rippled with the breeze. You're sinking in those waters, now. Dragged down to the murky depths of blue, blue, blue that once made you see samsara with just the brush of his lips. Everything sounds distorted. Hollow.

—you make me crazy. make me want things i shouldn't. Riley thinks i'm whipped. kinda agree with him, but i can't let you go. i can't get you outta my head, and i don't want to—

"Sorry—," you choke, the words a crumpled piece of paper lodged in your throat. Papier-mache seals over your trachea.

You push away from him, stumbling out of this paroxysm. Flames lick at your heels, carrying you further from the laps of blue that flicker over beige.

He chases after you. A warm hand around your wrist stops you on the corner outside of a pharmacy. The streets are dusted in white. It trickles from the sky in a thick hail of cosmic dust.

His breath plumes in front of him when he breathes, pure white tendrils ghosting into the midnight blue silk that covers the town.

"Hey, you alright? Can I—call someone for you, or—"

"No." You gasp, shaking your head so fast, you're nearly sick with it.

"Hey, hey." His hand moves, perches itself against your cheek, eyes brimming in the flushed lamp overhead. His brow is drenched with concern. With confusion. And anger. Anger—why, why—

"Did someone drug you? Did you drink anythin'?"

It rips a bark of laughter from your chest. "Drugs? No. I'm just—"

Spiralling.

You make a vague motion with your wrist, and hope it's enough to convey the absolute travesty of your life. It meets the mark.

The divot in his forehead softens, eyes creasing in the corners. Full pink lips knot to the side. Something passes his expression that looks a little too much like understanding to ever sit well in the pit of your stomach.

You swallow down the acrid residuum of panic, and nod. Why—who knows. It just feels appropriate.

"I need to go—"

"—I like your dress."

The words tumble over each other, barely coherent amid the amalgamated syllables, but ring with distinct clarity in your head. Your dress. Your brows knot, eyes dropping to the stupid little thing you'd picked out in a shop you had no business being inside. Led by the nose. A puppet on strings.

You scoff. "I hate it."

You don't. You'd have picked it out yourself if you had that funny little thing called freewill; that precious little something you'd left behind in a dorm on a university campus you haven't thought of in years.

"It's, ahh—," he rubs the back of his neck, eyes skirting toward the bar you fled from. "It's pretty."

Pretty.

"Oh…," you say, quite intelligently. "You can have it if you want."

It's only when his brows buoy to his hairline do you realise the innuendo within that.

The fire inside dies. Doused with the waters of Acheron.

"Sorry—"

"—'dunno if it'd look as good on me as it does you, bonnie."

Bonnie. Your veins crackle with ice. Bonnie.

"What—what did you call me—?"

He blinks. "Oh, it's not—," his hand slides away from his neck, scrubbing over the stubble on his jaw. He looks bashful, almost. The man in your dreams is—

Reserved. Cool waters. A rock.

"It's just a nickname, it's not—it's not anythin' weird, I promise."

A nickname. You should have known that, you suppose; but like many things, it slips, silken and liquid, through the cracks wrought by paradox.

"Right." Your nails dig into your palms, cutting the flesh until your fingers puddle with something warm, wet. Tacky. The breath you suck in between clenched teeth is a sharp hiss. "I should go."

"Ah, yeah," his brows tighten again, jaw ticking. He looks uncomfortable, unsure. Concerned. His arms come up, folding over his broad chest. And that—

That is familiar.

You swallow down mildew and honeysuckle. Heart lurching in your chest, a painful crescendo that echoes to the whispered beat of soft words in your head.

—you should stay, bonnie. stay with me—

"Can I at least make sure you get home safe?"

You can't. You can't—

There is a tavern on High Street that you've been to before in a dream, where you are taken to by a man with a distance in the crook of his smile; a degree of separation that makes you yearn. It pulled you in, gravity and magnetism and that primal something that they often talk about in wordy biology papers you can't understand.

Maybe it's the chemical slurry in your head—dopamine, serotonin, oxytocin—all mixing together, and polluting your rationale, but it made a shade of roseate fall over your eyes; veiled like a Magellanic cloud. Through the startling nebulae and cosmic radiation, he loomed. Your fingers reached out, latching on to him, and you pulled him into your orbit.

The reservations slipped, dulled by the way you fit against him. A missing piece. A complimentary artefact. His edges softened until he looked at you with nothing but warmth, affection.

And then—

Then:

Three knocks in halted succession. Military precision. Boom, boom, boom.

A man stood before you, achingly familiar in his mutton chops and hat. The gleam of his metals—chest candy—caught in the setting sun. Ochre, gold. You think of him, and you smile. Was smiling when you peeled back the curtain to greet him.

It wavers. Your heart aches for that person standing in the doorway; you from a dream.

It drags in slow motion. He takes his hat off, and cups it on his chest.

—look, i don't… i don't know how to tell you this—

Then—

"—don't." The word startles you as much as they do him. You baulk. "Just… no thank you."

Something rings in the cognitive dissonance that shrouds you.

It's your turn to walk away.

And so, you do.

(He doesn't follow. You don't know why you expected him to.)

—be patient with me, Bonnie. my job is my life. my everything, but you–you're my—

It doesn't rain—a rarity in Elgin—but the scent of wet soil, petrichor, clings to the air.

It isn't raining, but it feels like it should.

You don't expect to see him again.

And why would you? There are so many people in Elgin, so many men. The chances of finding him again—shaggy mohawk; kind, amber eyes—were nearly impossible. Infinitesimal, really.

So, you push him to the far reaches of your mind, and try not to dwell on the stranger that smells so strongly of coumarin that your head still feels dizzy from the scent of golden wheat fields in the spring and sycamore when you breathe in some mornings.

Out of sight, out of mind.

A familiar stranger in a foreign land.

But you should have known better than to expect anything in this strange purgatory you’ve slipped inside where dreams are sometimes a reality, and you can’t stop comparing a hazy figure in your mind, someone you might have loved in a distant life you have no memory of, to a stranger who slots himself into your path like he was meant to be there all along.

It starts three days later.

You tuck a book under your arm, and walk the unfamiliar path to a small cafe you’ve never dreamed of, have no lingering sense of recognition in the small building.

Safe, you think.

And then—

Blooming honeysuckle. The heady scent of coumarin. Salt, amber.

He crashes into your life again, and again, always with the same expression of happy surprise when recognition bleeds into wheat-tinged eyes.

He offers a wide smile, a little wave, and seems unbothered by a dizzying sense of unease that sweeps through each uncanny meeting, each strange divergence of paths always, always, leading to each other.

In the produce section of the grocery store halfway across town, he holds an unripened apricot and grins at you over the yellow sign above (30% off!). The colourful anchor in Cooper Park, where he stands with his hands in his pockets, eyes listing toward the swans in the background, drifting idly over the dark water. At the counter in a Turkish restaurant, laughing at something the waiter says as he takes his bag of takeout.

You turn down a random sidestreet, trying to navigate the tight, claustrophobic streets of Elgin, and he's there, suddenly, at the end. Legs thrown over the seat of a sleek motorcycle, fingers toying with the clasp of his helmet. Wander into a shop, and he's already sat at the table. Reach for a carton of eggs in Tesco's and his hand bumps against yours as he tries to grasp the same.

You hear his voice crackling through the concrete. A whisper in the back of your head. The grit, the cadence, is so different from the man you dreamed about, the hazy spectre who haunts you, that you know, instantly, that it's him. The man whose only resemblance to the ghost latching onto you is his eyes, the hairstyle. The scent. The familiarity blooms in his proximity. Two strangers sharing the same essence of a soul.

He drives past you on his motorcycle, wanders down the same alleyway, boards the same train, and gets off at the same station.

A living phantom.

It's always the same, too. His eyes always shift, somehow catching yours. Easily, effortlessly, finding you even in the midst of a crowded shop, a bustling park, or a loud eatery.

Each time, you run. And keep running.

And then once, you catch him.

He leans with his forearm resting on the railing of a mezzanine at dusk. His wrist resting on the iron, fingers gripping the nozzle of a lagger that dangles over the edge.

Behind him, music spills out from inside the flat. French doors spread wide open, leaking the whisper of a party into the warm air.

No one joins him. He doesn't look back.

His chin is pointed up toward the varicoloured sky streaked with lavender and pink and blood orange. Eyes glowing brightly in the darkness. A field of wheat against the midnight blue gloom of an approaching storm.

It's mesmerising.

Despite the urge to run, you stop. Can't help yourself, really. Not when your heart cracks at the expression on his face, eyes drawn tight, brows pinched. Full of—

Longing.

Like a magnet, then, his gaze drops to the ground where you stand, clutching your book so hard, your joints ache.

His hand lifts, fingers still curled in a loose fist, and he gives you a lazy wave from above, lips pulling back into that same wide, infectious, grin. Happy—for some inexplicable reason—to see you, his own little poltergeist.

You hesitate for a moment, burning the image of him in your retinas where he'll stay, a permanent scar, in the black puddles for you to see again when you close your eyes, or look into a mirror. Another ghost.

And then you turn. Run.

(He doesn't try to stop you. He never does.)

It is almost clockwork.

The same soft hazel eyes creased lightly in the corners. Broad shoulders are hunched as he gazes down at his phone resting on the countertop. His brows are furrowed today. Irritation bleeds in the crevasse.

Your fingers itch. You want to smooth it out.

(It doesn't surprise you that you can feel the phantom warmth of his finger under your flesh.)

It's strange. All of this is. Paradoxical, really.

You know him. You don't. You've never met him before. You know he'd taste of honeysuckle.

There is a war in your mind. A long, drawn-out battle.

(No victor in the carnage.)

You should walk away, leave, like all the times before when you'd spotted him, and ran, but:

Frozen. Paralysed.

You can't move. Can't—

—maybe, you're just tired of running—

—maybe, i'm just waiting for you to catch up—

His head lifts, and he catches sight of you before you can run. Hazel flashes in recognition. Spotted, you think; but it doesn't matter, it doesn't.

He isn't waiting for you—

His chin lifts, a smile crooking on the corner of his mouth.

—you'll be waiting a long time, Bonnie—

You want to run, but you can't. Can't. All you can do is watch as he slides out of the booth, hands shoved into his pockets, and makes his way to you. Tucked into the corner near the counter, away from everyone, everything, but he still spotted you. Still noticed. Still—

"Hi," he greets, low and cautious, like he's trying his best not to startle you. His eyes crinkle. "Didn't expect t'see you again."

You shouldn't be here. "Yeah," you say, instead, huffing. "I, uh… life is pretty funny that way, isn't it?"

His brow furrows together at your words, eyes darkening with something you can't place. An unknowable emotion, hidden from your prying eyes. You think of him, then, and see the similarities you tried so desperately to ignore each time you saw him. Each time you ran.

"Aye, it does."

You should leave him here. Turn around, flee. Forget this place, this microcosm that blooms, and spreads over parts of Elgin you know so intimately; sure, somehow, that you'll find your fingerprints smeared across the ruins despite never having been there before.

Little pieces of yourself. Shedded skin, hope, dismay, peace. Longing. Laughter. It echoes through the tight webs of cobblestone buildings, bouncing playfully off of the pilasters and balustrades, the wrought iron fences, the fanlights, forever embedded in the grout.

If you go there now, in that beautiful divisional line between new Georgian and old Baronial, you'll hear it whispering through the alcoves, a tantalising sound that rents the air in two.

But it shouldn't. Can't.

You've never been there, or here, or anywhere else that wasn't the winding path from your rented flat to the tavern, and the place you eked out from stone to support the vagary of moving to a whole new place for a dream. A feeling.

And yet—

You taste malt in the air. Smell the barley, the sickly sweet scent of wet dirt on the slick pavement.

It's familiar in your olfactory senses. Petrichor. Loam. Humus. It congeals in the slick mortar, clinging to the moss that weaves over the old concrete.

If you looked down, you'd find a little weed growing through a crack beneath your feet, and so, you fix your eyes up, ahead, and try not to weep when the swooping sense of deja vu nearly knocks you off your feet.

But the only thing ahead of you is him. Expectant, curious. He looks at you like he knows you, like he can peel back the skittish layers that cling to your skin until you're shiny and new again.

It's too much. Intense. Hazel.

Your gaze drops, fixed on the rounded points of your shoes. There is no pavement beneath your feet—just scuffed linoleum.

"Do I, uh, know you from somewhere?"

His voice carries that same heft, that same weight, as the look in his eyes. A strange approximation of wariness and steeled scepticism, blanketed together by intrigue. Curiosity. Concern.

"No."

It sounds uncertain. A white lie that crackles in the air between you, nestled amid the sound of chatter muted in the background, as if someone turned the radio on in a different room. Everything seems to contort, and shift around you when he's near.

A little microcosm eked out inside a cafe you've never been to but know, innately, what you'd order, and what you would recommend.

"Well," he dips his head like he's trying to catch your eye, and when you lift your chin, the flash of teeth nearly makes your knees buckle. He's softer when he smiles. "How 'bout lettin' me get t'know you then?"

It's a bad idea etched into the cold marble of a headstone.

Your mouth opens, but the word that chews through your teeth isn't no, but yes.

And fuck—

Something in his gaze shifts. Noctilucent eyes widen, staring down at you like he somehow didn't expect a yes at all, and was bracing for the harsh impact of no.

"Well—" he starts, but the words fall into ash when you duck your head to avoid the crevasse of hazel washed out in flushed gold. "What's your number? I'll call you when m'free next, and we can—"

"Sure," you cut in, hand sliding into your pocket. The cold metal of your phone burns the tips of your fingers when you pull it out. It feels a little bit like a mistake when you hand it over, but he says nothing about the way your hand shakes when he takes it from you.

His brows draw together in a childish concentration as he taps away at the screen. The artificial light, dimmed as low as possible, brightens the craggy ravines that cut across an emerald tinged boscage; sunlight splitting a lush valley of yellow and green. His puckered lips, the flash of a deep red tongue swiping across his sun-chapped mouth, seems designed to appeal to your baser desires. The one that knows how he'd taste if you pressed you let your tongue grace the tip of his, and can feel the weight of his hands on your flesh.

He'd hold your hips like he was anchoring you to the earth: tight, warm, and a little bit desperate as he devoured you whole.

You shiver, and try to ignore the way his pupils bloom into pits of black eclipsing lightened hazel when his gaze settles, hot and heavy, at the brief brush of skin when you reach for your phone.

"I'll call you," he says, low and strained, like he was choking on the words he wanted to say. "I'll call you as soon as I can, bonnie."

You nod. It's all you can offer with your heart scrambling up your throat, pulsing furiously against your trachea.

His nails scrape the skin of your palm when he curls his fingers into a fist, and pulls away.

"I'll see you around."

It's not a choice, you want to say. You nod instead. Choke out an equally strained, yeah, and fight the urge to follow him when he finally pulls away.

"Are you ready to order?"

The world bursts back into sound, colour. You blink rapidly against the light that seems harsher now than that it did when he was blocking out the sun.

"Uh, yeah—"

The taste of freshly poured coffee blooms on your tastebuds.

You order tea instead.

(It tastes like defeat.)

You only stop running when you can't anymore. When the murmuration in your head turns into screams, and the white-hot agony of grief, of yearning, threatens to make your knees buckle and your bruised heart give.

You stop, letting him finally catch up.

(Somehow, somehow, you feel lost and found at the same time.)

His name is Johnny MacTavish. He tells you this over dinner at some upscale restaurant that feels out of place on the old side of Elgin where the walls bleed history, and stink of old bones, and funeral dirt.

Over a steaming dish of shrimp scampi and burgundy wine that makes your head spin and belly churn, you wonder why it doesn't feel new to you when he murmurs it.

(A bit late, you find, since you've been texting rather infrequently since you gave him your number three days ago.)

Names never mentioned. Somehow, they didn't have to be. Until now. Until there was emptiness at the end of his question when he posed it, hazel eyes bright and blooming under the hushed yellow glare of the coruscating chandelier hanging above your heads.

It feels a touch too late when you share your names over dinner despite already knowing he's in the military—opinions clenched between aching teeth and a strained smile that doesn't reach your eyes—and that he normally adorns a Mohawk when he's on missions, but grows it out, rather haphazardly, when he's home.

Everything between you and him seems to happen in reverse: fears, wants, and worries are known before his given name; the touch of his skin on yours, the taste of his lips, the brush of his tongue, the weight of his palms holding your hips as he buries himself as deep as he can go in a haunting sequence of memories that bare their teeth at the starkness of reality holding them at bay. All of this before you've ever even touched him with your bare hands.

There's a strange listlessness that envelopes you—a tangled web that spools around you, trapping you in this realm of hypnagogia. The lines between reality and dream blur until they're indistinguishable from each other. Knotted threads married together. Parallel. Concurrent. Where one begins and the other ends is as lost to you as the unfathomable uncertainty of the unknown universe.

It's not meant to be this way, you think, watching as he feigns not knowing the name that slips between your numbed lips in the same manner you had only moments ago. Traps surprise in the tilt of his chin, but the display is largely done out of some unspoken agreement that this paradox does exist, and the emotion is fleeting. Temporal. He cloves it down the middle, and discards the excess as soon as you look away.

(Your name fits in his mouth better than it ever did your own, like it was made for his mouth, preordained to play with the soft coil of his tongue.)

He knows more than he lets on, but you don't begrudge him his secrets—not when you have to turn your gaze back to the curled shrimp on your plate to avoid reminding him he prefers fish over crustaceans when he makes a face at the steamed scallops, and should have ordered the Maple Crusted Salmon instead.

Like he didn't before, in a life you've never lived. In a place that mirrors this world.

(It isn't something you should know, but you do. You do.)

You know more than that, too: whispers late at night when he couldn't sleep—internal clock still stuck halfway around the world—and urges you into playing a dangerous game of asking questions of each other when pieces of truth buoy in the dark like bobbing for poisoned apples in a barrel.

You have to erase the words when you type them out, preemptively answering questions he'd never asked yet, and filling in the blanks to ones you posed yourself.

Odd, you think. Strange, and weird, and macabre in that way that only deja vu gnarling between the broken crevasse of your grey matter can imbue.

People don't just—

Know each other.

And yet—

"They call me—"

"Soap."

Your eyes snap up. A misstep. A grievous one. You've both been content to ignore this paradoxical magnetism that draws you together like eager poles, unable to stay away (not by choice or freewill, but some design that has no place in rigid structures of reality), and you broke it. Trampled over the unspoken rule left to linger in the foreground while you navigated around it like some misshapen elephant in the way.

He tries to hide the suspicion, the surprise, but it falls between the empty space of his plate (food he only ordered because he's never been here before despite the familiarity that bleeds from the walls like condensation in June) and the ledge. A proverbial precipice that you leaped down; the steep incline filled with detritus and broken shale sharp enough to carve skin, muscles, from shattered bone.

You want to swallow the words down, but they sit—innocuous and damning—between the salt and pepper shakers where his hand twitches, curls into a tight fist, knuckles bleaching under the strain of reeling himself in. Joints, cartilage, bulging through translucent skin. Reddened around the angry peaks of distrust and wariness; a summit you're not sure how to descend from now that you've crossed the arching tops.

(Stuck, forever, at the peak.)

"How—" his voice is gravel, lavascape. Jagged rocks. Lakes of sulphuric acid. "How did you know that?"

His accent thickens when he's angry. You wonder if he knows that.

"I—"

Excuses float like moots in front of you. You reach out, grasping for one, but it dances away in the turbulent wake you leave behind. You bite your tongue until it tastes of oxidised pennies, and then shrug. Nonchalant. Indifferent. Fear curls in your gut. Military, right. You wonder what you'll say if they arrest you for treachery. That you dreamed about him? Stupid. Stupid.

"You told me," you murmur, eyes downcast and heavy, fixed on the bloody cup of wine you don't like, and trying to find solace in your downfall. "I think. I just remembered it from somewhere."

It makes no sense, and the weak explanation would crumple like damp papier-mâché if he pressed, even just slightly, against it. A single touch, and the house of cards you built from the ground up on nonsensical lies will come crashing down around you.

He shouldn't entertain it. Shouldn't let it go.

"Yeah." But he does. "I must'a, huh?"

When you look up, you catch keen hazel eyes, sharp and pointed like the curved talons of a hawk. Johnny MacTavish is many things, you learn, but stupid, guileful, naïve is none of them.

"Yeah," you echo hollowly, and give another shrug. "Guess so. It's, ah, an interesting nickname."

The clumsy barb seems to break the surmounting tension, and the pieces fall around you like poisoned raindrops, staining your skin.

A reminder, then, when it crawls down your throat, that this balancing act can't last forever. That, eventually, your excuses will run dry. Empty. They'll be picked at and poked until they burst like a waterlogged, bloated corpse drifting aimlessly down the Nile.

"Not the only thing that's interesting about me, bonnie," he says in a way that bleeds boyish charm, but his grin is wide, wild, and untamed. White teeth, sharp canines. You think of a wily fox on the prowl, and reach, reflexively, for the glass of wine, swallowing it down like a lifeline. "But I'm beginnin' t'think y'know that already, don't ye?"

It's a threat. A warning.

You stare down in the half-empty glass of burgundy, the same colour red as the papercut on your index finger, and try to read the beads of crimson that run down the glass in a bloodied rivulet as if the answer could be found somewhere in the liquid.

(Crystal Ball. Crystal glass. It's all the same, isn't it?)

"Not really," is what you eventually settle for, hedging through the murk that swims before you, an unsettling fen of unknowns and praeternatural happenings that you no longer than chalk up to happenstance.

Kismet.

Horror.

Some cosmic merging of the two.

It's all—

Absurd.

And when you politely whisper to him that he should have gotten the salmon, you can't help but notice the ravines in his eyes widen slightly, the chasm growing and gaping, and taking on new shapes in the boscage that blooms like a familiar friend.

(Kismet, indeed.)

He tries to pretend he doesn't know what the maple salmon tastes like, but slips up when the waiter passes by, and says it was good the last time.

You fight the urge to chew on your glass like rock candies between your teeth.

He stands with his hands in his pocket, rocking back and forth. The uncertainty in his brow is swallowed by the tendrils of pleased excitement that knot over his expression, unable to hide his glee when the hazel of his eyes glow brighter than the sun.

Isn't this strange, you ache to say, words painted with the aftertaste of brine—sea, salt, and sand that are so uniquely him—but they, too, are swallowed down.

The urge to lacerate the bubbles of complacency, feigned normalcy, are eclipsed by the raw shock of seeing him happy. Of wanting to make him happy. This stranger in a strange land.

So, you offer some facsimile of a smile when he asks, words pushed out through a wide grin; infectious, if you had a good time.

"Yeah," you say, and know that this word, this blase affirmative is quickly becoming your faultline through this mess. The thread keeping you sane, keeping you steady.

It's at the curve of the word when everything else in the world is devoured by the shadow cast under his magnetic glow. The bright yawn of the sun in shades of white teeth catching on some ephemeral magic still dancing within the aether. Atoms spark.

You try to run from it, ignore it, but your core teeters on the edge of instability. You think of neurons. Protons. Criticality. Something inside of you heats to almost half of the degree of the sun, sweltering and unrelenting. Pulsing, blue-hot.

"That's good," he husks, eyes lidded and heavy. "I did, too. Whaddya think about doin' it again w'me?"

It blooms. A great, scorching mushroom cloud plumes in midnight black in the milky white of your eyes.

You shuffle through the darkness, the artificial, comic night, and try to pat at the walls until you find something familiar in terror, the gnawing sense of loss that permeates through your pericardium, thrumming like a mourning toll.

Sightless, you nod. "I'd love to."

And you mean it, too.

(Damn you. Damn you—)

Despite that tangled web that snakes around your jugular, twinning threads between the two of you, Johnny MacTavish is relentless in his pursuit.

Where someone else might have shivered at the ghosts that brim in the tenebrous of your pupils, lurking in the untouched corners where your fingerprints stain the sediment, he lingers. Stays. Fixes himself in your path, and refuses to acquiesce to the whims of the world that keep stringing you along like reluctant puppets to some unseen, unknown marionette.

It's almost charming in its own right, and really—when has a man fought so hard just to simply coexist in the space you deign yours? When has he torn nails from their beds, clawing at the walls that stand tall and proud, a protective tower of ashlar and dread around you until it starts to give. Until the stone crumbles away under his bloodied fingers.

But as potent as his statement is, it gnarls inside your stomach like a poisoned seed.

Bending to the demands of whatever this paradoxical realm goes against every fibre of your common sense that you recoil, almost, for just allowing him the scant space he occupies in your proximity.

It's a deranged pantomime with some unseen force at the helm, conducting the madness with fingers drenched in whimsy and fate. Notched between its knuckles is the mockery of freewill and choice as it pulls you around a soundstage set in a place you've never been. It makes you dance. Amused god, eldritch horror. It takes pleasure in your discomfort, and glee in your fickle humanity. Weaving webs of tangled kismet until the silken threads are pulled taut and there is no more room, not a single atom, between your body and his.

A nameless, faceless playwright with you as its shining star.

Hapless leads stuck in an unending beat, a cantastoria, waiting for the shoe, the curtain, or anagnorisis to drop.

You want to run again, but your feet are glued to the floor. Tangled in webs, threads of abstract concepts your mind threatens to come undone at the mere thought of. A cosmic sense of surrealism: crushing helplessness.

This is horrific and terrific in equal measure, but the ache, the agony, of distance hurts more. And so, you stay. Watch as the curtain shudders over his eyes. As the etchings of complacency seem to gnarl in the tussock that line the expansive valley. He looks at you and doesn't see the awful truth nestled in the scant distance between your flesh, unable to be apart for too long. He sees you, somehow, and for him, that's enough. Enough.

Johnny smiles at you, seemingly unbothered by the precariousness of this dance you're caught inside. In this strange equinox where you can answer questions he hasn't asked, and know things he hasn't said. Where you catch yourself leaning closer, starved for a touch you haven't forgotten despite never experiencing yourself.

He's content, then, chasing the whims of a ghost, reaching for a fantastical dream in the head of another.

But as content as he is, Johnny MacTavish is a hard man to catch, you think, noting the distance in his eyes, the arm's length of space he keeps between the version of him not haunted by the wants of ghosts, but such an easy man to love. To fall for.

He balms the panic—that world-ending sense of uncertainty that nips at your heels—and makes you forget, sometimes, that there is more to him, and more to you, than anyone else could ever know.

He's kind. Charming.

A little space inside of your head is eked out just for him, and you find yourself hating that person for falling for some version of him first. Loathe them just a little bit more with each effortless grin he sends your way for tainting the experience of knowing him yourself.

But you wonder, when he turns away, hiding the shadows in his eyes, and the pinch in his brow, if you really, truly know him.

Or if the face he's wearing belongs to a phantom.

The dance continues.

Your feet move to a soundless beat, steps preordained in a sequence lived world's ago. Nothing can feel surprising when you know a man so intimately without more than a touch, when you feel the burn of winter's chill in the middle of summer, and long so desperately for someone you just met.

Nothing is new, and yet everything is novice. A paradox awakening with each gravitational pull to him, this man who looks only vaguely like the phantom who lives in your head, and tastes of longevity between your teeth.

An arranged romance. Possession by ghosts who want to drive your bodies until they can live again, and love in tandem, vicariously through your living flesh.

It makes sense to you, then, to call for an exorcism.

(It just surprises you that Johnny does it first.)

Johnny has his secrets, just like you have yours. A small morsel of agency after autonomy has been stripped from the bone.

You see the shadows of those hidden things etched in the topography of his valley-filled gaze, crevasses and canyons that pitch themselves in the tenebrous, uncrossable to even you.

He reaches for you through the murk, fingers threading through your own, hands trembling with the shock, the electric current that sizzles through your blood at the brush of bare skin against quivering flesh. His hands are rough—worker's hands—and chock full of callouses and cuts, multitudes of scar tissue packed tight on top of each other, a thick layer of a life you will never know. Don't want to know.

He seems settled when you touch, finally, thumb brushing your skittish pulse point as if he could somehow calm the acrid panic in your chest.

(And damn him, damn this, he does. He does—)

Magnets fixed together, locked tight. You feel like a conduit to his frenzy, his hidden mania, and feed your own through the line, the red string that ensnares you both in a tangled web, until it's buzzing with shared panic and serenity and joy and helplessness. A feedback loop of emotions too extreme, too flighty, to catch. They run in droves along the lines, weaving into your skin, your chest, your head, and then pulling away to do the same to him.

His eyes are heavier than steel when he gazes at you, expression caught between relief and longing and fear and—

Something, something. You can't pick it apart. Can't undo the tight knot until it spools, open and known, in the palm of your hands. Some unseen distance. It feels like standing at the highest peak of the valley and trying to make sense of the men in the tussock who look like mere ants from this high above.

Is it happiness, you wonder.

(Or maybe it's the same reluctance that wraps it's boney, gnarled fingers around your neck—)

It becomes too much. Too soon, too sudden. In the back of your head, you see images and flashes of a life not yet lived, a world still taking shape. You see him and you and a clock above some blue, broken bed. You see his smile, wide and elated, caught on the dawning sun spilling from the open curtains before it disappears under the covers, taking your laughter with it, stuck between his teeth.

You see the past, the present.

And your future.

Cold. Barren. Three sharp knocks echo in the emptiness of your head. A man, a familiar stranger. You don't know him. You'd die for him. He rents the air in two. Your world in cloves. They fall to the ground, leaving you stranded and alone in the middle.

Future. There's no future.

Your chest twists. You let go of his hand and find bloody crescent moons embedded in a ring along his flesh, knuckles whitening under your harsh grip. He said nothing about the pain. The flicker of worry across his face is genuine, you think. Real. Current.

You smell funeral dirt in your nose. The mud is called under your nails.

You pull away. He lets you go.

"I, uh," he breaks off into a soft huff, injured hand lifting to scratch at the back of his shorn nape. His eyes slide away from yours, listing seaward. Avoidance undercuts the arch in his brow, the sheepishness in his mien. It's his turn to run, you realise.

"Glad I met you," he says instead, and it's a confession and a curse.

A bonfire burns in the river that runs through the valleys in his eyes. It's pitched on the sandy shore: an ochre flicker in the cobalt hue that saturates the land. You see the dark peaks of the rolling hills in the distance, black shapes in draped blue.

The river is calm. The fire burns a smear of orange across the tranquil surface, meeting the milky white glow of the moon.

It makes you think of those nights in the zenith of summer, the ones that feel neverending. Timeless. A piece of your history etched in balmy melancholy. Alone in the great expanse with nothing but the trill of cicadas, and the echoing chirp of the crickets hidden in the lush grass below.

The sky shifts. His eyes plume with lavender-tinged stratocumulus.

"I really like you, bonnie." It's whispered in your ear, and you wish, oh, how you wish, you couldn't hear it. That you could block the words, and the world, out so that it never reaches you again.

Sweet longing. Beautiful agony.

Your heart races, and you wonder how an empty space can beat at all. Can feel anything when it's just a hollow chasm.

A heat blooms under your skin, desperate and aching. This, this, is everything you've been looking for since your heart split free from its fleshy prison, and ran away to find him, tucking itself in the boscage that glows in the flame on the shores. It's hidden somewhere. The palpitations sound like a song. You could follow it, you think, and find its lovelorn shell nestled amongst the grass that sways to its beat, and tuck it back into your empty chest where it belongs.

(But it belongs to him, now.)

And you—

You hesitate.

The words well on your tongue, but you think of fate, of choice, and swallow them down.

The flames in the distance flicker, growing dimmer and darker as the moments stretch on, unbroken and barren until it's snuffed out. Gone.

What can you say? What could you say?

Instead, you say nothing at all.

Johnny leaves a piece of himself on the table when he walks away.

(You don't pick it up.)

Johnny doesn't say anything at all when he brings you home, when he stands outside of the archway to your flat, eyes lidded and pensive. A smile snakes across his face, but it's brittle and full of uncertainty, and your fingers ache to smooth the rugged lines in his brow, in the stress in his shoulders. You push it down. Smile for him instead.

"I'll see you later," you say, and wish the ghosts wailing in your head would drop dead.

The valley is drenched in ink when he nods, catching your gaze.

All black, black, black.

No sounds escape.

"Sure, bonnie."

You dream, and when you dream, it's of him.

He stands at the top of a hill, and when he smiles it's full of starlight so bright it could eclipse the sun.

In his hand, you see a pair of shears. Your mouth opens, but no sound escapes.

He says just one word—your name—and then he lifts his hand, and cuts the rope. The sutures knit your bodies together, the string that holds him to this mortal plane, falls in swaths of golden thread to the ground where they're devoured by the earth, dissolved into nothing. Gone, forever.

There's distance now, and separation. Nothing ties you to him except space.

You wake up with the ghost of a scream on your lips, and the feeling of silken threads dragging over your flesh. You reach for them, and catch nothing but air.

Palm pressed to your chest, you feel the rapid pulse under your fingertips, and know that it's back. Back where it belongs.

Belongs, but doesn't want to be.

You think of Johnny.

And you weep.

He sends a text message, and for the first time since you've met him, it surprises you. Nothing should shock you with him, anymore. You know everything, anything, about him.

Gonna be away for a bit. Should talk when I get back.

You reach for answers but they slide like mercury out of your hands.

You don't dance, and you don't dream.

You wander down the streets of Elgin, and for the first time since you woke up screaming in your bed with ghosts wailing in agony inside of your head, you get lost.

Johnny comes back a week later, eyes heavier than you'd ever seen them, and shoulders drawn tight together as he asks you why—

"Why'd'ya keep runnin'?" He asks, words pitched and heavy with something lour and aching, a phantom pain you know all too well. There's desperation in his eyes, a low keen settling in the depth of his throat, echoing with the clamour of his despair. "If you don't want this—;" don't want me: "—then just say so, bonnie, 'cause I ain't forcin' ya t'be w'me, I ain't gonna make you stay. You wanna leave, you can just go—"

Can't. Can't.

"Johnny—"

"No, none o'that, now. You make up your mind, 'cause I ain't makin' it for ya. I ain't makin' ya do somethin' you don't want to, and I ain't—"

He's pleading, you think. Begging—

For this, this strange thing. This awful, broken calamity, this abomination in the face of free will and autonomy. Despite the rage that hums in your veins at the idea of being controlled, manipulated, he finds something worth chasing. Worth running for.

Why?

And what?

And—

It comes in flashes, snippets. Fragmented pieces of bright eyes—brighter, maybe, than the sun—and warmth, one hot enough to burn but it doesn't, it won't, it soothes instead. Eases coiled muscles, and absorbs the lactic acid that leaks from shredded, knotted fibres. Hands on your body, on your skin: the press of rough fingertips over prickling flesh. A whisper of curiosity, the slow descent into affection, adoration. Plush lips pillowing sharp teeth, too reverent to ever leave a mark behind—part in fear of marring fragile skin, and—

Letting the ghost of permanence fester, take root, inside his chest where his heart beats—

Jus' f'r you, bonnie. Jus' you.

For once, the phantom touching your body isn't a dream, a half-lived fantasy in another world where a man-made you whole and then ripped you into pieces, letting the scattered fragments blow with the sharp winds howling through the highlands. You know the touch, remember it. Felt it. New, and tangible. A touch that never lingered, too afraid of letting something, something, stick.

For once—

The snaps flashing, blindingly, through your synapses are not made of dream dust and kismet.

And—

All at once, it shatters.

—you know, i never thought i'd say this before, but i—

(You were lost in Elgin, but when you see his face, you feel found—)

THERE—

There is a lot to be said about Johnny MacTavish.

Good things—kind, dedicated, driven—and bad things—bold, stoic, dogmatic—but one thing neither have in common is tardiness. Broken promises.

So, when Johnny calls you in some distant land you've never heard of, and says:

Things got bad. I might not—I might not be coming home.

You believe him.

But the thing is: there's a difference between believing the words being said to you, and understanding their meaning. Your mind is not equipped to latch onto devastating blows with the same swiftness you do ignorant bliss.

So, when you hear I might not be coming home, you think, instead, of tardiness. Of a missed anniversary dinner.

(Of all the ones that came before it, and will come after it.)

And you smile. Smile into the receiver with your heart drifting down Lethe.

"Okay, Johnny," you say, and those words will come back to haunt you three days from now, when John Price shows up at your goddamn door, stupid bucket hat tucked tight to his chest, and rips your heart into pieces.

But for as much as you are blissfully ignorant, your mind still understands nuance. They used to call it foresight, a sixth sense; hindsight.

You add, softer than you've ever said the words: "I love you."

His breath stutters through the line in response. A brief pause. And then—

"If anything happens—" you hate him a little for even saying it; you really do: "just know that I love you, too. And that I hope—ah, Christ, bonnie, you got me all stupid, now—but, fuck, I hope we meet in another life."

It knocks something loose inside of you. Some primaeval thing that nestled in the safety of your ribs, moulting along your moon-white bones and glueing to the soft tissue that pulsed around it. It's shaken. Dislodged.

It feels a little bit like your soul is being scraped off of bone.

"Johnny—"

"—gotta go. We haven't heard from Roach or Riley in a while. I probably won't call tonight. So, don't wait for me, bonnie."

The line clicks before the words I've been waiting for you forever fall from your wobbling lips.

You hate Johnny a little bit for this. For digging his roots deep into the soft chambers of your heart where it gnarled around your pericardium. A perfect little knot. A bow tied nice and pretty just for him.

It makes it so much harder to bare when John fucking Price knocks on your door, stupid fucking bucket hat tucked tight against his chest, ghosts in his eyes, blood on his hands, and rips your heart into pieces until nothing but the rotten, dying roots remain.

"I hate you so much right now," you hiss at the tombstone—the only thing you have left of him. "I hate you and I miss you and I wish you were here so I could—"

John finds you with your forehead pressed against the brass plaque, cheeks raw from the rivulets of tears that feel endless—a baptism in grief; in your tear ducts, Noah battles the biblical flood, and loses.

Eyes that can't see past a shimmering hinterland of death and abject dismay are fixed, broken, against speckled granite.

It's agony. The kind that makes it feel as if the marrow in your bones turned into a corrosive liquid, molten and devastating, and burst through brittle, hollow bone.

Price, you've come to realise, seems to know things beyond what you tell him. Always picking up the shedded skin that falls from the people around him. Little pieces of them that he shoves in his pocket to ruminate on when he's trying to put together the puzzle of who they are.

Words won't penetrate through the haze in your head. It filters in like water through a rhyne, back out to the open sea.

(He knows this, of course, because you've been shedding pieces of yourself around him for years.)

It doesn't surprise you, then, when he says nothing. When he just falls to his aching knees in the soft humus, resting beside you as your world crumbles into ash and heartache.

You sit in numbed silence until the sun is swallowed by the dusk that creeps across the sky. The moon itself seems to mourn along with you, hiding her eyes behind a nebulous veil of gunmetal.

Price, without a word, helps you stand when the gravekeeper comes and ushers you out. He shepherds you into his Jeep and brings you back to the place that reeks of loneliness and dinners for one. A place that still carries the ghost of his presence around every corner, tucked away in each alcove and nook.

He might be gone, but his shadow still lives and breathes the dank, funeral air that clings to your sallow skin. A miasma of loss that tangles itself in every atom around you.

Price seems hesitant to step inside, but you'd rather sleep on the patio with the chirping crickets and the weeping moon than be inside where the echo of his voice whispers through the halls, and he knows this, because he knows you, and so he brings you in before you can entomb yourself in grief, lost to the elements. He sets you down gingerly on the couch, body now more fragile than fine china, brushing your tangled hair from your forehead. It catches on his weathered hands. You barely feel the pull.

He looks at you like you're a battle that can't be won.

"Take care'a yourself, yeah? It's what—" he chokes, then, and you feel the hiccup like a white-hot knife to your gut. "It's what he would've wanted."

What he wanted is gone, and it's dead—just like him.

You don't say these words, but you wonder if he knows them, hears them, anyway. He must, you think, watching as the ashy, smoked cedar of his beard twitches. His mouth gnarls to the side in grief, uncertainty.

He says your name. You know this because you know the shape it makes of his mouth, but don't you hear it. All it sounds like is a nail scraping over waterlogged, mossy wood.

Price leaves.

A part of you goes with him.

You rest your forehead against his pillow, the one that smells of him still—warm milk, honeysuckle—and you wish so hard on broken promises, unfilled dreams, to see him again, to hold his face in the plinth of your palms, that your heart feels like it might burst—

—break.

But it's already broken. There's nothing left to shatter. The pulpy mess he left behind beats not because you want it to, but because it has to. A biological failsafe that does not care about your human emotions even as it quivers and shakes at the loss that tipped your world upside down. A gaping hole sits in the middle in the shape of his smile, and your stubborn heart pulses around the wound.

Sometimes you think it would be easier to feel nothing at all. To shed the agony like a rotting limb, cutting it as close to the bone as you can, and watching it fall, blackened with decay, and postulating with infectious spores that bud, devouring unblemished, unhurt, flesh until you're a pristine corpse.

Grief twists you into the living dead. Breaks your head in two, cloved clean down the middle of unrelenting panic and anger—anguish so severe, you can easily convince yourself nothing at all is real.

But it is.

And then there is only denial and abject horror at that unimaginable nothingness that looms, blooming in your insides until they turn into a gaping, festering maw. One that makes you feel like you could swallow the whole world and still feel empty.

No longer a human on the inside but a chasm. The person you were before died the moment his heart stopped beating. Irrevocably changed with three, stark knocks against the door he painted yellow because it reminded him of the way you looked standing in a field of sunflowers. Gone. Gone—

A barren void with its insides scraped out. Hollow. Wind rattles through your chilled bones. It sounds like his voice when it ghosts over your ribcage.

You chase the sound.

Running, running, running. Going so fast, it barely feels like your feet touch the ground. A wingless bird soaring across the valleys that gleaned in his hazel eyes.

Running, running—

Your feet slide against marshy peat. A hidden bog gurgles beneath your soles.

You don't scream when you sink.

(The bubbles sound just like him—)

You smile.

—NOW

Eldritch machinations, some fanciful god playing a chaotic game of matchmaker, a dizzying sense of folie a deux—you haven't quite determined what the reason for this is, who or what might be behind it, but one thing you do know is this:

Something might be aligning your paths until all trails lead to him, but when you wander down those Wonderland roads, your heart beats for him.

A second heart pulses under your skin. One slipped inside when you cupped his cheeks in your palm, and told him when you looked, you saw only him.

It might not be a choice you've made in this lifetime, but it's certainly one you can't bring yourself to regret.

You run, but this time, it isn't away from him, but to him.

He tastes of coumarin when you press your lips to his, a kiss met in the middle.

You're lost, now, in the swell that gusts across the boscage. A breeze dances over your ears. A thousand starlings coo in the clear blue aether above. You feel the tickle of barley against your knees. Rasping tussock sedge curls over your ankle, weaving together until you're tied to the ground. Anchored against the stalks of wheat that shiver in the wind.

His hands are warm, solid, on your skin. One hand braced on the small of your back, keeping you pressed firmly against him. The other cups your chin like you're made of fine china, polished crystal full of precious gems and rare metals. He holds tight as if he's afraid you'll drift away when he lets go.

Your head is blooming full of sunflowers. They germinate in your thoughts until the petals burst through, lifting high to the heavens where the sun burns half as hot as his body angling against yours.

His atoms sing, calling to yours. A buzz, a hum. You feel them stretch, shifting from the prison of you until equilibrium is reached when they merge, tangling together. A new being, a new entity is born from the collision—a person made of two with lungs and hearts that breathe and beat in the same cadence as it's ghosts. Woven together with marionette strings.

It feels like coming home and getting lost all at once.

Etched in the delicate flesh of your heart sits a kairos moment. A brief period of nothing that runs as deadly and tumultuous as the Swillies. An upheaval.

Time is tenuous. Broken. Fragmented.

An arm stretches out, anchoring across your waist. His mouth presses a kiss to your bare shoulder, eyes glossy in the mid-morning sun.

"Wha' time's it?" He slurs out, words thick with sleep.

Your eyes cut to the alarm clock on the end table. A slow, languid smile curls across your kiss-bruised mouth.

"Eleven-fifteen," you breathe, eyes fixed on the red lines. Your heart stutters when it flickers. "Eleven-sixteen."

"S'too early," he moans, lips rubbing over your flesh. "Stay in bed with me."

You peel your gaze away from the clock ticking down the seconds (minutes, hours, days, months, years), and turn to him. Hazel in bloom. A boscage in spring. Your eyes mist a little from the morning dew.

"I love you, Johnny."

His breath ghosts over your skin. You hear the hitch in his voice when he speaks.

"Been waitin' a long time t'hear you say that, bonnie."

"Sorry to keep you waiting."

—don't wait for me, Bonnie. i'll come find you—

—THEN

"Excuse me? You dropped this."

It's raining. Pouring, really. The droplets are the size of pennies and pelt the top of your umbrella with an unforgiving force. It sounds like the clatter of a mourning bell, and drowns everything else out.

But it catches. Clear. Low.

You turn, blinking through the thick fog that congeals around High Street in a dense, white blanket.

"Sorry?"

A man. He's towering above you, cut off at the chest by the fine points of your umbrella. You lift it, and—

Your wallet is the first thing you see. Wet, covered in grit from the cobblestone. It's clenched between a thick thumb and forefinger, held delicately together. You baulk.

"Oh, shit—," it's snatched out of his hand, and pulled into the sanctuary of cover. You can feel it already. The mess inside. Still. You hope—

The leather peels back. Mush.

You groan. The meagre bills you'd pulled from the machine are now wet, sticking together in a papier-mache square. Useless. No one is going to accept sopping wet bills.

"Alright?"

"No, I—," you glance up at him, irritation cutting across your brow. No, you're not alright. You're shit out of luck, and stranded here, now. And—

And—

Hazel. It's the first thing you see. Mountains of brown slope into a lush green valley. A cool blue lake cuts through, splitting off into a ravine.

Your breath catches.

"Sorry, umm. Yes. I'm—"

Attractive is the first word that springs to your mind when you stare at him—dark eyes, furrowed brow, long nose, a dusting of charcoal stubble along his cheeks and jaw, and full pink lips. Kissable is the second one.

And then—

Oh, God.

"Sorry," you murmur again, cheeks heating despite the chill. "I'm fine. Thank you, I'm—"

"You're not," he says, and it's uttered so assuredly that you can't find it in yourself to lie. As if he is somehow able to chisel into your head, and rifle through your problems with ease. "It's all wet, isn't it? Were you heading home, or—?"

It's cliche. Stupid. Your belly rumbles.

Mortifying. Absolutely—

His lips quirk up. A soft, almost secretive smile. Reserved. "Well, I know this place around the back. I could use the company, if you wouldn't mind."

You should say no. No, thank you—because you were raised proper. But all you can think about is the deep, brassy tone that tickles your ears when he speaks. The distant, almost careful way he regards you, as if he's putting himself at arm's length so you aren't scared off by his brawn.

Hazel is dusted in gold. You want to bask in his warmth for just a moment longer—

"I'll pay you back, I promise."

His brows raise. Hazel framed in white. A soft huff leaves his full mouth before his lips pull up in a slow, genuine smile.

"Y'alright, bonnie. I'll hold you to it."

(And so, it begins.)

#john soap mactavish #soap x reader #Johnny MacTavish x reader #og soap x reader #og soap #john soap mctavish x reader #john soap mctavish x you #cod fanfic #AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH #this took me forever #idk why #i just?? expected more fluff but instead we get horror and grief and eventually fluff #kinda #like #sorta #idk #enjoy

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harryssyndrome · 23 days

Text

From The Set 🎬 (pt.1)

Pairing: Timothée Chalamet x Reader

Faceclaim: Selena Gomez

A/N: for this social media au story, the movie release year has changed. Instead of 2020, it’s 2018. All the other mentioned events took place after it.

liked by yourmumsusername, tchalamet, florencepugh, taylorswift and 675,486,271 others

yourname so excited for y’all to finally see it! We had a lot of fun making it! 🗽

Tagged tchalamet

View all 693,283 comments

ynismybae finally!! 😮‍💨 I’ve been waiting for this for so long.

yourmumsusername so proud of you my babygirl 💜

tchalamet the fun begins with you

⤷ let’s meet in the middle. We look like fun when we’re together🤭

taylorswift so proud of you y/n/n! thx tchalamet for making my bestie smile.

florencepugh letssss goooo 💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻

chalametism this scene!!!💋💋

username omg Tay Tay commented 🥹

⤷ the supportive besties. My favvvv

username shipping their friendship 🫶🏻

liked by pauline.chalamet, yourname, florencepugh and 921,754,286 others

tchalamet A Rainy Day in New York is out in cinemas <3

View all 304,769 comments

chalametism the emphasis on this scene 🤭

chalamet_world am I the only one thinking they are flirting?

(liked by 63 others)

pauline.chalamet you were so good yourname 👏🏻

⤷ don’t you think you’re forgetting someone? pauline.chalamet

yourname thank you so much 🫶🏻

(liked by pauline.chalamet, tchalamet)

pauline.chalamet uhhh I don’t think so 🧐

⤷ seriously? Oh let me do the honors and remind you, the male protagonist?

⤷ idk what you’re talking about. I didn’t notice anyone else. 👀 reserved for yourname

⤷ I hate you pauline💔 tho I can agree on one thing - my eyes are too reserved for yourname

(liked by yourname)

yourname 🫶🏻🫶🏻🫶🏻 pauline.chalamet

florencepugh MY GURLLLL! 💗

username timmy IS flirting indeed🫣

username the Chalamet siblings. 😂

liked by taylorswift, tchalamet, pauline.chalamet, gigihadid, zendaya, jbalvin and 573,592,626 others

yourname “I can’t get enough” is now streaming on all the streaming platforms!!! ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ thx jbalvin , tainy and itsbennyblanco for having me on board🫶🏻

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tchalamet I can’t get enough of your love 💗

chalametism here we go again with the flirting!

Timhalchal I ship them already 😍

chaalamets me too but they aren’t dating are they?😩

taylorswift it’s on repeat-peat-peat-peat!🥰

Zendaya LOVE IT 😍

⤷ love you girls sm🤍 zendaya 🫶🏻 taylorswift

tchalamet what about me?🥺

yourname love you 3000 pauline.chalamet 💗

(liked by pauline.chalamet)

pauline.chalamet ilyt 😘 p.s. please reply to my baby brother because I can’t tolerate his cranky face😒 loved it when u ignored him tho. #donttellhim 🤫

tchalamet I hate you both.

⤷ you love us Timothée chalamet stop being a baby🙄

ynandtimmy please date each other already 🙏🏻

Username I live for this interactions lol

Username was he really making cranky face?

Username idk bro 🤷🏻‍♀️🤷🏻‍♀️

liked by 4,683,855 other

E!new Fans are heartbroken as heartthrob actor Timothée Chalamet has found himself a match. We wonder who the unknown girl is?

The fans are speculating that this unknown lover could be singer/ songwriter and actress y/n y/l/n. The co-stars are being found flirting and having playful interaction in the comments of their recent post.

Tagged tchalamet, yourname

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Username damn right, i was broke but now im also heartbroken 😭

Username i think it’s them

Chalametism the “YNTimmy” era begins😌

Username they are so cute together

Username what if they are just friends?

Username3 Alexa play “That should Be Me” by JB 🥺

⤷ but it’s not confirmed.

⤷ either way he’s not mine so… yeah *sobbing* 🥲

liked by username, username and other 2,683 others

ynexpress_ YN VIA INSTAGRAM STORY!! - “Throwback”

do you think yourname is hinting something 🤔

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ynsbaby i think she will be performing her new single!

chalametism could Timmy come to Coachella to support her?

Username did she invite him?

Username this could be pr 🙄

⤷ TREAT PEOPLE WITH KINDNESS OR ELSE!

⤷ Will kill y’all haters with kindness

Username the haters gonna hate, hate, hate😩

⤷ Y/N just shake it off queen!!!😌

(liked by 104 others)

halchalamet only the true fans will support them no matter what 🤍

(liked by 874 others)

Location: Coachella

liked by timhalchal, timmylaurie, username, username and 5,076 others

chalametism MY MAN IS SPOTTED!!! 🚨 oh boy he looks so good 🥰

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littletimmyytim I can’t believe I am standing in the same floor as him. So stoked!!!!

Username who does he look up close

⤷ even more beautiful ☀️

timidicted omg he’s swaying to the beats

Username his cap says “just friends?” 😱😱😱

⤷ NO WAAAAYYYYYY🤯

⤷ He’s playing with us!!! Wear your clown noses people 😤

(liked by 43 others)

⤷ He’s teasing something from the article?

liked by ynandtimmy, chalametism, ynsbaby, username, username, timotheeandall and 7,502 others

cantgetenoughofyn YN ON THE STAGE!!! Ahhhh! We clowned right now Let’s Taki Taki!!!💃🏻💃🏻💃🏻

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chalametism Timmy was hyping since the moment she surprised the fans on stage!! 😳

ynandtimmy some people around him reported that he shouted “THATS MY GIRL!” as yourname joined on stage!!!!!🥰🤯

username “just friends” my foot. I won’t be fooled again.

⤷ and he is wearing “Just Friends?” Cap!

Username just say the word that they are dating 🥺

timmyytim he’s here to support her!! He’s going to be an amazing boyfriend 🤭

Username so can I finally ship them???

Username3 Alexa play ‘Jealousy, Jealousy’ by Olivia Rodrigo

⤷ you again?

⤷ yeah, with a diff song 🫥

liked by ynexpress_, timmylaurie, chalametism, ynandtimmy, florencepugh, yourchildhoodfriend and 6,088 others

e!news So is it safe to say It’s confirmed? ‘The King’ star is spotted kissing singer & actress y/n y/l/n at Coachella after her performance. Link in bio for more.

Tagged tchalamet, yourname

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chalametism I KNEW IT!!!!

Username how can you know it’s them? The face is blur

⤷ SON JUST DON’T *captain America voice*😤

yourchildhoodfriend is this how I am supposed to get to know my childhood bffs love story 🤷🏻‍♀️ yourname girl is this how you keep your friendship?😂

⤷ not yourchildhoodfriend commenting like a fan. She didn’t even knew 😂😂😂

ynexpress_ the IT couple 😘

ynandtimmy they are so cute!! I just saw a fan taken video of yourname running towards Timmy and when he saw her in view, he welcomed her in his embrace. He was smiling like a idiot 𓊆ྀི❤︎𓊇ྀི

Username okayyyy I don’t need to ask anyone of you. I SHIP THEM 🫶🏻🫶🏻

Username3 Alexa play ‘jealousy, jealousy’ by Olivia Rodrigo

⤷ you here again?

⤷ yeah with the same song besides no one has blocked me yet 😩

taytayynn I think she knew it all too well!!

Username so happy for them🤍

Username did you guys notice that florencepugh liked this post 🤯🤯

Username now what would they do??? Reveal themselves?

⤷ Idk maybe it’s a love story baby just say “yes” would be nice 😊

A/N: thank you for reading this au!! I hope you guys enjoyed. It’s been a long long time since I posted one of these but I’m super happy with it!

It’s going to be a multi-part social media au so stay tuned for the upcoming parts!

Likes and reblog are appreciated 💗

Tag-list and requests for open 💌

#timothee chalamet x you #timothee chalamet social media #social media #timothee chalamet social media au #timothée chalamet #timothee x you #timothee x reader #timothee chalamet x reader #timothee chalamet imagines #timotheechalamet #timothée chalamet fic #timothée chamalet

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angelltheninth · 1 year

Note

Would I please be allowed to request a Eddie brock (and Venom? Idk if you would want to do them separately or together, honestly you don't have to do Venom if you don't want to, just Eddie) nsfw alphabet with the letters T, V, U and A :))

I think I'll do them separately, I can format it better that way.

Pairing: Eddie Brock, Venom Symbiote x Fem!Reader

Tags: nsfw, smut, cuddling, toy use, marking, teasing, begging, rough sex, bondage via webs, Venom's long tongue

A/N: You guys really like Eddie and Venom don't you? You hungry for content yeah? No problem, I can provide.

A = Aftercare (what they’re like after sex)

Eddie is a big teddy bear after sex. He's all about those cuddles, pulling you on top of him and cradling your face in his hands as you smile at him. He loves it when you take it slow after sex, taking your time with passionate kisses and small but intentional bites on his neck. Having your head on his chest, your body against his puts him right to sleep afterwards.

Venom is more about taking note of the marks he left on you. He studies them closely, almost fascinated by the fact that he didn't break you while fucking you. For a human you're quite durable and that is a very high compliment coming from him. But... are you sure you can't go for just one more round with him? No? Oh fine then, you can sit back and watch then, he'll give you a show.

T = Toys (do they own toys? do they use them? on a partner or themselves?)

Eddie fucking loves using toys, the best kind are the ones you can share. In fact he loves it when you use toys to build each other up, during sex or even if you make it into a game during the day to see who folds first. You wearing panties, him, having a small vibrator up his ass and just taking each other by surprise, making each other moan whenever you feel like it.

Venom doesn't really see the need for them, he can give you anything you desire. But if you really want to use them then you have to do it on his terms. He will web you up to the wall, hands on the side of your head and your legs around his hips while he relentlessly teases your clit with a vibrator. What's the matter? Didn't you say you wanted this?

U = Unfair (how much they like to tease)

Eddie is a sweet tease. He'll walk past you and grab or smack you on the ass while giving you bedroom eyes. He will roll over you on the bed and whisper in your ear, telling you of his plans for the night while grinding his increasingly hard cock against your leg until he gets the reaction he wants. It's so fun, the way you arch against him and kiss his neck, the way your breathing quickens against his neck as you get more and more horny for him.

Venom gets a little sadistic with his teasing, but not in a painful sense, more so because he leaves you unable to do anything about it unless you beg for him to take care of it for you. He will find your self webbed to the wall, your legs spread apart so he can see your cunt dripping, so he can use his tongue to fuck your pussyhole, all the while you can't move. If you don't be a good girl and beg he will stop, and leave you like this.

V = Volume (how loud they are, what sounds they make, etc.)

Eddie is loud but he likes you louder then him. He's not afraid to let you know when he's enjoying himself, he can moan and grunt and groan and moan from the tightness of your pussy. But he would much rather listen to your sweet whimpers.

Venom is very, very loud during sex, easily overshadowing you with his animalistic roars and growls of pleasure. Luckily that isn't a problem for him, he's got very good hearing. No matter how loud he is he can always hear when you're about to let out your choked sob.

#venom #venom x reader #venom smut #venom imagine #eddie brock x reader #eddie brock imagine #eddie brock smut #venom headcanons #mcu #mcu x reader #mcu smut #mcu headcanons #marvel smut #marvel mcu #marvel headcanons #marvel cinematic universe #venom x you #eddie brock #venom symbiote

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hintsofhoney · 2 years

Text

Stress Relief

Pairing(s): Eddie Munson x F!Reader

Summary: Sometimes all you need to relieve your stress is a good spanking, and Eddie knows that.

Tags: 18+, spanking, light teasing, crying from said spanking, fluff, aftercare, this isn’t a punishment though?, idk don’t read this unless you have a spanking kink I guess lmao

Word Count: 973

A/N: What happens when @makeadealwithdean texts me things. Not sure what this is, all I know is I need it to happen to me. As always, thank you to my darlings @makeadealwithdean and @deangirl93 for beta-ing! GIF is mine. Hope you guys enjoy!

You can also read me on Ao3!

EDDIE MUNSON MASTERLIST | STRANGER THINGS MASTERLIST | MAIN MASTERLIST

“You okay, princess?” Eddie asks, his hand on your lower back, the cold metal of his rings sending shivers up your spine.

You nod, head turned to the side, resting on the sheets. “Y-yeah,” you croak. “‘m ready.”

“Rings on? Off?”

“On,” you reply quickly.

“Okay.” He reaches down to brush some hair out of your face, bending over to place a soft kiss on your temple. “I wanna see you cry real pretty for me, honey. Can you do that?” he whispers, and you squirm underneath him, nodding.

“Mhm,” you whine.

He chuckles under his breath before standing upright, his hand on your bare ass, rubbing in circles to warm your cheeks up a bit.

The first few hits are light, you know he’s just getting started, and they send a warmth up your back that feels like it comes out of your fingertips as you grip the sheets in anticipation for the next hit.

You’ve had a stressful week. College is hard and your part time job sucks and God, you really needed this. You’re just lucky you have a boyfriend who happily obliges all your needs no matter how kinky, and you smile to yourself as you think that Eddie’s kink might just be whatever makes you happy in the moment.

You had come home from work an hour ago, exhausted, immediately crawling into his lap as he put his guitar down to greet you. You had been on the verge of tears all day; you just needed to let it out, but you were too embarrassed to ask (no matter how many times Eddie had reassured you that being spanked to tears wasn’t a weird stress-reliever — just a kinky one).

“What do you need, baby?” he had asked sweetly, and you shrugged, but he knew. “Can you use your words for me, honey?” he questioned, and you shook your head, hiding your face in the crook of his neck. “Okay,” he chuckled softly. “I got you.” His hand caressed the back of your head as he placed a kiss on the side of it. “You wanna go in our room, get undressed for me? Bend over the bed?”

God, he knew you too well.

His hits are getting harder, and he’s pulling moans from your throat now. You hadn’t been in the mood for anything other than getting your ass beat until now; the wetness you’re feeling in between your legs only growing with each strike. You need to cry first, though — need to get it all out, let it all go, and Eddie knows it.

“You’re doing so good, sweetheart,” he praises, adding more force behind his hits, “Getting nice and red.”

“Please,” you whimper. “H-harder.”

He obeys, and you think he might be spanking you with most, if not all, the strength he has. It’s steady, rhythmic, consistent. One cheek, then the other. Over and over and over. Your ass feels like it’s on fire, like he shouldn’t even be able to touch it without burning his own hand, but he keeps going.

You don’t notice you’re crying until the sheet underneath your face is wet, and when you realize, you let it all out. Sobbing loudly, shaking underneath him. His hits get lighter, but he keeps it up; he knows you’ll safeword if you need him to stop. It’s taking everything in him to not pull you into his arms and soothe you, but he understands the release it provides is what you need most right now.

“Good girl,” he hums softly, his hits slowly turning into rubs, and then he’s bending down to place gentle kisses on all the marks his rings have left behind. “So, so good, honey.”

You can’t stop crying, even though it’s turned silent now. You feel him hovering above you then, wiping away your tears with his thumb.

“Shhh, you’re alright. You’re okay.”

You nod, starting to calm down. You already feel like a weight’s been lifted off your shoulders.

“Do you want me to run you a bath?” he asks sweetly, kissing right underneath your ear.

You nod again, one last sob escaping you. “Y-Yes, please.”

“And then how about I make some popcorn and we watch a movie?”

“Mhm,” you agree, “and then maybe we can… do something else?”

“Somethin’ about this?” he asks, one of his fingers running through your folds, spreading your arousal.

“Mmmph,” is all you can manage, closing your eyes, enjoying it, even though you know he’s just teasing.

“Alright, pretty girl,” he says with a soft chuckle, pulling his finger away. “We’ll take care of that later, I promise. C’mere.”

As much as he wants to take care of it now, he knows you’re not in the right mindset. Your stress may be gone but your head is still fogged. He needs to be gentle with you, and you trust him more than you do yourself right now.

You whine as he helps you up and leads you to the bathroom, letting the bath water run as you bend over the counter per his instruction. He crouches behind you, gently rubbing some lotion into your ass, soft “I know, baby”’s and “you did so good for me”’s leaving his lips as you hiss through the pain.

He’s helping you into the bath a minute or two later, kneeling on the tile floor as he assists you in washing your hair and body. He’s not comfortable leaving you alone quite yet.

When he’s finished, he lets you lean against the back wall of the tub, eyes closed, taking deep breaths as you let the warm water you’re submerged in ground you.

He’s watching you in awe. “I love you,” he says without thinking, leaning over, placing a kiss on your forehead.

You open your eyes and smile. “I love you too, Eds.”

TAGLIST(S)

If you signed up for my taglist but don’t see your name below, it’s because Tumblr won’t let me tag you!

FOREVERS: @writercole // @makeadealwithdean // @slamminmine // @impala1967dwinchester // @deangirl93 // @stiles-stilinski-24-dylan // @deandreamernp // @kitkatd7 // @foxyjwls007 // @kyjey // @boeshaneboy // @babypink224221 // @stoneyggirl2 // @440mxs-wife // @sexyvixen7 // @katelyn--renee // @samsgirl93 // @alwayssnivellus

STRANGER THINGS: @emoryhemsworth // @whore4romance

EDDIE MUNSON: @creatively-analytical // @solarrexplosion // @rach5ive

You can join my taglist(s) here!

#eddie munson #eddie munson smut #eddie munson x reader

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slutforsnow · 3 months

Text

Yall the angst decided to hit me at 12am LMAO, but here's a lil spoiler for Partners in Crime (kinda a draft cause idk which girl is which and when, etc)

Tw: whoring, screaming, mental breakdown of the 1800s, abuse of consent.

"Do you honestly think you know what's good for him!?" Violet shouted, her blade in hand as she faced Dulcinea. She had been busy chopping off bits of her hair in the middle of a breakdown because of what she had been doing to keep herself distracted. She couldn't do big chunks of her hair, no no no. They didn't like that. They liked long luscious hair.

"Why, yes, in fact, Ms. Evans, I do," She had calmly replied, glancing down at the chops of what used to be Violet's dead ends.

"WELL YOU FUCKING DONT. YOU DONT KNOW SHIT ABOUT BILLY; HAS HE TOLD YOU ANYTHING ABOUT HIS HOME LIFE? ABOUT HIS MA? WHY HE TURNED TO THE OUTLAW LIFE IN THE FIRST PLACE?!" She screamed, feeling the hot tears roll down her cheeks. She couldn't take it anymore. The multiple women, the insistence from Billy that a certain woman was "the" one. Violet had enough. She was tired of it; she wanted Billy for herself and was the only one who could see that he was hurting or trying to distract himself when something was on his mind.

"I HAVE TRIED, TRIED, AND TRIED TO BE OKAY AROUND YOU- BE DECENT, LIKE JESSE ASKED. BE RESPECTFUL, BUT YOU DONT DO THE SAME TO BILLY. YOU DONT RESPECT HIM, YOU JUST THINK HES HOT. HES A PERSON TOO, HES GOT A GOOD HEART, WONDERFUL INTENTIONS, AND MORE PASSION THAN ANY OF THE MEN IVE BEEN LETTING USE MY BODY."

"You been what...?" Came a familiar voice and both women looked. Billy.

Violet felt fear well up in her throast. He wasnt supposed to know.

She immediately shut the bathroom door in his and Dulcinea's faces, and locked it shut. She heard muffled arguing between Dulcinea and Billy yet all she could do was cry. She slid down to the floor, leaning against the door and sobbed her heart out to herself. Billy knew now what she was doing to help them get by while being outlaws. That wasn't the plan-Billy was never supposed to find out.

She had been whoring her body for older men to fuck. To abuse until they couldn't finish anymore. All to keep food coming.

Violet's tears eventually came to a stop and so did Billy's and Dulcinea's arguing. It was silent for a while before Billy's voice came back, raw from yelling, only to speak softly to Violet.

"Vi...? Whenever you're ready, I'd like for us to talk.. about everythin', okay? No more secrets between us," He offered, only to receive two gentle raps on the door in response. He knew what that mean; they had established a system where one or two knocks meant some form of yes or no, depending on the situation. Violet meant 'Okay.'

"Do you want me to stay here and wait for you?" One rap of her knuckles against the hard wood. 'No.'

"Okay... I'll be outside. And don't worry, Dulcinea's gone and she wont be comin' back." 'Thank you, Billy.'

Tags: @etfrin @hearts4court @snows-wife @delusionalbunni @kiraflowersworld @victory-scream0462 @curled-hair-red-lips @morallygrayboys @phoward89 @xoxo-eyeballs @thereeallink @graciouslyc @acidaciruela @wanda-maximoff-enthusiast @firstworldproblemthings

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midgardian-witch · 11 months

Note

the lyrics of lilies by ethel cain are so moon boys im gonna die

After almost a month I finally got around to your ask(s), anon! I listend to the song and read through the lyrics (because I didn't know that song before) and I have to agree. It's very moon boys flavored 👀

So here we go: a little drabble inspired by that song. I have never done a songfic or something soley inspired by a song before so this was a new experience. I did have fun tho 😄

This is also not a linear story in any way, shape or form. This is really more vibes than anything else. Also almost kind of poetry-like in a way? 🤔 Idk but i kinda like the style for this.

A Wondrous Thing

tags: friends to lovers (hinted) | established relationship (hinted) | angst-y fluff | mentions of blood | gn!reader

ships: Steven Grant/Reader, Marc Spector/Reader, Jake Lockley/Reader

AO3

Edit: added AO3 link

It's the way you smile.

Steven loves the way the whole room seems to suddenly look brighter, how he feels warmer, how every sound rings sweeter when you smile at him.

The way you tilt your head encouragingly when he catches himself in yet another rant about Ancient Egypt. He stops himself just looking at you silently asking him to go on with a soft smile on your face.

The way your eyes shine when you're laughing about one of his more-or-less unintentional jokes.

His fingers twitch every time with the urge to pull you close and hold you tight. He wants to embrace you and never let go.

But he can't. You're his friend and he can’t risk this.

But you know. You see every twitch, hear every sigh, feel his eyes on you when Steven thinks you're distracted.

So when you lean in, close the gap between the two of you for the first time, his heart is all but beating out of his chest with joy.

It's the way you carefully treat the wounds the suit couldn’t heal in time.

Marc loves the way your fingers run over his skin so softly, like he was made of glass or porcelain, ready to crack with the slightest pressure. Like he was something precious to be kept safe.

It's the way your eyes grow soft when Marc returns to your apartment through the open window in the middle of the night. He can feel you checking him for injuries, checking if you would need to get the medkit stashed in the bathroom.

It's the way you hold him after a long night, making sure he is safe and real and alive. You lay your head against his chest, listening to his heartbeat, your hands holding onto any part of his body you can reach as you pull him into your embrace. Marc can feel your tears soak through his shirt.

He knows he is going to hurt you in the long run. For how much longer would you be able to deal with him and all his bullshit? Marc knows he should let you go, save you from the constant fear and worry. But he can't. He is weak.

But you know. You know how much Marc worries about being too much, about hurting you, about being a bad person.

So you tell him "I trust you," and you feel him melt under your hands. "I'm here for you," and his breath catches in his throat. "You're safe with me," and you hear him sob. "I love you," and you see the tears running down his cheeks.

It's the way you always know it's him.

Jake loves the way notice even the little things. A soft kiss to his jaw when he cut himself shaving. A new pair of leather gloves that is placed wordlessly next to his things when his old gloves start to fall apart from use.

It's the way you treat him as his own person. You never compare the three of them even if they themselves do it quite often. They want to be the best for you. You're their angel and you deserve everything.

It's the way he would do anything to keep you safe. Jake is glad you don't see the blood on his hands, the violence he is capable of. You can never see that. He would kill for you, he would die for you, and you could never know.

But you know. You know what Jake is capable of. You know the pain and guilt he carries, that they all carry. And when you see Jake sit by the window, a cigarette dangling between his fingers and his eyes staring into nothingness, you hold his hand. And you don't care what he has done because you know who he is. You know that he would never hurt anyone innocent, never kill anyone out of malice. You know he would never hurt you. And you would always hold his hand, blood stains and all.

It's the way they look at you like you are their one and only. Like you are their salvation. Like you are everything they could ever need.

It's the way you never want to be apart from them; how you want to be with them until the very end.

It's the way your heart skips a beat when they smile at you, when they kiss you, when they undress you.

It's the way you can't believe how lucky you are.

What a wondrous thing to be in love.

#moon knight x reader #steven grant x reader #marc spector x reader #jake lockley x reader #moon knight #moon knight/reader #steven grant #steven grant/reader #marc spector #marc spector/reader #jake lockley #jake lockley/reader #moon knight fanfic

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certifiedlovergirlsstuff · 9 months

Text

The Flayed

pairing: steve harrington x female byers!reader

WC: 4.3K

warnings: cursing, panic attacks from byers/going off on everyone, blood/fighting. i think we good!

summary: the pits of hell.

A/N: ALL PARTS UNDER THE TAG - The Byers Harrington Story-

yall, steve and byers relationship is going through it, im sorry. also feel like my writing is inconsistent for these next few chapters (idk just me?)

@alecmores my lovely friend🌟

series masterlist / steve harrington

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You were sure your voice was gonna give out with the volume of your screams. The room that was now confirmed to be an elevator was moving at such a fast speed that you worried you’d hit the ceiling when it reached the bottom.

“Steve!” Calling for your boyfriend with tears flooding your eyes.

This is why you didn’t want to do this. Why you shouldn’t have gotten involved and just called the government. Now you have two children with you in a dangerous environment not knowing what was on the other side. Stupid fucking Russians had to ruin your night cause of their stupid system.

“Shit! Shit!” “We’re going down! We’re going down!” Steve and Dustin shouted over the noise. And you're pretty sure you’re just sobbing through the screams at this point. Robin shouted to Steve, “Yeah, no shit, Harrington!”

Dustin was smashing his hands into the buttons, but nothing was helping. “Why don’t these buttons work?!” Erica ran to his side, the two of them pressing the same buttons and yelling at each other.

Your fingers were curled tight around a metal table as you hyperventilate. Everything and everyone was just making your panic worse and you feared passing out. The elevator hit the ground hard and everyone lost their foot, falling to the floor with boxes following. Your head hit the bottom of the table and you winced in pain.

You could hear Steve groan, “Oh! My groin. It fell on my groin.” Then he called for Dustin to move a box.

You heard shuffling and Robin asking if everyone was okay, but you could only hear your loud breathing and feel the fast beating of your heart. Palms hit the metal floor as you panted and silently cried, messy hair hiding your face in a curtain.

“(Y/n)? Hey, baby…” The voices sounded as if they were underwater. Garbled and unclear, barely able to understand it’s Steve just from the pet name. A hand falls to your back, trying to use repetitive motions as a way to calm you down.

“Baby, it’s Steve. Dustin, Erica, and Robin are with us. Everyone is okay. We’re safe.” He spoke low and close to your ear.

“We don’t know if-“ “Shut it, Henderson!”

Your hearing got clearer and your breathing slowly evened out, body slightly shook as you managed to push yourself off the floor and shrug Steve’s hands away. Fingernails curled into your palm as you glared at Steve. His eyes were droopy and sad, arms limp at his side, but you needed to get this out.

“We are not safe, Steve. Not even close. We are in a Russian elevator that no one besides us knows about, so they wouldn’t know where to look. We have two underage children in our care to keep safe, which, they or we shouldn’t even be here in the first place! I have said, we should just take this to the authorities! That’s their job! We work in a fucking ice cream shop making five bucks an hour! But you and Dustin, along with Robin, wanted to be nosy American heroes, and Erica just took this as a reason to get free ice cream.” Arms flailing and voice cracking. “I should be home watching Jeopardy on the couch with you or Will. I haven’t heard from Jonathan or my mom all day, who knows if Will's home alone when he shouldn’t be since the last time that happened, he got sucked into the fucking Upside Down!”

You pound your fist into the walls, hurling more words under your breath. You ignored the sting to your wrist as you kept banging and banging, eyes blurry and voice straining. You only stopped when arms wrapped you from behind, they pinned your biceps down and dragged you away from the wall. You struggled against their hold until you gave up, not fighting just letting your emotions get the better of you.

“I can’t- I can’t do this again. I just can’t.” Legs turn to jelly as you let gravity drag you back to the floor. You just wanted to curl into a ball and sleep into a coma.

Steve, you knew it was him holding you, he fell with you. Your back was pulled to his chest as he shushed you, trying to calm you like a baby. His hand pushed your head towards his neck and you shifted so you leaned on your side, starchy uniform wrinkling in your grip. “I can’t keep… doing this.”

Steve took a deep breath, “I know, baby. I know. We just gotta stick together and we’ll be safe.” He pressed his face into your hair, his eyes closing as he hugged you tighter. He never wants to see you break like this, and he’ll do everything to keep you from cracking further.

“Uh… just so you nerds are aware, I’m supposed to be spending the night at Tina’s. And Tina always covers for me. But if I’m not home for Uncle Jack’s party tomorrow and my mom finds out you four are responsible, she’s gonna hunt you down, one by one, and slit your throat.”

“I don’t care about Tina!” Steve yelled as he moved his hands over your ears. With his mouth close they barely muffled his screaming at Erica. “Or Uncle Jack’s party! Your moms not gonna be able to find us if we’re dead in a Russian elevator!”

Your ears were uncovered and took in the silence that followed so much yelling. Dustin and Robin are the only two just watching and standing back. Steve kept your head pushed to his neck, his chin digging into your scalp as his palm rubbed your bicep up and down.

“Hey,” You turned to Dustin. His voice was low and even as he addressed the room. “Why don’t we just climb our way out?” Pointed upward to a square cut into the ceiling.

Steve pulled the both of you off the floor and kissed your salty cheeks. He squatted so Dustin could climb onto his shoulder and push the hatch open. With help from Steve, Dustin was pushed up and then Steve used a table for leverage.

You, Robin, and Erica just looked up and waited for anything. Your arms wrapped around your stomach, pretending it was Steve grounding you.

“Steve!” Robin yelled, “What’s it look like? Can we climb?”

There was thumping and then Dustin’s head popped in with a strained smile. “Uh…”

“Uh, what? Can we climb?” Erica demanded.

“No. We can’t climb, we’re too far down.” Dustin groaned.

You dropped your head. “Son of a bitch,” mumbled under your breath. Steve climbed back in and sighed as he leaned against the wall.

“Code red. I repeat, code red. Does anyone copy?”

You could hear Dustin’s voice bouncing off the thick walls from above. He asked for his walkie and said he was gonna try to get some help. He’s been repeating code red for about five minutes now.

“We are innocent children and we are trapped under Starcourt Mall. The Red Army has infiltrated Hawkins, and if we are found they will torture and kill us.” That was a new one. And if anyone heard that, they would probably think it was a dumb prank.

Steve climbed atop a table and poked his head through the hole. “Hey!” He called to Dustin, “Gotta take it easy on that thing. Gonna drain the battery.”

Dustin’s voice was muffled and you could only hear Steve’s reply, “What do you think, Petey the mall cop is gonna rappel down here and save the day?” He shimmied up back to the roof.

You, having nothing to do and wanting to distract yourself, you started stacking and organizing the boxes. Lend a helping hand to the Russians, cause why not? Robin tried pushing different buttons to get the door open or the elevator working again hopefully. And Erica was off to the side sitting down, messing with the container Robin stuffed in her bag.

Then there was a sound and a smell, your nose wrinkling. You heard Robin scuff followed by, “Can you redirect your stream, please?” You looked at the wall and you groaned.

Loud banging filled the silence and you promptly spun to see Erica hitting the green liquid against metal tubs. You rushed to her side and yanked the unknown substance from her tiny hands. “Hey, hey! Be careful, careful, careful! We don’t even know what this is.”

She rolled her eyes, “Exactly. It could be useful.” Robin walked over, “Useful how?”

Erica started a little rant. “We could survive down here a long time without food, but if the human body doesn’t get water it will die.”

“I know that, little miss know-it-all. But I hate to break it to you, but this is not water. Not even close.” Your attitude is starting to match Erica’s.

She shrugged, “No, but it’s a liquid. And if it comes down to me drinking that shit or dying of thirst, I drink.”

You heard Robin scuff and then a distant noise. An electronic whirring. Robin walked to the door and Erica yanked the liquid back when you were distracted. The both of you watched as Robin set her ear to the door and then pushed away to the tables. She climbed up and motioned with her hands to follow.

“We’ve got company.”

Robin went up first and then you made Erica go next, helping her small frame reach the hatch for someone to grab her. You can hear the noise getting closer. You stood on your tiptoes to get as close to the top, fingers stretched to the point of cracking. You weren’t good at pull-ups so you know this is gonna be a difficult task. Luckily, Steve came forward and grabbed your arms tight, and helped pull you upward. You fell into his arms as Dustin closed the lid, and now was the waiting game.

The elevator thudded then stopped meaning it was opened and then you heard two Russian men speaking, their feet shuffling back and forth a few times. Steve looked down into the opening allowing light, you should see the shadows moving. Everyone was tense, keeping as still as possible to not give away the position. Steve held a finger to his lips then he tilted his head slightly in the direction of Erica, who was holding her container of liquid goo.

Steve curled his fingers in a ‘give me’ motion and she slowly handed it off. The two men walked out of the room and now you just waited until they drove away. That whirring noise grew distant and it was followed by the heavy door falling.

Steve yanked the hatch open and climbed down, the door getting closer to sealing back up. He slid on the ground and with the bottom vertical he jammed it open. “Let’s go,” you usher Erica down first. Her backpack was thrown to Steve and pushed through the door.

She crawled on the floor with Steve’s “Go, go, go,” And her “I’m going.” in response.

Dustin dropped second. “Henderson. Go, go.” Steve gave him a push. You urged Robin next, her legs in the air before you pushed them down. You didn’t bother to argue with Steve about who was next since he would insist on you. You shuffled under with Dustin and Robin yanking you out of the way so Steve could hurry as the glass was breaking.

You grabbed his uniform and tugged at him, Robin helping with her grunts of, “Come on, Steve, let’s go!” He rolled his body into yours and both of you watched as the glass gave out and the green goo sizzled the floor and door.

You sighed as you hugged Steve tight and he did as well. You heard Robin ask, “Still wanna drink that?” And you knew it was at Erica. Despite the moment, you couldn’t stop yourself from planting kisses on the side of Steve’s face, your body went through slight shudders of panic. “You’re okay, you’re okay.” Whispered into his hot skin.

He pushed himself off your body and held his hands out to help you from the floor. His eyes zigzagged everywhere, “Not hurt or anything?” You confirmed your intact state and he pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead.

“Holy mother of God.” Dustin’s voice broke the silence. You and Steve broke apart and everyone turned to see what stunned Dustin Henderson. A giant tunnel is what. “Well…hope you guys are in good shape.” He took your hand and pulled you with him as he tapped Dustin on the chest, “Looking at you, roast beef.”

You weren’t sure how long you’d been walking. Could’ve been fifteen minutes or a full hour already. It just went on and on forever, the fluorescent lighting hurting your eyes and causing your headache to worsen. Steve kept your hands intertwined, something bringing your knuckles to his lips and leaving reassuring kisses on our cracked skin.

“I mean, you have to admit, as a feat of engineering alone, this is impressive.” Dustin with his wandering gaze and scientific mind. Steve countered Dustin’s remark, “What are you talking about? It’s a total fire hazard. There are no stairs, there’s no exit, there’s just an elevator that drops you halfway to hell.”

And you agreed with him in your head, ears tingling at the deep sound of Steve’s voice bouncing off the walls and almost wrapping you in a warm blanket. Messily as you walked you landed a kiss on his clothed shoulder, just wishing to take a moment and hug him like a bear.

Erica’s high-pitched voice spoke, “They’re Commies. You don’t pay people, they cut corners.” You genuinely wonder if she’s learning this from school or something she does as a hobby.

“To be fair to our Russian comrades, I don’t think this tunnel was designed for walking,” Robin mentioned. “Think about it, they developed the perfect system for transporting cargo.” And she was right about that.

“It all comes into the mall like any old delivery.” “And then they load it up onto those trucks and nobody’s the wiser.” Dustin and Robin finished each other’s sentences.

“Wait… so you think they built this whole mall so they could transport that green poison?” You leaned forward a bit to see everyone’s thinking faces. Dustin twisted his mouth, “I seriously doubt it’s something as boring as poison. It’s gotta be much more valuable, like promethium or something.”

“What the hell is Promethium?” Steve blurted.

“It’s what Victor Stone’s dad used to make Cyborg’s bionic and cybernetic components.” Robin casually mentioned. You couldn’t help the gasp that followed, “You read comics? Robin, why am I just now hearing about this?” She just shrugged, but you saw her hidden smile.

“You’re all so nerdy, it makes me physically ill.” Erica had to ruin the moment.

Steve was quick to come to his defense, “No, no, no. No, don’t lump me in with them. I’m not a nerd, all right?” The simple comment made you slip your hand from his out of pettiness. Steve whipped his head towards you and tried to grab it back, but you just crossed your arms and kept walking.

You heard light chuckles from the others. “Why so sensitive, Harrington? Afraid of losing cool points to a ten-year-old child?” Robin’s snarky comment was followed by Dustin’s, “With you dating (Y/n), you’re a nerd by association. She’s got a good knowledge of comics and Star Wars.”

“I know that. I’m just saying I don’t know jack shit about Prometheus.” You dropped your arms and you felt Steve’s hitting yours twice before you took the innovation of holding hands again. “Promethium.” Dustin fixed Steve’s miss pronunciation. “Prometheus is a Greek mythological figure, but whatever. All I’m saying is, it’s probably being used to make something.”

“Or power something.” You quickly throw it out there. “Like a nuclear weapon?” Dustin asked. You shrugged even if he couldn’t see, “Totally, they are Russia and they usually are up to something sketchy.”

“Walking towards a nuclear weapon. That’s great. That’d be great.” Steve used his sarcasm as his defense. He squeezed your hand three times.

“But if they’re building something, why here?” Robin pointed out, “I mean, Hawkins. Seriously. Of all places. At the very best, we’re a toilet stop on your way to Disneyland, but maybe that’s it. Maybe it’s our very…” She trailed off as she and Erica continued forward. At the same time, Steve pulled the both of you to a stop with Dustin.

“You think the Russians know?” Steve turned to Dustin. “About-” Dustin didn’t need to finish, the three of you knew what he was gonna say. “They could,” Steve pointed out. “So it’s connected?” You asked while huddling closer to the boys.

Dustin shook his head, “Maybe.” “How?” You were confused about how a government on the other side of the world could know about your shit town and its supernatural connection.

“I don’t know, but it’s…” “Possible.” The three of you whispered. Your headache was worsening by the second.

“I’m sorry,” You looked up and saw Robin and Erica further up the tunnel and turned around, “Is there something you’d like to share with the class? (Y/n)?” You could only open and close your mouth, nothing coming out.

The sound of static hissing followed by a man’s voice speaking what sounds to be Russian drew everyone’s attention. Erica dropped her backpack and pulled the walkie out as you all huddled on the ground. Robin pulled the antenna out and listened to the voice. She then translated what was being relaid.

“A trip to China sounds nice. If you tread lightly. It’s the code.”

Dustin pointed at the walkie in her hands, “Wherever that broadcast is coming from-” “It’s close. And if there’s one thing we know about that signal…”

“It can reach the surface.” You finished with an air of hopefulness. Robin looked up with a smile then to your group, “Let’s go,” and you continued your walking.

You walked for what you assumed to be about thirty minutes before voices and loud noises got closer. Steve pulled your group into a corner behind a giant metal container and waited for the coast to be clear of any workers passing by. He peeked his head out and when he assessed the scene he moved forward and pulled you with him, “Clear, come on, Let’s go.” And everyone stuck close together.

“Okay, that was close.” “Too close.”

“Relax,” Steve stopped Robin and Dustin’s complaining, “Relax, no one saw…” His steps came to a halt and your jaw was metaphorically on the ground.

The room in front of you was filled with workers. Scientists, guards, drivers, and some people you can’t identify are dressed in red full-body suits. A female voice was speaking Russian on the intercom and you forgot you were in the open until you were almost spotted by an armed guard.

“Shit!” You yanked Steve with you to hide behind a red box, everyone tucked behind. “Jesus!” Steve muttered.

“Red Dawn.” Dustin referring to a movie that came out last year.

“I saw it.” And you just thought Erica meant the movie until she followed up with, "First floor, northwest.”

“Saw what?” Steve asked. “The comms room.” She sounded exasperated.

Steve scrunched his brows, “You saw the comms room? From here?” She nodded.

“Are you sure?” You couldn’t help questioning. You wouldn’t be able to tell which room was which. “Positive. The door was open for a second, and I saw a bunch of lights and machines and shit in there.”

“That could be a hundred different things,” Dustin argued. You looked in the direction Erica said and squinted your eyes to see anything, you only saw a closed door and faint movement through the slender window.

“I’ll take those odds.” Robin firmly stated. You couldn’t help the sigh as you closed your eyes. This was crazy, this was crazy, this was crazy. “This is crazy.” A slip of your tongue.

“Well, would you rather be stuck out here or trying to get help?” Erica sassed. And you knew she was right, you still didn’t like the slim odds against the five of you.

“All right.” Steve whispered as he laid out the plan, “We’re going to move fast, we’re going to stay low. Okay?”

Steve went first then you followed, copying his actions and following his rules. One by one, like ducks in a row. You moved then stopped, and waited for people to pass before moving again to the nearest hiding spot. Just one more stop before the door you held your breath, not wanting to make a single sound before reaching safety. Eyes on the door and watching as a man in a lab coat leaves the room, door wide open and swinging closed.

“Let’s go.” Steve moved forward and caught the door just before it closed. He ushered everyone in before him. His back was to the room so it took him a second longer to realize that it wasn’t empty, a Russian guard was at the controls.

You pulled the kids behind you, arms out to the sides to block them. The guard just stared at everyone then moved his right hand towards his hip, his gun. You stiffened with your eyes widening. Robin moved forward and started shouting in Russian.

“Tread lightly! Tread lightly!” The man was confused, replying, but you didn’t understand him and Robin wasn’t planning on translating. “Silver cat… Silver cat.” She waved a hand behind her.

Everyone was tense. Eyes move everywhere from person to person or looking for something within the room as a weapon. You didn’t try to look at Steve, worried that might cause a bad reaction.

The guard shook his head, speaking more words that went in one ear and out the other. Robin turned to you with a worried look then back. She took another step closer, “China?” The man just scoffs and grabs his gun.

Steve’s yells fill the small room. He charges forward and shoves the man into the control counsel. With numb fingers, you tug Robin at the back of her shirt and closer to you. Your eyes watch as the man throws Steve off him and into a table and he groans from the impact. He throws a swing and Steve leaned back and avoids getting punched in the cheek, but he’s grabbed by his shirt and thrown into another table face first.

“Steve!” Your voice coming back to you. The guard grips the back of the Scoop's shirt, but Steve elbows him in the stomach. The guard stumbles away, allowing Steve to grab the walkie from the main counsel and throw it hand to hand before smacking the Russian in the face. He hits a table and then lands on the floor with a loud thud.

You stare at the unconscious man before your eyes travel to Steve, who’s panting and running a hand through the front of his hair. Body moving on auto-pilot, your feet carry you towards Steve. Hands are shaky as they hold his biceps while you look over his face, warm brown eyes dart back and forth. You feel rather than see, Steve’s fingers curling into your belt loops and tugging you closer.

“Dude!” Dustin’s loud voice caused Steve to look his way, “You did it! You won a fight!” Steve looked to the floor and you saw the faint smile pulling his lips, “Jeez…”

“Please don’t do that again,” You couldn’t help the whisper. Steve’s brows furrowed at your words, “Well if I didn’t…” You stopped him with your hands on his cheeks, “No, I- I know. I just… I don’t want you getting hurt.” Thumb swiping over the apple of his cheek. His eyes and body melted just a touch, but now wasn’t the time to let his guard down. He only kissed your forehead and a reassuring smile before focusing back on the task at hand.

“You want to walk all the way back?” Erica’s loud shout made you step away from Steve reluctantly.

She and Dustin held a stand-off. “Well, we can hang out for a little bit, relax, have a picnic maybe.” And you can hear where Steve’s developing more of his sarcasm. Erica countered, “Have a picnic? We came here for a radio.”

“This plan is way better. If I knew Steve could knock out a Russian, that would’ve been our plan in the first place.”

“Steve is not fighting anymore Russians.” You stopped Dustin from potentially putting Steve in any harm. He just rolled his eyes and Erica scoffed, you were getting so tired of these kids and their growing attitude.

“Look I’m just saying-” “Guys.”

Robin’s voice stopped whatever Dustin was gonna say. She stood in a doorway that led to some stairs going up. “There’s something up there.” Pointing a finger over her shoulder.

You were the last one up the stairs and through the door. Steve closed it slowly and quietly behind you and when you turned to the room, you felt your blood run cold.

Slow, timid steps guided you to the glass openings in the wall. You leaned in, nose almost tapping the window as your glued eyes took in the sight before you. Steve stood behind you, his back pressed close and his face over your shoulder, while Dustin was on your left.

“Holy shit.” And holy shit was right.

A room of white button-ups and lab coats, people moving about or messing with buttons and dials. A glowing white light caused your eyes to squint, its noises were faint, but the walls rumbled with power. Whatever these Russians were doing, they were powering up a giant device that was pointed at the wall. It was causing a riff to open slowly, red and orange, and without having seen it before you know where this leads.

“The Upside Down,” was all you could whisper.

taglist: @heartyhope / @preciousbabypeter / @dessxoxsworld / @piper3113 / @animiacorn / @burn1ngw00d / @drxwstxrkxy / @m-rae23 / @noisyeggsmoneystatesman / @yournan69 / @thats-s0-ravenn / @ameliabs-world / @mayonesavegana / @gracella0709 / @gengen64 / @alecmores / @choclate32 / @stvrdustalexx / @redheadedfangirl / @agustdeeyaa / @yappydoo / @liberhoe / @hehehehannahthings / @ladybug0095 / @sweeter-innocence-fics / @j-6o / @voteforevilthoughts / @harrysflowercrownrry / @ilovereadingfanfics / @sorrow-has-a-place-here / @80strashbag / @sunsumonner / @sweet1peach / @cierrajhill / @we-out- here-simping / @nix-rose-a / @x-theolivia / @stylesyourmine / @starkeylover /

striked means tumblr cant find you

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crownedtargaryen · 1 year

Note

As per your request: Could you write something about Jacaerys breaking up with a female reader and Aemond reacts and consoles her with ulterior motives? Thank youuuu 😘

Like seriously you are my knight in shining armor (⁠つ⁠≧⁠▽⁠≦⁠)⁠つ

take care of you. - brother modern!aemond

pairing: brother modern!aemond x innocent sister!reader (a/n): please note i do not romanticize or desire this upon anyone, this is purely fiction! CW: p in v sex, unprotected sex, incest, vouyerism? idk if that’s what is called.. aegon is watching tho, mild choking, taking advantage of reader, cheating, porn with semi plot, mild manipulation all notes are appreciated. words: 1.7k tag list: @asa-do-your-thing @twizzy123 @hopelesswritergall @clairacassidy @ad-astra-again

It hurt. I remember it hurting, the worst pain I’d ever felt. Seeing him across the party with her, his hands around her waist as he smiled the widest he’d ever smiled. I felt a sickly pang in my stomach as I stared at Jacaerys, his lips hovering over his as the music blared in my ears. My heart drops to my stomach, tears falling down my cheeks as I clench the drink in my hand, holding back the urge to wail in pure anguish. I couldn’t control my body, storming forward and staring at Jace. He notices me, jumping slightly and moving swiftly away from the blonde who looks me up and down, her hazel eyes burning into mine. I glare at her, jaw clenching.

Lannister.

“Sweetheart, let me explain!” Jace starts; I look at him in disgust, inhaling, my breathing shaky as I speak up before he can elaborate on this heinous act.

“I don’t want to fucking hear it. We’re DONE. YOU’RE done,” I say sternly, looking at the girl and leaning into her face. “Have fun with this bitch.” I then pour my drink on her head, wetting my lips and grinning at her. “Oops.”

She goes to swing, but someone grabs her; I look up to see Aemond Targaryen with a stern gaze, throwing her to the ground and walking over to me. Quickly, he grabs my wrist and pulls me off.

“We’re going home. Now,” Aemond says, making me look at him in shock. Aemond is my brother, but he’s never seemed protective of me. Why was he suddenly stepping up? It confused me, but I couldn’t bring myself to protest when I looked back and saw Jacaerys helping the girl up and glancing subtle glares at Aemond. My heart shatters, realizing he has no genuine care for me. He helped HER. Not me.

I sit on Aemond’s motorcycle, looking at him with glossy eyes as he puts a helmet on my head and secures it, leaning in and looking into my eyes.

“You’re okay; we’re in this together,” he whispers. His voice is reassuring, but his eyes say otherwise. I’ve known him forever; he’d never take advantage of me in such a state. However, I’m emotionally vulnerable, and I trust him. Aemond leans in, gently kisses my cheek, pats my helmet, and sits down. I snake my arms around his torso, squeezing gently and holding in soft sobs as we drive. I bury my face in his leather jacket, tears staining his back as I tremble and cry.

Time passes swiftly when I cry, and I feel us slowing to a stop. Aemond shifts off his bike, and I look at where we are. The LED lights shimmer, straining my teary eyes as I rub them and grumble in frustration. I slowly get off, Aemond taking my hand and smiling at me. My eyes shimmer as I stare into those beautiful violet eyes, admiring the discoloration of one due to the scar resting upon his face. He notices my staring, looking away and to the location we’ve stopped at.

“Let’s get you some snacks. Is that alright?” He asks, avoiding looking at me. I walk forward, holding his hand tight and looking at him with a slight nod.

“Yeah… ’s fine,” I croak, sniffling as I follow him inside. We scan the isles for comfort foods and drinks, Aemond buying us some alcoholic beverages to forget these pains and have a separate party, away from all those lowlife losers- as he said.

I offer to pay for such things, but he takes out his card faster than I can react and purchases the abundance of treats, making me feel a bit embarrassed and in debt to him. “I can pay you back,” I start, but he ignores me. I repeat myself, and he merely walks back to his motorcycle, urging me to get on as we ride back to our house.

Aegon is sitting on the couch, indulging in his snacks and drinks, getting over a hangover from the previous night. He’s watching some sappy romance, mildly intoxicated and on the verge of tears from the story. When we enter, he looks at us and grins. His smile falls when he sees my swollen eyes, frowning and standing up.

“What happened?! What did you do?!” Aegon snaps, Aemond glaring at him. Aegon rushes over, pulling me from him, which Aemond doesn’t take kindly. “Oh baby, what did he do…” he whispers, cupping my cheeks. Aemond, not enjoying what’s his being taken, snatching me away.

“I didn’t do anything. It was her stupid boyfriend; that cunt did something,” Aemond snaps back, Aegon’s concern contorting into anger. He goes to ask, but I notice Aemond shakes his head and then walks me upstairs, Aegon looking at me helplessly as we leave.

I sit on Aemond’s bed, looking at him with a heavy heart. He closes the door, and I notice he has a look in his eyes that I can’t mainly place, not thinking much of it. Aemond sits next to me, handing me the bag full of goodies as she pours us two cups of alcohol, handing me one as she looks at me with a small smile. I look at him and smile weakly, and he moves his hand to my chin, making me look at him thoroughly.

“You look prettier when you smile. Talk to me; how are you feeling, issa jorrāelagon?” He whispers, making a shiver run down my spine.

My love.

My sadness grows as he brings it up, tears welling in my eyes. Swiftly, he sets down his cup and hugs me close, letting me break into tears in his chest. I clench the back of his leather jacket, pushing my body weight onto him. He rocks with me gently, petting my hair. I feel his hand trail down my back and up the back of my shirt, his warm hands rubbing against my skin and soothing me slowly.

“I feel so unloved… What- What did I do wrong?” I sob, looking up at him with a heartbroken gaze. He looks at me sympathetically, moving away hair that sticks to my cheeks from my tears. Then, he nuzzles his nose with mine, free hand stroking over my thigh.

“Sweetling, you will never be unloved by Aegon or me. You are too well tangled in my soul to be unloved by me,” he whispers, making my heart dance. “He’s an idiot, and he didn’t deserve you… I will treat you right. He will never touch you.” I feel my body melt at such words as his hand trail between my thighs. I fail to notice at first but then gasp softly as his fingertips graze my clothed cunt. A quiet whimper falls from my lips, biting my lip when he applies more pressure.

“Let me take care of you, sister. I’ll show you a true man’s love,” he whispers. I can’t deny him, body aching beneath his desiring touch. Slowly, my thighs open, and I whine, feeling my underwear dampen when he reaches between my pants and underwear, feeling how soaked I already am. “Oh gods, look at you.” his voice has become breathy as he slips off my pants, eyeing me up and down with a cheeky smirk. “Go on, lay down. Let lēkia take care of this pretty pussy.”

Aemond moves down between my legs as I lay back, licking over the sopping cloth and making me whine with my hips, making him chuckle lowly. Slowly, he peels my underwear to the side to reveal my new mound, slick and dripping down my hole. He moves his fingers along my folds, soaking them with the substance, then moves in, lapping up my messy hole and wrapping his mouth over the piece, looking up at me with dark and lustful eyes. I tilt my head back, his warm tongue licking at my sensitive clit as my thighs tremble, moving to his shoulders and moving in to surround his head. Soft pants and helpless sights escape my lips, his fingers moving to my entrance and pushing inside quickly.

“Fuck you’re tight,” he groans against my bud, making me shiver and moan out his name, which causes him to grin and go faster, shoving his fingers inside my velvety entrance with a newfound eagerness. His abuse of my clit drives me over the edge, making a mess on his fingers as he moves off my cunt with a filthy pop, gazing at me with a cheeky grin, slipping off his underwear and pants, throwing them to the side as he slides off his shirt as well as my own, admiring my figure. Aemond grinds his cock against my slick folds, pinning my hands above my head and chuckling slowly with heavy pants. “Good girl, you’re so beautiful.” he leans down, kissing my collarbone and chest, massaging my breast with one hand and pushing his tip in with the other. I clamp down as he eases himself in with a low groan, jaw clenched as he stares into my eyes.

“Aemond,” I moan, eyes rolling back as I wince at the stretch. “Fuck… I’m so full.” I struggle between whines, feeling him move in and out nice and slow. I see the door open slightly, biting my lip and whimpering loudly.

Aegon.

The thought of him getting off to this is filthy, and I wish to give him a show. So, I hook my legs around Aemond’s waist and push him deep into the spongey spot inside my cunt, making me arch my back and cry out in pleasure. Aemond grins wildly, pounding the spot full force as his hand trails to my throat, squeezing and pinning me down by my neck, biting his lip with low animalistic growls.

“Open,” he demands, making me involuntarily open my mouth. I watch as he spits into my mouth, his saliva coating my tongue as he sighs lovingly and moves in, kissing me passionately. His tongue trails to mine, spreading the spit across my tongue and pushing it down my throat. I swallow weakly, clenching his arm and bouncing with every thrust, choking out moans.

I whine loudly. “I’m close,” I whine out, Aemond nodding in acknowledgment. “Fuck, I’m gonna cum.”

I feel my peak close in on me, but then I hear a familiar voice that drives Aemond to a quick stop.

“Not on my watch,” Aegon coos as he tosses a pair of my underwear to the side, the base covered in his cum. “Big brother’s gonna rail you until you forget about that fucker.”

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p-oisn · 3 months

Note

✪ moot appreciation time ! tag some of your fav moots and share what you love about them ! then place this in other blogs asks !

okay I tried including as many ppl as possible but these are the ones I can list from the top of my head / interact w the most so </3

@pupicito : SUUPER CUTE ACC ??? like every mb is so unique n cool everyone should frame fish's mbs on their wall 🤕 n also so supportive like every post of theirs deserves a billion notes . alsososo thee most fun person to talk to ever 😞 js so sweet I wake up solely to look at fish's mbs they are so perfect i could talk abt them forever

@wiotas : I was acc so happy when I found out we knew each otber from like late 2022 ish i forgot ... (you knew me since my wannabe edgy phase but 😨) bc i rmb wanting to be your friend so bad bc you seemed so cool n now we're moots ?!?! you're so sweet liek omg ☹️☹️☹️ you always are so supportive n everytime you use my mbs as your theme i feel like biting into a brick wall BC WDYM you like my mbs enough to use them as your theme that's such an honour coming from you esp ?! 😞

@y-vna : DONT EVEN GET ME STARTED ??? like oooh I'm so happy to have ari as a moot I don't even know what I did to deserve her 😞 n also you have such stunning jaw dropping toe curling stomach churning mbs like omg ???? giggling everytime I get an mb from from you bc it's literally like a blessing 🤞🏼🤞🏼 n js soo supportive

@jeonzio : scremaing and yelling everytime I look at your acc bc everything and I mean EVERYTHING abt is soooo pretty n pleasing to look at ?? you're soo sweet n also the cutest person ever !! idk what else to say but like live laugh love tee 🤕 I will forever cherish every single one of our interactions bc they are simply the cutest

@koosuvi : YOU'RE SOOO SUPPORTIVE SOBS I lovelovelove every single one of your compliments they make me want to start jumping around my room giggling 😞 n also you quite literally have one of THEE prettiest accs on tumblr like omg pls teach ... your mbs are always out of this world 😖😖 I love you n everything ab your blog never stop posting plz ill cry

@yeritos : JUNEEE my fav my fav my fav ☹️ the best nctzen on this app ugh there aren't enough words to describe my love for you 😞 your mbs are literally soooo gorgeous omg i was screaming n crying when you followed me back bc im literally your #1 fan . you're sososo nice n amazing n everything 🌸 I love waking up to your mbs everyday n eating my yeritos meal 🍴

@tookio : ONE OF THE BEST MOODBOARD CREATORS ON THIS APP literally no one comes close i mean it 😞 your entire account is sooo stunning like you really deserves ALLL the love in the world !! n omg how I love your comments they make my day soo much better I love you so much for that istg :(

@jaes1lvr : literally hugs n kisses to mely 🫂 /p one of my biggest supporters too n js super sweet 😞 your mbs are js sooo unique I wish I could plaster it on my forehead so everyone in the world could see them 😡😡 I will forever be grateful for your overwhelming support like omg <33

@s-heon : super cool person that i really really really admire 🤔 like omg i could talk abt how grateful I am to you for hours, days even bc you were like my biggest inspo ever while starting out n also your mbs 🔛🔝 im so happy I ever found your blog it has such a special place in my heart 🤕💓 i loev you to the moon n back .

#ㅤ𝆬ㅤ ㅤ◌ㅤㅤׅㅤinboxㅤ₍ᐢ ᐢ₎

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