#&then he paused and was like 'so are you prone to dizziness after draws or...?'

[jvzebel-x]

🦋

[northofdespair]

You know @obiwanobi , it really didn’t take much to tempt me lol. 

Part two of this post! And uh, well, it got significantly spicier than the previous part now that our favorite Togruta apprentice has vacated the scene.

This one is for @crvdematter , who really started the whole thing months ago, and I feel terrible for forgetting to mention you in the last post! Really, it’s a miracle that I’m coming out from under my nice, cozy rock to give you E-rated Obikin of all things, so hopefully it’ll make up for my grievous omission! Thanks for sparking this into existence!

SPICE under the cut. 😘

Enjoy? 😨🥰

~*~

This is not the first time that Obi-Wan has kissed him while he has a split lip, and Anakin is sure that it won’t be the last.

The pain is a constant, throbbing reminder of their earlier tangle, even as his Master sucks it gently in apology, but Force, Anakin never wants him to stop. He lifts a hand to squeeze Obi-Wan’s wrist where his face is framed by gentle, bloodied hands, then settles his arms around Obi-Wan’s neck with a shuddery sigh.

Obi-Wan’s tongue slides into his mouth and he lets out a guttural moan of approval at the sensation. It spurs his Master on just the way he knew it would, and Obi-Wan leans forward into his space to pin him against the wall. The weight grounds him, steadies him, and he breathes in the comforting scent of Obi-Wan between kisses. Force, even covered in sweat and blood, Anakin loves the spice-and-tea scent of him.

There was a time that Obi-Wan had left one of his robes in his quarters on the Resolute. His Master never noticed the missing garment, prone as he is to dropping the damn things in every corner of the galaxy, and Anakin decidedly did not tell him. It was a lonely month in space, far away from Obi-Wan and even Ahsoka, and if he wrapped that cloak around his shoulders at every sleep shift he got? Well. No one had to know.

The increased proximity lends itself to intimacy, and they both moan quietly into each other’s mouths as their growing erections press together for the first time that night.

The first time in too long, really, and Anakin feels giddy with the promise that this is theirs. That they can have this, and it doesn’t have to stay in the darkness of the Coruscanti underworld. Obi-Wan wants him, loves him, and this night won’t end in longing glances when they think the other isn’t looking, nor will they have to part.

Obi-Wan breaks the kiss to bite and kiss along Anakin’s jaw, sliding his fingers back into Anakin’s hair, and oh, Anakin could give himself up to the Force with how good those fingers feel tightening against his scalp. He gasps instead, rolling his hips forward to seek out more friction. In a rather uncharacteristic move, Obi-Wan lets him. He even grinds against him in return as he sucks on the tender skin behind his jaw, and Anakin whimpers into the open air at the allowance.

The indulgence doesn’t last long, however, before Obi-Wan nips at his earlobe and murmurs,

“Shall we take this back to the Temple then, dear one?” his voice rasps with lust, and Anakin gives a full-body shudder at the feel of it in his ear before he shakes his head.

“No. Not- ah- not now,” he swallows as Obi-Wan presses a kiss to the hollow of his throat with a speculative hum.

“No?” he comes back up to purr low in Anakin’s ear, “Why would that be? Do you want to stay where you can cry out for me? Where no one but I knows the sound of your voice? Or is it that you cannot wait that long?” Obi-Wan punctuates his last words with a hand squeezing over Anakin’s erection in his trousers, and Anakin pants out his breath at the pressure.

“Please, Master. Both, just- fuck me here, please,” he begs, tightening his hold around Obi-Wan’s neck.

His Master presses a long, firm kiss to Anakin’s lips before breaking it to look into Anakin’s eyes with his own intense, crystal blue stare. The sight of him, pupils blown and cheeks flushed in the dim, blue light of some far-off neon, makes Anakin’s stomach flip.

He doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to it; the way Obi-Wan stares at him with such desire plainly written on his face. He’d never quite been able to decipher it completely, the way Obi-Wan looked at him, but now he thinks he knows.

It was love, always love, and before there was a strange wistfulness that he never understood until tonight. There is no wistfulness to his gaze now. Now there is only heat and desire, amplifying the love he now readily identifies. It’s enough to make him dizzy, especially when his Master rasps, “Since you asked nicely,” and drops to his knees.

Anakin leans heavily against the wall for support as Obi-Wan wastes no time in tugging his trousers and undergarments down to his feet, taking his erection in hand and meeting his eyes as he presses a kiss to the flushed head. Anakin bites his lip, no longer noticing the sting as he watches Obi-Wan reach into his own trouser pocket with another hand to produce a packet of bacta.

Obi-Wan flicks his tongue against the slit, drawing out a surprised little moan from Anakin’s throat, before pausing to coat his fingers in bacta. Soon he’s rubbing cool circles at Anakin’s entrance, and Anakin gasps at the feeling, grinding back almost involuntarily to coax them in.

Obi-Wan stares up at him with something like wonder on his face and shakes his head slowly.

“The things you do to me,” he whispers, and leans forward to press a kiss to the side of Anakin’s cock.

“You’re one to talk,” Anakin’s breathless rebuttal breaks off in a broken moan as Obi-Wan takes him into his mouth and breaches him at the same time.

He clutches at the back of Obi-Wan’s tunic as lightning-hot arousal shoots down his spine.

It’s funny- all this time, between their fights and sex in back alleys just like this one, they’ve been sort of ignoring the fact that it’s happened at all when they get back to the surface. Obi-Wan was right; what happened here, stayed here, no matter how much Anakin longed for that to change. But all of this time, they’ve been learning each other’s pleasure. What makes the other throw their head back or bite down in desperation.

And so he is no match for the tongue that swirls with a knowing twist, the second finger that eventually adds to the first as he opens for his Master, and the deep, rumbling moan of Obi-Wan’s voice around him.

“Master. Master I’m- hhahhh- I’m going to cum if you-“ Obi-Wan curls his fingers at that moment, and he cuts off with a whimper, clenching his fist in Obi-Wan’s tunic and gritting his teeth against the crashing wave of arousal that follows.

His Master pulls off of his cock with a wet pop and looks up at him speculatively, adding a third finger and watching intently as Anakin groans from deep in his chest.

“Do you want to come now, darling?” he asks, squeezing at Anakin’s thigh to catch his attention.

Anakin tries to clear his head enough to think. He- he could come now, and he knows that Obi-Wan would fuck him just the same, but...

“No. No, I- with you, Master. Please.”

Obi-Wan smiles up at him, stretching the wounds that decorate his own face after his night of fighting, and kisses his thigh.

“All right, love.”

Anakin sighs through his nose at the simple, gentle response, and lets his head fall back against the wall as he closes his eyes and attempts to calm down a bit. Obi-Wan’s fingers have all but stilled in him, occasionally moving slow enough that the quiet tide of pleasure he feels isn’t enough to push him back to the receding edge.

It’s a testament to how well Obi-Wan knows him, how much he can read his expressions and his countenance in the Force, that the moment he feels like he can keep going, his Master spreads the three fingers and curls them once again to brush against his prostate. He inhales sharply through his nose and clenches his mechno-hand against the wall behind him at the sparks of pleasure that crackle through him.

“Are you ready, sweetheart?” Obi-Wan’s voice falls, deep and gravelly from his mouth.

“Yes, Master,” he whispers.

“Good.”

Obi-Wan presses one more kiss to his thigh before removing his fingers with a wet squelch and rising slowly to his feet. Anakin clenches around nothing, swallowing a whine as Obi-Wan caresses his skin on the way up. This time, it is he that draws Obi-Wan into a kiss with a hand around the back of his neck. His Master willingly goes, quickly taking the control that Anakin so readily gives.

In battle, he does not mind control. He might even go so far as to say that he thrives on it.

On missions and even in teaching, he will gladly lead.  

But oh, in this.

In this, he wants nothing more than the way Obi-Wan dominates him with his tongue.

In this, he wants nothing more than Obi-Wan’s weight, pinning him to the wall, caging him in, grounding him.

In this, he relinquishes all control to his Master, until he cannot think beyond the violent pleasure that flows like magma through his veins.

The biting kiss does not last long before Obi-Wan breaks it with a low growl, dipping down to grab the backs of Anakin’s thighs and hoist him up against the wall. Anakin lets out an undignified squeak and scrabbles for purchase on Obi-Wan’s shoulders, wrapping his legs around his Master’s waist.

Obi-Wan chuckles. “All right?”

Anakin huffs indignantly. He opens his mouth to respond, but before he can, he feels Obi-Wan’s hand shift, and suddenly the head of his cock is nudging at Anakin’s entrance. He hadn’t seen Obi-Wan slick his own cock, or even push down his own trousers, but he’s certainly not going to complain. His voice gives way to a high-pitched whine, pleading wordlessly for Obi-Wan to just-

“Ahhhh-“

Obi-Wan’s cock finally sinks into him, all at once, and Anakin keens.

Force, he could come from the stretch alone. If Obi-Wan didn’t appear to need a moment himself, he might have. But Obi-Wan simply pants into his neck for a stretch of time as Anakin does the same into his ginger, sweat-damp hair, and it both calms and stirs up the sea of need between them in one fell stroke.

When Anakin is seconds away from begging Obi-Wan to move, he lets out a cry instead as Obi-Wan growls and pulls out slightly before snapping his hips forward. The pace he sets to begin is slow for what feels like only a moment–though it is surely longer–as their pleasure quickly builds.

Obi-Wan mouths at his neck as Anakin gasps with every thrust, clinging desperately to Obi-Wan’s back. He feels Obi-Wan shift him in his arms and wonders idly if he’s too heavy after Obi-Wan’s already strenuous evening, but all thought is immediately erased as Obi-Wan finds what he was looking for and Anakin sees stars.

“Master,” he moans breathlessly, and Obi-Wan groans.

“Force, you’re perfect. You take me so well, darling. So good,” the words melt into Anakin’s veins, and he moans from deep within his chest as Obi-Wan nips at his throat. “Can you come from this, darling?”

“Yes. Yes, Obi-Wan, Master, yes, just don’t stop- ah- don’t stop, please-“

His words devolve into incoherent babbling into Obi-Wan’s ear as their pace quickens, and the sound of skin on skin echoes in the empty alleyway.  

“Come on then, love,” Obi-Wan’s voice is rougher now than it has been tonight, and Anakin knows by some thoughtless instinct that he’s close as well. “I’ve got you. Come for me, Anakin. Love you, dearest. I love you.”

And that, with one more thrust against his prostate, is enough. Anakin throws his head back against the wall and comes so hard he sees white. A deep, punched-out noise rises from his chest and his nails sink into Obi-Wan’s tunic. His mechno-hand scrabbles so hard he’ll probably leave marks, awash as he is in the tempestuous wave of pleasure.

He is distantly aware as Obi-Wan thrusts rapidly a few more times, fucking him through the crest of his orgasm before he comes with a snarl of Anakin’s name and a bite to the juncture of his neck. Anakin gasps at the pleasure-pain of teeth set into his flesh and shakes with aftershocks as Obi-Wan pulses inside him.

They come down slowly, breathing together as Obi-Wan mindlessly kisses at the bite and Anakin strokes his Master’s hair. A few long, peaceful moments pass this way, simply holding each other and pressing lax kisses into each other’s skin and hair before their position grows to be too much.

Obi-Wan slides out of Anakin, setting an apologetic kiss to Anakin’s cheek at the hiss of discomfort it draws forth. He sets him gently to the ground and steadies him with hands at his waist when Anakin’s legs shake at the reestablished equilibrium. Anakin bows his head for a moment to collect himself, and when looks up he finds Obi-Wan watching him with a soft smile on his face.

His eyes twinkle in the low light, and Anakin’s breath hitches quietly. The communication that passes between them then is too marvelous, too complex for words. Just by staring into his Master’s eyes, Anakin knows that Obi-Wan understands all the words he can’t bring himself to speak into the night air.

Softly, in the back of his mind, he feels the stirring of a familiar pathway. He sucks in a quiet, surprised breath as he realizes at once just what it is. He hasn’t travelled that road for a long, long time, but he knows the well-worn path of their training bond better than life itself.

Obi-Wan searches his eyes even as he strokes over the quiet remnants of the bond, and Anakin knows the question that lies behind the icy blue of his Master’s gaze. And just as he knows the question, he knows the answer. He reaches for his own side of their bond and brushes away the cobwebs, pushes aside the vines, and then-

A rush of consciousness, not his own, floods into his very being, overwhelming and all-consuming as a sandstorm. He hadn’t really known what he was missing, hadn’t let himself miss it, but oh. Obi-Wan’s Force signature dances with his own and fills the dark places of his mind with beautiful light.

It’s overwhelming, awe-strikingly powerful, and the rightness of it fills a part of his soul that he didn’t know he was missing.

He gasps brokenly, tears welling up and spilling over his eyes before he can stop them, and Obi-Wan laughs wetly. Anakin can feel his joy in the Force, as physically as the hand that comes up to wipe his tears away.

Hello, dearest, Obi-Wan’s voice echoes brilliantly in his mind. It’s been a while, hasn’t it?

Anakin can only nod through the tears, completely overwhelmed by the resurgence of their bond. He had thought he’d never feel this again. The fact that it was Obi-Wan who initiated their re-connection is almost surreal.

Force, they have so much to talk about, but for the moment, Anakin simply shuts his eyes and breathes.

Patient as ever, Obi-Wan holds him quietly until he is sure that Anakin can stand on his own before setting about putting them to rights. Anakin had all but forgotten that they are standing in an abandoned alley, half-naked with cum drying on the front of his tunic and dripping down his leg. He winces at the realization, shifting uncomfortably as Obi-Wan pulls up his own trousers and produces a cloth from his pocket. He wipes Anakin down gently before lifting his trousers and handing him the cloak he’d dropped when Obi-Wan first kissed him.

“Thank you,” he says quietly.

The bond somehow feels so fragile, so new, that he’s afraid he might shatter it if he deigns to speak through it. Obi-Wan casts him a gentle, knowing look, and kisses his cheek.

“You’re welcome,” he smiles.

Like a picture coming back into focus, Anakin suddenly notices the wounds that litter Obi-Wan’s face and dip down into his tunic.

“Master,” his voice comes out as a pained breath.

Obi-Wan raises his eyebrows in question, then winces as it pulls on a nasty-looking bruise. Their bond colors a sheepish pink, and Anakin tries not to reel from the sensation of the extra feedback.

“Ah. Yes, that.”

“What happened? You never let them touch your face,” he reaches forward to brush his fingertips lightly over the deepest bruise.

“Yes, well, that Devaronian was tougher than he looked. You landed a hit or two as well, I daresay.”

Anakin grimaces. “Sorry.”

Obi-Wan shakes his head with a fond chuckle.

“You should see the other guy,” he winks.

Anakin huffs a laugh and shakes his head in return, and when Obi-Wan smiles at him? He knows then and there that no matter how fragile their bond may feel, no matter what happens next, they’re going to be okay.

[dimigex]

Aftermath - R76

This is a snippet that came from a prompt that @cinlat sent me. This image from @robotsinlace inspired the look as well. 

AO3 / Fanfiction

Acrid smoke filled the sky, making it difficult to breathe. Coughing, Jack fought to pull air into his lungs. When he couldn't, panic suffocated him further. Training ticked away the back of his mind, trying to calm the fear so that he could assess the situation. Each inhale stabbed through his chest like a knife. When he gasped in a shallow, insufficient amount of air, some part of him recognized that he could, in fact, breathe. It was too little, not enough to expand his chest fully. Collapsed lung, his mind suggested distantly.

Jack couldn't focus on the soft voice through the coughing fit that gripped him. Head lolling to one side, he spit blood and grit from his lips. When it passed, the man struggled toward a sitting position and ignored the waves of nausea that rolled through his stomach. Frothy bile gagged him, and something warm glued his shirt to his side. Jack reached toward the heat, and his fingers came away stained crimson. If he'd had enough breath to spare, he would have cursed.

Blue sky peeked through the columns of black and grey smoke overhead. Jack couldn't make sense of his surroundings no matter how much he tried. Alarms blared nearby. He should probably do something about that. Reaching for his hip, Jack's fingers brushing an empty holster. He frowned, wondering where his sidearm had gone. A vague memory of drawing the weapon pressed to the forefront of his mind.

Jack had been standing in his office, reaching for the gun when-when what? How had he gotten outside? Pain lanced through Jack's temple when he tried to force images to surface. His blurred vision focused on the rubble beside him, recognizing the frame of his information wall, glass shattered and broken scenes flickering fitfully in the gloom. Dizzying recollection flooded through him; he was lying in the remains of his office. Jack peered through the rapidly darkening smoke and realized that it wasn't just his office. It looked like the wreckage of the entire Swiss headquarters.

Smoke swirled to Jack's left, coalescing into deeper shadow. A ghost stepped through the broken bits of building, gliding closer. Only the crunch of glass beneath boots warned Jack that it wasn't some apparition coming to punish him for his sins. The figure paused, and a pale mask swiveled toward Jack's prone form. Flames danced across the ivory surface, before disappearing in soulless black eyes. As the form took on the shape of familiarity, fear and fury soured in the pit of Jack's stomach. The emotion escaped his lips in a low growl.

"There you are," a disembodied voice taunted, arrogance dripping from every word. The man leaped over a fragment of the command table. "I didn't think you'd die that easily."

"Sorry to disappoint," Jack answered. He poured every ounce of sarcasm and anger into the words, but they rasped out barely above a whisper.

Though Jack didn't know what the man looked like behind the mask, he was certain that he smirked at the comment. The shadow towered over Jack without fear or remorse. A boot came to rest on the center of Jack's chest. His pain doubled, tripled, until blackness ate the edges of his vision. Even the shallow breaths that he'd managed earlier seemed beyond his body's power now.

Jack sagged against the masonry where he'd been thrown during the explosion. Explosion? A fragmented memory of searing heat and weightlessness threatened to swallow him, but he pushed it away. Jack ran his tongue over his lips, hoping to impart enough moisture to curse the man who had taunted him for years. "Reaper," he spat the name like venom. The terrorist had dogged Jack's every movement, striking when least expected. He'd nearly dragged the organization to its knees, nearly. "You can kill me, but it won't kill Overwatch. They will find you-"

"Care to wager on that?" Reaper raised one gun to rest on his shoulder. Jack stared at the inky coating, wondering why it looked so familiar, but he couldn't place it. The second nestled against Jack's chest, muzzle over his heart. "Not that it matters, you won't be around to see it either way."

"Overwatch is bigger than me," Jack wheezed, ignoring the dizziness that triplicated Reaper above him. The man's images swayed, meshed together, then broke apart again. Even if Jack had access to a weapon, he wouldn't know which to shoot.

Reaper laughed, a sound that set chills racing down Jack's spine, and holstered one of his weapons. The other remained steadfast on Jack's chest. There was no getting out of this one; it was really over. Reaper scoffed under his breath. "You still don't understand do you? Overwatch will burn. Too bad you won't be around to see it, Boyscout."

Reality cracked, splintering down the center. The breath in Jack's lungs froze as pieces fell into place with deafening clarity. Suddenly, he understood why Reaper's stance looked so familiar, why the way he walked recalled a tingle on the tip of Jack's tongue. He saw it in the spread of the man's shoulders, the arrogant saunter, and the way he handled the weapon. How had he not noticed until now?

Nausea squeezed Jack's stomach until he wanted to bring up every meal that he'd ever eaten. He wrapped a hand around the leg that pressed him to the ground and levered himself closer to the man he'd once trusted. Blood coated his tongue, making it difficult to speak, but he had to know. "Why, Gabe?"

The weapon nearly crushed Jack's chest when Gabe leaned into it, using his free hand to remove the bloodless mask that covered his once familiar face. The man tossed it aside like an afterthought and leaned closer. "It was you or me." Reaper's jaw clenched, then his finger moved to the trigger. "It has to end this way; choose your last words carefully, Strike Commander."

Jack swallowed around the betrayal that threatened to choke him. Without the mask, he couldn't reconcile his one time lover with the notorious Reaper. He'd known Gabe for the better part of thirty years, allowing him closer than anyone else. Jack had been a miserable, homesick farm boy until Gabe took him under his wing. They'd lived through the hell of SEP together, surviving inexplicable odds a dozen times over. Then, Overwatch. And, Jack didn't need to close his eyes to remember the sweaty nights spent wrapped around each other. He saw it all in Gabe's face.

Maybe this fight was as inevitable as Gabe thought. Every decision that Jack had made over the years pushed them toward this point. He'd distanced himself from Gabe after Blackwatch fell from grace. Would it have made a difference if Jack opened up more? Could he have changed the outcome?

Swallowing blood with his regrets, Jack lifted his head. He searched the wild brown eyes above for a sliver of the man that he knew. There was nothing left. I did that, he realized. Now that it had slipped through his fingers, Jack ached for the time he'd wasted. He could curse Gabe for everything that happened, or focus on the parts he wanted to remember.

Hope swelled in Jack's chest, the warmth temporarily smothering his pain. Maybe it wasn't too late to change things; he knew what he needed to say. Jack forced himself to smile despite the blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. "I love yo-"

Pain obliterated Jack's world and darkness swallowed him.

[seizethecarpe]

Deep Sea Blues || Dave and Adam

Timing: Around 2 months ago during the Sand and Glass plot of the week. Parties: @walker-journal @seizethecarpe Summary: Bloody Mary sets her sights on two murderers. Triggers: vomit mention, body horror mention, drug use, lots of blood mentions

Dave came to with a groan. This whole waking up in the middle of nowhere shtick was getting old. He’d thought the sleepwalking was over and done with, but no, here he was, in a dark cavern with a flickering light in it. Everything smelled of salt and rotting seaweed, thick and heavy in the air. The air itself was thick and heavy, popping his ears like a clan. The rocky floor beneath him was slick and wet too. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, Dave stood slowly, trying to take in everything. There was a prone figure not too far away - he could feel them breathing through the water on the floor. The lantern, the only source of light here, was red, lit with oil, impossibly, looking for all the world like it’d been here for decades. It had rusted, the paint peeling and staining the rock around it, but still it was lit. It didn’t illuminate too much of the cave around them, but enough to get a feel. It was more like a tunnel, really, and they were on some sort of raised bit - on either side the floor dropped away into water lapping at the edge. The air tasted stale, there was no breeze rustling through here. Limited oxygen supply, maybe. He stepped into the water, getting a feel for what was nearby. Something as big as a tuna swam a hundred feet away, which by itself wasn’t weird, but Dave couldn’t feel any water crashing against the surface of a beach or against the edge of a cliff face. There was no water churning in air nearby at all. For a second, he thought he saw a pair of eyes looking back at him, but with a flicker of the oil light, they were gone. His lips pressed in a firm line, he stepped back out of the water. “Hey, you waking up back there?”

 The dampness of the cove’s stone was the first sensation that registered to Adam's mind, unyielding but unpleasantly jagged and moist with tide scum against his cheek. The sharp smell brine in the cave’s thick poorly filtered air filtered into. Lantern light pierced his closed eyelids, and Adam’s body clicked into pure trained reflex before conscious thought even began. 

 Adam sprang to his feet in gymnast’s kick-up, green-hazel eyes immediately hard with hostility. “Who are you! Why’d you bring me here?” The snarling words were accompanied by Adam reaching behind him to draw a concealed knife. But the impending threat was cut short by Adam’s hand finding nothing there 

 Dave’s eyebrows rose slightly. Now that wasn’t something you saw every day. He raised a hand to show he wasn’t armed or intending to hurt, eyes narrowed. “I didn’t. Not too sure how I got here myself. Name’s Dave.” He looked back around the space, but kept his senses attuned to the other man. “One moment I was fishing, the next, I woke up here.” Fishing was one thing to call it, but it had involved a net, and his prey was living in the water. Dave ran his tongue over his teeth in thought, before realising he wasn’t wearing his teeth caps. He’d have to be careful with how he spoke, then. 

 “If I had to guess, we got caught in some sorta rip tide.” That didn’t really even begin to make a lick of sense, but the disbelieving folks bought anything, these days. “Do you have any idea which way might be out?”

 “No clue,” Adam admitted. “Like on the way down did you…”

 Light brown eyes gazed up at Adam from the still water, belonging to a smooth face with a high forehead and cascades of red-gold hair that framed lithe shoulders in way even Adam’s groggy brain appreciated. She was a tall woman, nearly six feet of trim athleticism gained from a lifetime of riding, tennis playing, and dancing at court. The woman in water wore a mourning gown of black and white whose cut was cut was severe despite the richness of the fabric. 

 She seemed to not look at Adam so much as directly within him, a primal understanding between two murderers whose fair features and self-effacement had masked bloody intentions until it was far too late. 

 A blink, and it was just a cavern pool, dark and featureless in dim claustrophobia of this chthonic cove. 

 “Um,” Adam tried to collect his thoughts, forgetting what he’d been about to ask. “I’m Adam by the way. Let’s try this fork over here, see if it goes anywhere.” 

 Adam, whatever else he was, seemed real distracted. Dave hadn’t seen whatever he’d been looking at but nodded silently as he followed Adam through the caves. It was like they were walking on a ledge, and the water was always to their left, this unnaturally thick air holding it at bay. There was the smallest ripple in the water behind them, enough to make Dave turn. She was hovering out of the surface of the water, looking delicate as jellyfish, her skin so pale it was translucent. She met his stare with eyes that practically glowed with loathing, like she had been digging through his entrails and hadn’t like what she had found. A moment later, she sank back below the water surface. 

 Dave put his hand in the water and didn’t feel anything. He had a sinking feeling in his gut, about a type of ghost that he’d really fucking like to not deal with in a cave. He looked back at Adam, who was unavoidably a young, handsome man, which didn’t help his suspicions. Rusalka often targeted Adam’s sort, and they were a nightmare to deal with if you didn’t have someone with incredible strength to match theirs. Shit. There wasn’t much else that Dave could see

 “Might be worth avoiding the water.” Out of arm’s reach if a ghost decided to jump out in the first place. 

 “Joseph Jolly,” a voice whispered, but somehow the whisper echoed in the cave, a woman’s voice dripping in judgement. A name belonging to a renowned spellcaster, who had in the end deserved to have his skull cracked open like a chicken egg, fifty feet underneath the water surface. Dave narrowed his eyes, looking around and wondering if the goddamn guilt ghosts were back. Nothing. 

 Adam was surveying a small trawler that lay quietly rotting in one of the coves’ erosion-smoothed curvatures. The damp decades had turned the hull into mass of rust and barnacles. The footballer hoisted himself over the corroded railing up into the cockpit with the ease of a born athlete who wasn’t overburdened by caution. 

 Footsteps echoed dulled in the hull as Adam dropped down out of sight to root around in the hold. Whatever dereliction or treasures the young man found elicited only a disappointed “well shit.” After several scraping sounds against oxidized metal, Adam’s wet tawny hair reappeared again as he clambered back up into the half-intact cockpit. 

Adam had jumped down onto the cove floor when there came a whisper. The college student tensed instinctively and scanned their premises in the manner of one used to searching for strange noises with a rifle to back him up. “So, uh...are you Joseph Jolly?” 

 “No. I’ve never heard that name before,” Dave lied, like he hadn’t spent weeks tracking the man down, concocting an elaborate trap so that one day when Joseph was looking for seaweed for a spell, Dave had lunged out of the water to bite his ankle and dragged him down to the depths. He clambered over the trawler to get to the other side of the path, walking until he reached the water. “Still just Dave.”

 “Dead end this way.” It might not be, of course, but if there was a way to get out without risking facing a Rusalka under the water, and like hell was he leaving the kid here if he could avoid it. They had to have gotten here somehow. “Let’s circle back and try the other path at that fork. The sooner we get out of here, the better.” He looked at the trawler suspiciously. The lantern lights flickered on the water surface and the whispering returned, bouncing off the cavern walls, ringing off the rusted metal. This time, the quiet British voice didn’t just talk about Joseph Jolly, but dozens of names. Dave knew too many of them, just not all.

 ‘James Ross’

 Adam whirled at the from where he’d been inspecting an overturned paddle boat that been irretrievably shattered by whatever vortex forced had sucked it down into this air bubble. James’s name pushed all the MacGyver-esq musing right out of his head, filling him only with memories of the night the Jenga Tower of a holy cause finally came tumbling down at the sight of his friend’s slit throat. 

 ‘Winn Woods’

 “Who the fuck are you! Show yourself!” But the cavern only echoed Adam’s following stream of a profanity back at him, punctuated only by the slow drip of water in the dark. 

 “Ok, Dave, the hell is going on,” Adam demanded, tensing as heat built in his chest. 

 “Like hell if I-” Dave paused, looking at the oil lamp light flickering on the still water behind Adam. 

 The figure was beautiful, water lapping at her ankles as she walked forward. Rusalka often were, which was half the damn danger. She wasn’t soaking in her ethereal figure, but blood stained the edges of her garments. She had a long silver shard of mirror in one hand. Her lips moved as her voice echoed more names. Sylvia Pevensie, Jason Nakamura. She didn’t look happy. “Adam,” Dave said in a quiet growl, picking up a piece of driftwood that was too sodden to be any kind of useful weapon. “Get behind me.” 

 The ghost smiled slightly, and then lunged, her mirror shard raised. 

 Adam’s thoughts raced as the Euro-LARPer monster started going all The Shining on Dave. It was galling to put this dude in danger, but Adam had no weapon at the moment and getting shived for the sake of macho pride didn’t do either of them any good. This thing was fast, like really fast. Adam kept to Dave’s flank as the bloody spirit blitzed forward in a madhouse whirl of slashes, the surgical edges of glass as more names issued forth in an echoing threnody through the cave. 

 Adam’s water-logged brain, still dizzy from whatever barotrauma of pressures he’d gone through while being dragged down here, went through everything he knew about Rusalka, Nix, and other swimmer babes who might want to do a Little Mermaid and American Psycho crossover. He kept drawing blanks and contradictions before Blanche’s theory a few days ago and stuff Dad had said way been they’d been stationed in Westminster came together. 

 Much as Adam was averse to out himself to Dave and tended to keep his nature on the DL. There comes a time when things get a little too Lord of the Flies to really justify remaining silent. 

 Adam tried to duck and roll as her murderous majesty pivoted from Dave suddenly, but she landed a long slash down the Hunter’s back. Seawater from his damp clothes made the jagged wound sear through him, and Adam struggled to regain his feet on the damp stones as the deep laceration made his leg muscles spasm and grow dangerously numb. 

 “She’s Bloody Mary, like the creepy kids’ game. She goes after murderers,” Adam stated hoarsely as watery blood slid freely down his back and legs, leave a dark red trail across the cove sand as he tried to avoid Mary’s attempts to hamstring him. 

 The flickering oil light was as much help as hindrance, always highlighting the mirror shard as she arced it through the air. Dave moved with practiced dodges and while she was spirited and fast, her body signalled her intentions as much as any other fighter. Fortunately, Adam had the sense to stay just as much out of the way as the ghost and her blade danced through the cave with the vicious temper and grace of an electric eel. As soon as she was almost fully out of the water, Dave tried to body slam her to the ground, only to move right through her. Not Rusalka. Well, shit. With that in mind he left himself duck and weave his way into knee-deep water, breathing deeply to catch a hint of fresh air and a way out. Even where he was more comfortable, her blade drew red lines across his body, cutting his shirt to ribbons one swipe at a time. 

 His selkie nature may give him an advantage with water, but Dave was not immune to the laws of physics. The algae clad slippery rocks offered no friction as they moved, and it only took one underbalanced dodge for Dave to lose his balance. Fortunately, instead of landing in the rocks, he landed in the pool, feeling the ripples against the most sensitive hair of his face, and seeing in the dark a subtle shift of the light, twenty feet away, where the flickering oil light didn’t bounce off under water cave holes but instead gave way to darkness, and a way out. He pushed himself onto his feet, blinking as his eyes adjusted back to the air and the bright firelight. He had been about to push himself out in front of Adam again when he saw the kid’s moves, while hampered by injury, were strategic and trained. Not in need of as much protection as thought. 

 Dave only caught the tail end of what Adam was saying, that the figure in front of them only went after murderers. He only nodded to acknowledge that he’d heard, not wasting fractions of a second in questioning the information or the implications thereof. Miss Murder might have been untouchable, but the mirrored glass in her hand was as real as anything. Dave grabbed a broken rock from the seabed and raised it as she whipped her own blade back. He brought it down, through her arm until it cracked through her glass weapon, breaking it in half. It wasn’t destroyed, but the largest part was still shrunken in her hand. Bloody Mary retaliated by clawing her nails across his face. Dave yelled, covering his face as he retreated into the water, Bloody Mary taking precious seconds to readjust her grip. 

 “Get in the water,” Dave growled as he staggered back, blood seeping from his eyelid into his eye. “How long can you hold your breath?”

 Normally Adam might question the wisdom of going out into an unknown distance below sea level while wounded and with a Catholic Supremacist ghost on their tail, especially since the salt in the water didn’t seem to give her any trouble. But they had no way to actually hurt Mary in here, so sure, let’s Ironman Lanzarote this thing. 

 Mary caught Adam deep in the right shoulder with the sunken remnant of a shard as he made a staggering break towards the water. She tore the broken mirror out of the Hunter with the deft precision of a surgeon’s scalpel, whispering an all-too-familiar name in his ear. Black spots blossomed and quivered in Adam’s vision as he waded off the cove’s drop off, salt flared across his open wounds like a whip. 

 “Longer than I’ll make in here,” he gagged. 

 That sure filled Dave with confidence, but neither of them could afford another stab wound. Hell, Dave wasn’t sure if he waited much longer without medical treatment that he could do the swim for the two of them, as blood stained the water around him, thick and heavy considering how much blood his body held. 

 “Great. Deep breath.” Dave said, filling his lungs one last time as he grabbed Adam’s body in warning before pulled him under, kicking deep into the dark water. He pulled Adam’s arm firmly across his own chest, the speed through which he was already moving them through the water emphasis enough as to why Adam should let him do the swimming. He could taste their blood in the water as he began to manoeuvre through the crevices of the cave channel. The salt water didn’t slow Bloody Mary, whose knife Dave felt ripple through the water behind them, slicing at his ankle. Dave jolted and contorted away from it, trailing more blood behind him as he kicked to the surface. By the time they emerged from the cave mouth there were 50 feet between them and the surface. The seconds ticked by as Dave tried to swim towards the distant shore as he ascended, treading the tightrope between not drowning Adam, not letting the ghost catch up with them, and not killing Adam with the bends. He could feel the waves breaking overhead, adjusting his angle again to push Adam into the air first.

 Adam choked on his own blood in the water. The autumn-chilled water was a frigid vice of sensory deprivation and pressure all over his rapidly numbing body. Salt water flensed his wounds like icicles sinking between ribs until even pain became lost in the current. 

 James Ross, Winn Woods, Iris Canidy, Elias Angelopoulos... 

 The names went on, a litany of sin chasing Adam down in the cold darkness and dreams of sanguine mirrors.  

 Adam’s eyes opened blurrily as oxygen and the sound of the surf crashed through the nightmare fog of red glass. He faintly felt sand against his calmly skin, grainy mounds that made faintly audible rustling sounds as Adam tried to fight against the leaden feeling in his limbs. 

 The Hunter tried to speak, but spent a bit just urping up bloody salty water on the beach before benign able to hack out: “Dave?”  

 “That’s a relief,” Dave said as Adam managed to speak, hefting himself onto the sand and looking out at the water, blinking to adjust to the loss of certain colours in his vision and the bright light in his eyes. Still, he would have seen the ghostly figure on the waves by now. “I don’t see her. Jesus fucking Christ.” 

 They needed an ambulance. Dave only had to contend with the sort of bleeding that would give a doctor a heart attack, but human-smelling Adam had the icy cold and the pressure changes to contend with too. Dave could barely summon the strength to hold his own weight, though, as he tried the stem the bleeding along his chest, but the sand around him continued to darken. He needed the shit in his van. Dave rubbed his face and looked over at Adam, cursing softly under his breath as he moved back closer, taking stock of Adam’s injuries, his blue lips stained with his own blood. Shit. The kid was too damn young to have the number of names that ghost had attached to him.  “Your back’s in bad shape. I wanna try’n stem the bleeding before I get to my van to call for an ambulance. It ain’t far, alright?”

 When Adam had thought his current loss of powers had been due to something related to the werewolf bite, he’d trade Alain for some Zombie adrenal glands. The plan had been to trade yet more favors with dubious sources in the underworld to get those adrenal glands treated into some Doctor X elixir. Maybe the transitive regeneration of the Elixir could kickstart his own Hunter healing? Admittedly desperation makes you open to some ridiculous longshots. 

 Heh, he’d done a legit science experiment, injecting himself with chemically altered necrophage tissue...Regan would be so proud. 

 Sample Size: This still powerless dumbass. 

 But many Babineaux’s generosity wasn’t pointless after. 

 Focus, need to focus. Keep eyes open 

 “Dave,” Adam managed quietly, “when you go the van...in a sand pit by the tide pools there's a backpack. In the font pocket there’s a bottle of black tarry stuff,” Adam continued, breathing labored and shallow as he struggled to keep upright on the sand. “Drink some...and if you could bring the rest back that’d be poggers.” 

 What the fuck was poggers? Dave wasn’t even sure he’d heard it right, Adam was so quiet, but the consonants were pretty fucking distinct on his lips. He hesitated for a second before nodding.

 “.... I’m calling an ambulance first. If I get back and that stuff works, I’ll call them off. You ain’t bleeding out out here, you hear me? You’re gonna hold this here,” Dave slipped off his blood-soaked shirt, bunched it up in his fist, pressed it against the back of Adam’s shoulder where he’d been stabbed, and pushed Adam’s hand against it, “and you’re gonna stay awake.” And Dave was going to push himself to his feet, ignoring the sharp pain of his ankle, and he was going to hobble as quick as he damn well could back to his van. One mile. There and back. He wouldn’t be, couldn’t be more than a few minutes. 

 Dave grabbed the bag and hefted it back to his van, his legs buckled by the door as the white-hot lacerating pain cut through him again. Had it been front pocket? Back pocket? He rummaged a little, but he knew it the second he pulled out the black bottle. Fucking elixir. Even perfectly sealed, the bottle stank of death and decay. Dave didn’t know what exactly was in it, knew it was bad and that he didn’t want to know. He’d also seen the effects on dependent folk, their own flesh rotting decomposing as they looked for the next dose. Dave gagged as he unscrewed the lid, taking the smallest sip. Worse than eating rotting squid, worse than a haul out. The elixir slid down his throat like slime, with disconcerting lumps in it. With a grimace, he closed the bottle and got back in the van, already feeling his skin begin to stitch itself back together. By the time he was back, he was hardly bleeding at all, his head clearing up. “Still awake, kid? Here’s your damn elixir.” In the state Adam was in, Dave was ready to force feed it down his throat. 

 The Elixir tasted like meat so rotted that it’d turned brackish, laced with spices and formaldehyde. Adam’s veins ran black with the unnatural necrophage blood he’d taken into his system, dark lines spreading like tainted roots along his face, neck, biceps. But the bleeding stopped at least and that ghastly sense of lightness through his body seemed to recede. Adam’s lips parted to thank Dave, but his eyes drifted coastline. 

 A woman rose from the sea as if she was ascending the stairs of a royal dias. Waves broke through here unhindered, the rolling surf not stirring a single fold of her elegant black and white silks. She strode towards the pair with unhurried dignity, like something implacable, feet leaving no marks on the sand. 

 “Mary’s here,” Adam said quietly, from where propped up against a mussel-covered rock. 

 “You gotta speak up, kid, can’t hardly hear you-“ Dave turned to follow Adam’s line of sight, cursing as he scrambled to his feet. She walked without hurry, her features calm. She was listing names again, as even and clear as the bells at a funeral. Paul, Zihui, Joseph, James, Iris. A claxon of murder. Dave’s chest sank. He reached down to help Adam up, heave him to the car or something. He had no idea how well that elixir worked, but just because ther was some colour back in Adam’s cheeks didn’t mean he was ready to run, and if Bloody Mary was intent on them, well…

“We gotta move,” Dave said, bringing that thought to a sharp close.

 Bloody Mary crossed the distance in between the blinks of Adam’s eyes, hauling the Hunter to his knees as he stumbled up a dune towards Dave’s car. Whether it was the X-elixir still rushing through his veins, exhaustion, or some subtle influence of Bloody Mary, Adam saw more than his reflection in the glass shard the spectre pressed against his throat. 

 In the mirror, Adam saw a boy with shaggy brown hair look through though empty rooms in a neighbor’s house. He called out his friend's name but reviewed only muffled sobs in answers. The boy followed them into a spotless kitchen where steam wafted from a single pie on the countertop. The crust pie’s texture was that of skin, topped with too familiar tufts of hair. A quavering voice whispered the boy’s name.

 Adam met Mary’s tawny-colored eyes. A moment of silent understanding passed between from one killer to another as blackened blood ran down from where the glass shard was pressed against Adam’s throat. “I used to think it was my powers that set me apart, my calling or whatever,” he confessed to her majesty. “But gone and I’m still fucked up in the head. 

 Mary remained silent but didn’t press the shard in further. Her regal aquiline features cold yet knowing. Perhaps the Bloody Queen of the Scots knew better than anyone how the curse of Cain so often spreads from one life to another. 

 In the mirror, Adam saw a shaggy haired boy swinging an axe down on a mangled body he’d pinned to the floor of a woodshed. The shed’s door creaked open, but the boy just kept wordlessly splitting lifeless limbs like kindling. “They’re dead, Adam,” came a low voice as calloused hands tried to grab the axe as it came down over and over on what'd once been a person. The frenzied young man felt scarred muscular arms encircle him, holding him fast till the gory weapon was finally pried from a death-like grip. The Hunter quietly held his son as the crazed boy punched and struggled in a blind frenzy, staining his shoulder with tears. 

 “The stuff I saw it like...changed me I guess,” Adam said as more reflections danced across the mirror’s edge. “I’ve been fighting the worst of the worst for so long that it’...it’s what I automatically expect now I guess,” Adam said as blood being repaid with blood flickered across the glass.”

 In the mirror, Adam saw a familiar face with dark eyes that’d seen the depraved and unspeakable so often it was simply a numb day at work. The boy who’d found his friend baked into a pie was still in there somewhere. But the horror and anguish had been tempered like iron, shaped into deadly focus by those who’d clothed him Kevlar and replaced the axe in his hands with an assault rifle. 

 “I tried not to let evil be all I see but it changed me so much that…”

 “Winn Woods,” Mary interrupted, seeming to already know.

 Adam’s swallow deepened the blooming cut on his neck. “Yeah,” he agreed. “When he confessed it just confirmed the world I knew. I dunno when exactly I’d stopped hoping for something better but…” 

 The queen who’d made pyres out of Protestants waited Hunter shrugged helplessly, wincing as his lacerated back protested. 

 “I have to believe what I did was wrong,” Adam insisted hoarsely, “I rather have to atone for all this shit then be right,” was the paradoxical statement of faith. “Because if I’m right all along? There’s no hope for any of us.” 

 But the last word was spoken to empty air. He and Dave were alone with the rolling surf. 

 One moment Adam had been beside him, the next he was gone. Dave turned to see Adam and the ghost before him. It was an unnerving image, the ghost so pale Dave had to imagine that her skin had been translucent even in life, blood staining the hem of her time-worn dress, standing tall and proud over the bleeding, bedraggled boy. They were frozen in their moment, by the blade in her hand that she held against Adam’s shivering skin. There was iron in Dave’s van, but he stood frozen too, knowing it was too late to act, and Adam seemed to know it too. It looked like complete surrender, even from a distance. Dave did not see the images on the blade. He did not need to, when it was shown so clearly on Adam’s face. 

 There were all sorts that thought what made them different was what made them special, but few that referred to it as their calling, that saw their duty to fight the worst of the worst. There were bits that didn’t make sense, but with each word, a little more fell into place. The practiced rhythm to Adam’s movements in the cave, the knowledge, the bloody list of murders to his name. The air smelled like salt, and weeds, and the copper of Adam’s blood as it stained her knife and the ground all around him. Dave wondered for a brief, hateful second, if it was so wrong to leave Adam to die as just another hunter who had gone off the deep end. He did not move, and the air barely whispered as Bloody Mary moved on.  

 Dave breathed shakily, eyeing Adam. Bloody Mary’s knife might barely have cut through the tension in his expression. Few hunters knew the names in Dave’s own ledger, and none learned this fast. But it was true that had Mary turned her blade at Dave’s neck, there would have been no penance in him to stay her blade. Adam’s guilt had saved Dave’s life. He rubbed his face, grimacing at the smell of decay that now permeated every inch of him. “C’mon, kid,” Dave said eventually, offering Adam his hand once more. “I got your bag in my van.” And a first aid kit, too.  

[darkgunslinger]

Adamantine Shield short (from Saving Zim)

Just a little taste @luckyrabbit1927 of what I promised - taken from a section of deleted chapter way waaaay back - of more Zim/Prof.M scenes. Why am I always so shy to post these? XD

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

He held his hands out. He wasn’t sure what else to do.

This wasn’t exactly in his repertoire of experiences.

Membrane had only turned away to grab some printed schematics and brood over them a moment, and there hadn’t been a single sound to draw his attention.

Perhaps Zim had seen an opportunity, or imagined one, and before he’d realized how erroneous it was, he’d crashed to the floor – his departure from the bed a regretful fall – and the thin line of IV tubing had crisscrossed over one arm and around his foot. The telemetry leads, having been stretched unceremoniously, pinged off one by one, causing the ECG to protest with alarms.

Zim struggled, tightening the tubing, and furthering his panic. Membrane, seeing the situation develop, paused for just a millisecond before approaching, and when he did, the creature’s panic intensified. In just one moment Zim had become a wild, terrified animal.

“Everything’s all right. You’ve got yourself tangled up.” But that one extra step seemed to trigger an even stronger reaction.  

Zim rolled onto his side, unable to steer himself vertically, the twisted tubes snagging against his arm and ankle. “Stay! Stay a-away!”

The professor watched the Irken’s tiring struggles. He acted as though he was in a snare.

What signals remained from the Irken’s vitals escalated into the dangerous zone. Warnings on the professor’s wristplate flared in response.

He didn’t understand why Zim was so terrified.

“I need to free you little one, if you just let me approach.” He took another step and stopped. Zim’s claws blindly jerked around to slash at the tubing. Goaded by the fear the tubes inspired, his aim was appalling. Long scratches of deeper green began to appear from slit skin. Unable to breathe above the barbs of panic, Zim tried to prop his right arm beneath him, but his hand slid, shiny with blood, and he went back down again.

The professor could not endure it. He closed the gap between them and was not dissuaded when Zim spent all of his breath to release a bone-chilling scream.

“There there now, I’m freeing you. It’s all right, hush, hush.” Quickly he loosened the tubing around his shivery leg and arm in the hopes that this would dissolve the Irken’s undue terror. His vitals were in the red, his blood pressure falling fast despite the aggressive speed of his heart rate.

He held his littleness to his chest, feeling every shake and shudder bully the frailness that remained. “Let’s do our breathing exercises, hmm? I think now is a good time as any. You remember what to do? Breathe in, deeply now, and feel how my chest moves. Hold it in a moment, and then let it out.”

He exaggerated his chest movements so that Zim would feel them in turn. His tiny body was ice cold, skin clammy with sick-sweat. Though his eyelids were open partway, the pink pupils were extremely dilated. Barely visible nostrils flared somewhat, but it seemed unlikely he’d even ‘switch on’ enough to remember to breathe.

“Everything’s okay.” The professor said, keeping the cadence of his voice soft and steady.

Zim’s claws clutched insensibly on his arm as if it were a ledge he meant to cling to. His eyes slowly began to focus, the deep magenta almost warming up. As much as the professor saw him coming back to himself, he did not rush or hurry him.

When he seemed better able to comprehend the situation, he looked about him, blinking. He watched the little creature’s antenna unfurl until it gradually straightened. For much of his panic, the one antenna had dangled from his head like a velvet shoelace.

Those large eyes, shimmery with undisclosed emotions, blinked again, and his pink pupils coasted around as if he was looking for a target: something that had triggered the antagonism. The only ghoul was the fear, shelved deeply inside. It was the same adulterated fear most animals showed when faced with something beyond their control and comparative safety.

The professor had once tried to treat a deer he’d encountered on the road late one June summer’s day when Dib had been attending school. It had clearly been hit by a car or truck, and had been left for dead. Its hind quarters had taken the main brunt of the collision, and its back legs were broken. Prof. Membrane coaxed it into the backseat of his car where it bleated and struggled. He wasn’t sure why he’d chosen to take responsibility for it. He supposed it was simply because he couldn’t just drive off and leave it there. He’d always taken the mantle of the world’s problems as his own, knowing he’d been gifted with foresight and intellect. What was the point of the gift if he didn’t apply it?

But alas, the deer did not survive. Like Zim’s wild nature, fear itself seemed to devour its mind along with its vestiges of life, and before he’d even managed to haul it onto a table with the help of his two co-workers, it had died, not of its injuries, but of terror.

It was why he had curtly let Zim go without argument after the ‘baloney’ incident. Quite recovered and eager to move on, Zim had hurried away without much afterthought or conversation, as if lingering any longer might trigger some trap or plot beset by the wiles of man. He had wanted Zim to choose his next step, but sadly, he had intervened when that next step was never chosen.

At least, unlike the deer, Zim could understand human language. He would watch the professor’s expressions, as if trying to guess the deeper intentions beneath the words.

One day he hoped Zim would come to trust him.

“It’s okay now. Nothing’s here to harm you.”

Claws ran frantically along the brittle bones of his legs and arms, as if he half believed the tubing to still be there. A caged beast, used to being bound, may have had similar reactions.

His troubled eyes tirelessly checking and rechecking everything, Zim assertively pushed himself from the man’s gentle hold and stood precariously on stick-like legs, his left leg failing to bend as if the joints had locked up.

“You need a break from this room, don’t you?” He knelt close and took his hand before the Irken had a chance to get dizzy and topple over. Without any telemetry leads, his vitals were now closed to him. He had to now rely on Zim’s body language alone. “You are not trapped here, little one.” He wanted to affirm, in case that was what was on the Irken’s mind, and why wouldn’t it be? He was largely under their control; it had to be this way in order to keep him on the road to recovery. Even so, being mostly confined to one room allowed one’s imagination to fill in the blanks.

Membrane wondered if all members of Zim’s race were this highly strung, and prone to stress.

The Irken’s worried eyes swept upwards to look at him, again trying to determine the lies or the truths.

He had not given the former soldier his prognosis yet. He’d been holding back on it, fearful that Zim may take it very hard, or shelve it, like he did with things he’d rather ignore. Dib himself was still trying come to terms with it. Once he was onboard, the professor would inform the patient as gently as he possibly could. But not telling him was making Zim wary. He knew his continual existence here, in one corner of the lab, weak and disseminated, spread wide his suspicions. It was very likely that Zim already knew. But admitting it was something else entirely and therein lay the problem.

The Irken’s continued quiet was abnormal in every sense. When he’d sat on a chair years before, recovering from his sausage deformation, he had posed every question, yelled every suspicion, and demanded and shook until he was able to work his brain and limbs enough to flee. Even then, he’d been much more vivid and brighter a character. This creature before him was full of fear, lungs lugging heavily through his chest wall, greyer skin slathered in sweat, eyes rimmed and wide, limbs and hands shaking constantly.

“Recuperation is vital. But! I can take you wherever you’d like to go. I’m here to look after you. It’s my sworn oath.” He looked for signs of recognition, of understanding.

The Irken took a loud swallow, his eyes dull with drugs and exhaustion. He stood there, head bowed, looking brittle and ancient. Every night spent here seemed to enlarge those wrinkles under his eyes. His skin wasn’t as grey as it had been since his circulation had improved, but the professor couldn’t seem able to get the skin as green as it used to be. What vital ingredient was missing? What did the poorly thing lack?

Maybe it wasn’t medicine at all.

Maybe it was just care and warmth that the little bug needed.

“Let me show you my favourite room.” He said, squeezing gently on Zim’s arm. “No tubes. No wires. How about it?” The Elite’s eyes, hazy and unfocused, as if he was unfastening himself from the world a little at a time, started to shimmer, and the tension inside softened beneath his touch. “Let’s lift you up.” 

He felt those bird bones as he picked him up, and then he sat him on the crook of his arm.

The invention room was tidy and spacious, with tables assembled down one side. A great ponderous machine stood at the back on a round podium beside several test dummies. The machine was oval in shape, with gadgets bristling down its sides like hedgehog spines. “I call it the Adamantine Shield.” He said proudly when he watched Zim turn his head towards it. He was clued up on technology and the intelligence behind it. He would have made a very good co-worker. “It’s just the prototype at the moment. It’s designed to withstand blasts from an outside energy source, be they physical projectiles or energy pulses. Let me demonstrate!”

Like a kid in a toyshop, he put Zim down on one of the chairs and approached the monolithic object. He tapped on a button, and it deposited a capsule. The capsule opened, revealing a pulsing blue strap. He extended it in his hands, revealing a thin metallic strip. This strip he placed along a wooden dummy’s shoulder. “It adheres to anything. Fabric. Skin. Armour. It automatically configures the body of whoever is wearing it, and once activated, it envelops them in a nigh-indestructible shield.”

Zim cocked his head, one eye slowly narrowing.

“I do apologize! I get my best ideas from you!” The professor was saying, instantly seeing the recognition form in the Irken’s dark reflective eyes and from the slant of his antenna. “Your PAK produces absorbent shielding upon activation! Taking from your life energy in order to maintain it! I have created one that feeds on the energy it absorbs! Making it infinitely better! Here, let me show you just how it works!”

He took a device from a drawer, one of those surgical lasers that only worked for short distances. He walked close to the dummy wearing the metallic strip, and hit the button on the surgical laser. At once a shield of rushing azure appeared, and the weak laser beam fizzled as if the bubble shield’s surface was corrosive. The dummy remained protected.

“Hey. Th-that’s pretty cool.” Zim croaked, antenna docking forwards. “Have you tried sh-shooting some m-missiles at it?”

“Everything! Nothing gets through. But it’s top secret. I do not want the government using this technology. They’d exploit it for nefarious purposes.”

“What do you need it f-for?” Zim’s voice was a thin weedy rasp.

“I want it for my son in case he takes space exploration seriously. It’s completely harmless, only serving to protect the user. I do not endorse weapons, or anything that will encourage violence. My gift is to help others: the world, if necessary, even when humanity is set to destroy it.”

“W-Why?” He rasped.

“Because Earth is my home, as it is yours, little one. You may try to disagree with me, but you know it to be true. I hope that you’ll see the good here, and in every living thing. For a heart is a heavy burden.”

[volturialice]

Spork Haven chapter 23: salt fucking peter

welcome to spork haven, where I spork the EL James fic you’ve never heard of

previous chapter | next chapter | contents

previously on Spork Haven:

actor!Edward got an outlandish fucking award and became Best Actor!Edward! hotel maid murder witness cello prodigy orphaned ““cajun”” heiress!Bella was his date to the awards show! Ed looked into Emmett’s dark burning eyes and had a Moment! Bella felt dizzy and then went missing! will the Volturi mafia succeed in murdering her? let’s hope so stick around and find out!

warning: this chapter is incredibly long. please check the tags for content warnings—there are a lot! it’s eventful, though, so we’ll give it a pass. but settle in and make yourself comfortable. maybe go get a drink or something. I know I needed a drink after I read this garbage.

chapter 23 opens with Edward attempting to process the fact that Bella has disappeared. he does this in what I have to admit is a pretty seamless fusion of el james’s and stephenie meyer’s trademark styles (negative space here preserved for authenticity):

wow. eat your heart out, New Moon.

once we’ve experienced that bit of totally original typesetting magic, Edward leaps into action! 

just kidding. he’s “totally fucking immobilized.” paralyzed with fear, he “stifles a sob” and toys with whether to “wail, scream, and tear his hair out with impotence”

luckily, he’s very good at giving himself pep talks:

this bracing self-administered kick in the pants unfreezes him, allowing him to summon the mental faculties to go get Emmett.

Emmett clears the ladies’ room and calls for backup. He and Edward search the restroom and are joined by a rando Local security guard as they discover—gasp!—a secret second exit to the bathroom (shoutout to the phoenix airport womens’ room, amirite?) leading into a service tunnel.

the Local security guard informs them that the tunnel leads to an alley, but the alley’s only exit is onto Hollywood Boulevard. you know, the street currently clogged with limos, paparazzi, cameras, and fans. idk about y’all but I’m starting to think this kidnap attempt may have been just a tad poorly conceived. why kidnap her at all? they had ample time to kill her, dump her body in the service tunnel, and make their escape unencumbered.

as Ed, Emmett, and Local race down the service tunnel, Emmett radios for Jasper to go around and cut the Bad Guys off in the alley. Edward is the slowest of the bunch

so he quickly falls behind the other two.

he’s trying to catch up when—wait! what’s that on the ground? something...sparkly?

that’s right: he pauses in chasing after Bella and her kidnapper in order to notice “six thousand dollars’ worth of earring” lying on the ground.

then he stops and picks it up.

now, I know what you’re thinking, guys—is he seriously stopping to pick up a lost earring when Bella’s life is in danger?—but keep in mind, these earrings were twelve thousand dollars. also, Edward loves earrings! they make him horny! what else is he supposed to suck on at Bella’s funeral?

I mean, yeah, if your worst fear was that Bella might lose an earring.

what indeed, Edward. what indeed. 

imagine for a second that you’re Emmett in this fic. you’re a law enforcement professional racing to protect your charge’s life, bellowing into your walkie for backup, preparing to apprehend an armed and dangerous suspect in an area full of innocent civilians...when suddenly, from somewhere far behind you in the dingy gloom of the service tunnel, you hear the sniveling, British-accented voice of the bitchass manchild celebrity who’s tagging along:

“I’vE fOuNd hEr eArRiNg!”

jesus.

still ahead of Eddie boy, Emmett and Local burst out into the alley, guns drawn. Edward hears gunfire and is terrified for Bella as he finally catches up and arrives at the scene.

this is about where erika’s writing gets...incredibly confusing. and not in a POV, “we’re in the character’s head experiencing the chaos with him in real time” way. more like in a “several dozen drunk blind amputees playing Twister” way. this is my cute way of saying “it’s bad” and “I had to read it four times before it began to make sense.”

in the alley, all is chaos. a gun has just gone off

I’m sorry. salt...peter? saltpeter? did someone shoot off a Ye Olde Civil War Musket? I know fuckall about firearms and even I know they phased that shit out in the fucking 1880s.

and while we’re here, fun trivia fact about saltpeter: in Olden Times, people would ingest saltpeter in order to nuke their sex drives. silly Olden Times! if it’s a bonerkiller you’re after, all you have to do is read this fic!

ok, back to the alley. security are cordoning it off, keeping the “fucking jackal” paparazzi at bay (already?)

the LAPD are arriving (already??) 

but perhaps most interestingly,

real quick before we get into whose body it is, why we’re sexually objectifying it, and what it’s oozing, I just wanna draw your attention to the construction of that sentence. the artistry, if you will. below, I have replaced some of the nouns so that we may all appreciate the sheer poetry of the syntax:

“there’s a fucking meatball lying prone on the floor, all covered with cheese, a dark cloud oozing under the meatball.”

sitting a few feet away from the Skirt & Heels Body™ is Jasper, cradling the unconscious Bella. you could be forgiven for thinking that first body (you know, the oozing one) was Bella’s, because that’s what the narration wants you to think. the effect is somehow both enhanced and ruined by the fact that Bella’s actual body is mentioned in the next sentence. erika really tried to have her suspense cake and eat it too, with the result that by the time I finished reading this paragraph, I had absolutely no idea how many bodies there were or who they belonged to, which ones had on a skirt and heels, which ones were oozing, and where.

another excerpt I should probably share is the paragraph where we describe Edward reacting to this tragic pietà.

here’s our text, raw and unedited:

I can’t even begin to list all the ways this paragraph makes me uncomfortable, so I won’t attempt to.

anyway. remember how in the last chapter, there was an incredibly gay bit where Edward looked into Emmett’s dark, burning eyes? fasten your seatbelts because we’re about to blow that bit out of the water.

ｌｕｍｉｎｏｕｓ ｈａｚｅｌ ｅｙｅｓ

filled with

𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝑒𝓂𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝐼 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓃𝒶𝓂𝑒

the next sentence tries to take us back into heterosexual territory with

are we meant to understand that Jasper’s luminous hazel eyes are saying “don’t you just wish it was you getting to cradle Bella’s unconscious, injured body?” yes, that is exactly what we’re meant to understand. this attitude continues as Bella is loaded into an ambulance. at first, Jasper tries to stop Edward from coming, then the paramedic says they can both come but only if they sit on opposite sides of the ambulance like kindergarteners in Time Out.

l o n g i n g l y

the paramedics also checked the other body (you know, the oozing skirt and heels body) and Edward made a startling observation:

though oozing, the mystery person is still alive, and a second ambulance hauls off

and here I was thinking all this story needed to make it complete was some veiled transphobia! what a fun new direction for erika.

once at the hospital, Ed is banished to the waiting room with Emmett, Jasper, and Taylor. the doctors won’t let him see Bella, even when he tells them he’s her fiancé.

hmm. is it just me or is there a movie about this exact scenario?

yep, there are at least two movies about this exact scenario.

after the “fiancé” thing, Edward picks up on some bad vibes from Jasper

interesting. can you feel MY animosity hit you like a brick fucking wall? I guess it’s more of a brick fucking skyscraper at this point.

things we learn at the hospital:

Bella was roofied! so if you voted “poisoned” in the poll, I’m gonna give you this one. congrats on your victory.

Bella is fine now

Jasper shot the mysterious kidnapper in the chest. 

that’s right, Jasper is the cause of all the oozing. well done, Jasper. good luminous hazel eye.

finally, Bella wakes up and asks to see Edward. He goes back to see her 

and

she

dumps his ass.

not for any Sane People reasons, of course. having decided she’s “too dangerous to be around,” she breaks up with him in a scene straight out of New Moon, complete with “eyes full of tortured pain” and dialogue like

“You are too precious to me. Please. Go.”

Edward spends the whole scene in panicked denial, to the point where he’s practically gaslighting Bella, telling her she’s just been through a traumatic ordeal and she can’t possibly mean what she’s saying. 

then he interrupts her mid-breakup 

to fucking propose.

🤣🤣🤣 READ THE ROOM, BUDDY. Bella is resolute for the first time in her doormat life, turns down the proposal, and firmly breaks things off with Edward. he returns her earring (you remember, the six thousand dollar earring we paused in the middle of the climactic chase scene to pick up), “inhales her fragrant hair for the last time,” and leaves.

and with that, the chapter is FINALLY over.

possibility.mp3

best “fucks”

“level fucking head”

“a fucking microsecond”

“fucking sirens”

“loud fucking noises”

“enough fucking damage”

“a soothing fucking balm”

“fucking Hale”

“fucking purgatory” (the hospital waiting room)

“pale as fuck” (bella)

“fucking lifeless” (bella)

“non-believing fucking arse” (edward)

“like a fucking idiot” (edward)

best “shits”

next chapter: fucking blinds and curtains

[renee-writer]

Guardians of the Stones Chapter 12 A Wedding Night and Lost Daughter

Explicit

They dance. Jamie isn't the best dancer but to be dancing with his wife ~ well for that he will take the men's teasing. They eat and are toasted.

“To the Fraser's. May they fill Lallybroch up with children.” Dougal, his other uncle announces. Jamie flushes. Children and how they are made~well he had yet to tell his bride that he was a virgin. Claire flushes for a different reason. She knows she should have told Jamie that Fergus may be the only child they may have.

Fergus and Hamish had disappeared and then reappeared with secretive smiles and whispered conversations behind their hands.

“Miss Claire, I will be staying with Hamish tonight and…”

“No. Let it be a surprise.” Hamish interrupts. She raises her brows to the young men but they take off with giggles.

“I wonder what that was about.” Claire inquires to Jamie.

“I suppose we will find out.” He leads her back into the dance floor. They dance close and kiss between moves. It is soon not enough. “Mrs. Fraser, shall we retire?”

“Yes please.” She had been married before but to not to a man as giving as Jamie. The thought of laying with him makes her dizzy with desire.

“My wife and I will be retiring now. Thank you for sharing this moment with us and please stay as long as you wish.” A chorus of cheers and whistles greet his announcement. He smiles as her leads Claire away.

They will spend their wedding night in her room off the surgery. When they enter they discover the lads secret. The room is alit in candles and there is a tray of food and several bottles of whisky and wine also on the table.

“Oh those dear boys.” Claire exclaims.

“What a wonderful gift.” Jamie agrees. His bride seems a bit nervous so he adds, “ You needn’t fear Claire. I wasn’t planning on jumping you.”

A smile. “I know you aren’t. It has just been awhile since I did this and,” she pauses as she tries to think of how to tell him. “well, my late husband, he wasn’t into much variety. He actually was a bit controlling over this and every aspect of our relationship. I never felt like I pleased him and I don’t want the same for us.”

“Oh Claire. As we are discussing it, I was in Paris as you ken. The Parisian lasses are a bit more adventurous. I have done a lot. I believe I can please you. But, I've yet to complete the act.”

“You are a virgin?” She is a bit taking aback by his admission. But also intrigued. To be his first..

“Aye. So, my dear wife, if you have your insecurities, you are not alone.” It helps~ that knowledge.

“Will you help me out of my dress Jamie?”

She sees him swallow before nodding. His hands shake a bit as he starts to undo her skirts. When he gets to the laces of her bodice, he is steadier and she is quaking with nervous anticipation. When she is done to her shift, she reaches for the belt holding his kilt on.

“My turn.” Her voice is thickened by desire.They are both breathing hard as she loosens it and it and the kilt fall to the floor. Now they are both just in one layer.

“Claire, may I see you?” he nervously asks. She smiles and unties her shift, letting it pool at her feet. She steps out of it and up to him. He stares at her, wide eyed.

“So none of the French lasses got nude in front of you?”

“Nae.” Said in a strangled tone.

“Let me see you too.” He quickly pulls the shirt off and she also stares. He is like a living version of one of the marble statues she had seen in a museum. And he is hers! She takes his hand and places it on her breasts. He groans and bends down to kiss her. She soon finds herself lifted against his erection as he guides them to the bed. He sits with her on his lap as he kisses down her neck. She lets out her held breath with a gasp when he reaches her breasts and draws a nipple in. He suckles hard and she cries out his name. Frank had been a selfish lover, never seeing to her. Jamie was very different.

Ah Dhai! The taste of her, the sounds she makes, the way she moves against him. They all conspire to drive himself into her. But he is determined to see to her first.

He slips a hand between them and finds the secret heat of her as wet and slippery as an eel. He kens that is a good thing. He moves to her other nipple and slips his hand into her heat.

“Oh!” is said by them both. It is a revelation, the feel of her so hot and soft. For her, who had never been touched wit tenderness there~ Frank just did to make sure she was wet enough to enter, it feels like a miracle.

He starts to move finding the nub that is the center of her pleasure, he focuses on that. He lifts off her breast to watch her. Her face is a ever changing pallet of pleasure. Her eyes wide and dark, her breath quick as is her heartbeat, her tongue comes out and licks her lips as her head falls back. He slips one and then another finger inside her.

“Oh God!” She groans out. She is close, he knows, and he longs to do something he had only seen done. So, he lays her down and slips down her belly, kissing and licking her tender skin. She starts to shiver under him. No one had ever and she is literally breathless with anticipation.

He sighs when he breathes in her scent. She smells so good and he is anxious to taste her. He slips down and lays prone between her legs. He parts her curls with his fingers and tongue. He breathes in her scent for a second before slipping his tongue out to taste her. She taste as good as she smells. He feels her hands land in his hair and tightly grip. He takes that as a sign he is doing well and continues.

She feels herself~ all she was before, Julia and Henry's daughter, Lamb's niece, Frank's wife, a combat nurse, a time traveler,~ dissolve under his talented tongue. She is Claire Fraser now and forever. She cries out her husband’s name loud enough to wake the entire castle as she climaxes for the first time in her life.

“Claire! Oh Claire, I need!” she comes back to herself to find her husband's desire filled eyes on her. She does too and reaches down and guides him into her. “Iffrin! Christ!” calls out the man who rarely says his God's name in vain.

“Yes, God yes!” Her body still vibrates under the effect of her orgasm and his hard length filling her is enough to almost send her right back over the edge. He starts to move gently at first. She copies him and feels it rebuilt, that wonderful power. “Jamie!” she whispers as her legs and arms lock around him. He moves a tad harder, grunting with the effort not to cum himself. She sees and presses up, placing that thrusting length where she needs it. It is enough. Her next ‘ Jamie' is a shout as she cums in a spectacular fashion.

“Claire! I canna!” he cries out himself as he also climaxes. She pulls his seed deep inside as she remains clamped around him.

Some time later, as they lay breathless beside each other, he says, “It was so much more then I thought it would be. Was it~ did you find it satisfactory?” She almost laughs but realizes he wouldn’t understand. So she takes a sobering breath and turns to face him.

“Jamie I had never found pleasure in the act before. Yes, my husband, I found it very satisfactory.”

“Oh! I will strive to always bring you pleasure. I love you Claire Fraser.”

“I love you Jamie Fraser.”

They are awakened by a knock on the door that next morning. Claire groans and buries her head back under the covers. Not a morning person on the best day, after a night discovering each others bodies all that night, this morning is very difficult. Jamie laughs and slips out of bed. He wraps the kilt around him and goes to answer it.

“Mr. Jamie, Mrs. Fitz sent me to bring you and Miss Claire breakfast.” Fergus greets him with a tray of food.

“Mrs. Fitz is a smart lady. Thank you Fergus. Go check on the horses and I will be down shortly.”

“Aye Mr. Jamie.” He leaves and Jamie turns back to his bride.

“I will tell him today that he will be our official son if he wishes.” Jamie comments as they eat.

“He will be so excited. Jamie, there is something I should have told you before we were wed. Fergus may be our only son. I tried before, with Frank. I never caught pregnant. I know handfast lasts a year and a day. If after you wish to.. Well, I will understand.”

“Leave you!” he looks at her shocked. “Claire I married ye for life. Naught will change that. If Fergus is our only one, he will be more then enough. You are enough. You are all I need in this world.”

“Oh my dear husband just when I think I can't love you more.” He kisses her deeply. He ends up taken longer then he had planned to get to Fergus.

“Fergus, you know Miss Claire and I want you to return to Lallybroch with us?”

“Aye?”

“Well, if you are agreeable we would like to make you a Fraser and our true son.”

“Oh Mr. Jamie! I would be honored. Do you truly mean it?”

“We do. You are already our son. We would just be making it official.”

“I can call Miss. Claire ma?”

“Aye as long as you call me da.”

“Da. May I go see ma.”

“You may. She is in her surgery.” He hurries off and Jamie smiles broadly. He is a blessed man.

1945

“So you know where Claire is? We know she was running from her bastard of a husband and went through.” Henry asks. His Ghaildhig is thick but Father Mackenzie is able to understand him.

“Yes. She landed in 1745 and is happy and settled.”

“I am glad but my wife and I still would like to see her.”

“You must fully recover first.” He can't argue that.

Later he is talking with Sister Ruth. “So, you will send them to Claire?”

“Maybe. I have something I need him to do first.”

“Aye.”

[lady-therion]

Lost With You: Part 4 [Nessian]

Summary: Cassian and Nesta struggle to fix all the broken pieces between them.

(Post ACOFAS. Spoilers. Slight NSFW).)

A/N: At long last, we’ve reached the end. Thanks for coming along for the ride.

   It’s easy to break things. Putting them back together? That’s harder.

   Cassian knows this better than anyone. It is one of the first lessons of combat. The second is that war is only the beginning. Treatises may signed. Accords may be struck. But to rebuild a new world in the wake of the old…

   Has anyone ever done such a thing without bloodshed, without tears, without loss? 

   His thoughts lead him to Nesta—always Nesta. The most impossible mortal he has ever met. If anyone can alight the universe, it would be her. He knows it deep in his bones. 

   He just wishes she did too. 

*** 

   Nesta wakes first. 

   Through her half-dead haze, she watches Cassian sleep beside her. His breaths are steady and his heartbeat is strong. She can feel it through his tunic, just as she can feel the simmering heat of his body.

   He cradles her in the circle of his arms, his wings an even warmer shroud, and it fills her with both reassurance and unease. There is a feeling that she’s right where she’s meant to be. But there is also a feeling that whatever happens after is out of her control. 

    Perhaps she doesn’t need control anymore. Perhaps she just needs to let go, as she did in the park when they held one another.

    She blinks and memories return in pieces. She remembers the storm and the crack of the earth, like bones splitting. She remembers the silver-white fire and a red bolt of power, rending apart the seams of the sky. She remembers Cassian most of all. The way he called for her. Desperate. Beyond desperate. It was almost mad—the way he chased after her in the dark.

    He is always chasing after her…

    She drinks in his face. Asleep, he looks boyish. Almost sweet. His lashes are thick and his lips, when not curled back in arrogance or swagger, look soft and plump. She imagines him pouting all the time as a child and the image almost makes her grin. This is what he would be, she thinks, if he was not raised in the killing fields. 

   Eventually, he stirs. “Nesta? Are you—?” 

   “You terrify me,” she says.

    This is how Nesta is. She cuts to the heart of things, swift and without warning. Her sisters often compare her to a blade freshly forged or a pillar of steel, daunting and unmovable. Perhaps there is something to that. Still, the thought sparks a pang in her chest. All she excels at is wounding. But she knows nothing else, except to move forward and strike. 

    Cassian raises a brow. The scarred one. The urge to press her lips to it is unbearable and she hopes he cannot sense it. Or if he does, she hopes he will not embarrass her over it. 

    “I terrify you?” he says, finally. 

     Relief sets into her shoulders. Unlike most people she meets, Cassian is used to counterattacks. He does them well. Years of training and discipline have made him formidable. There are enemies who quake at the sound of his name. But she will never quake when he draws near. At least, never in that way. 

     “You terrify me more than anything,” she says.

      He thinks on this. Then reaches for a strand of her hair, a curl that wound itself around her ear. He does it slowly, so that she has time to say no. When she doesn’t, he rubs it gently in between his fingers—fingers that have spilled blood.  

     “You aren’t the first to lay siege to the walls I’ve built,” she says. “I’ve built them carefully, brick by brick. Iron, ice, steel. But somehow, you found a way. A hole. A chink. A weakness. I keep trying to think about when it first happened. If I had to go back to the beginning, it would be that night.” 

     The night at her father’s house. He stills. “I’m not proud of what I did. How I acted.” 

     “Likewise.” She draws a breath. “I used to feel things all the time. Every passion, a death sentence. Then one day, I didn’t feel anything at all. That is until…” 

     She doesn’t need to say any more than that. 

     He shifts and places her head beneath his chin. Her nose is pressed against his collarbone and she can see the whorls of his tattoos. She is very thankful he cannot see her. 

    “I’ve never known you to be afraid of anything,” he says. 

    “I am,” she says. “All the time. I just don’t cower.” 

     He laughs and it warms her better than the hearth. “That is very Illyrian of you.” 

     “Is that a compliment?” 

     She coughs before he can answer, seawater still churning in her lungs. There are other nuisances. Her head spins if she moves too quickly and all her muscles ache as if she has been squeezed through a sieve. Cassian touches her forehead, his eyes drawn with sharp concern. There is a deep furrow there, between his brows, that she hasn’t really noticed before. She does not have a fever, or at least she doesn’t think so. But he isn’t pleased by whatever he sees. So he fusses, rising from the pallet to fetch her draughts and medicines. Even his wings are twitching in agitation. It’s both awful and endearing. 

    “I know you don’t like it,” he says as he watches her drain her tea. “Being taken care of.” 

    “It’s...tolerable when you do it.” 

     “Just tolerable?” 

      “It’s far better than when I had to do it myself.” She sets the cup aside. “Did you know I couldn’t bathe in a tub for months after the Cauldron? I had to use buckets. Lighting fires are hard for me too. It’s the sound…” The sound of necks snapping. Her father’s dead eyes staring at her. 

      Shocked silence. “What?” 

      His exclamation surprises her. Didn’t Feyre tell him? Or Morrigan? 

     “Surely,” she began, “You had some idea? The Inner Circle…they did not say anything?” 

     He flinches. Confusion clouds his thunderous expression. “I…they...”

     Ah. Well. Nesta waits to feel smug or righteous. Her old self would have relished it, twisted the knife deeper. It seems the pedestal you set them on is not so golden after all. There is a temptation to say it; she cannot deny that. To fling those cruel words at him and watch him recoil. But it fades as it soon it crosses her mind, like a shadow of a cloud passing over a winter field. What good would it do to hurt him so? What good would it do to shatter this fragile peace between them? 

     Cassian looks like he might be ill himself. He keeps opening his mouth, struggling to form words. But there are none. Perhaps there never could be. His loyalty to his family is deeply rooted and immutable. No matter what he feels for her, he will never turn his back on his family. She envies him a little for that. Had she ever pledged her life to anything with such devotion? Even her ties to her own sisters have their limits.

    Then she remembers lying over his body at the end of all things. 

    Together…

     She surprises herself when she takes his calloused hand in hers. “I heard you. In the sea. I could...feel you.” She rubs her thumb across his palm, feeling the ridge of a scar there, as though he had fended off another sword by holding it. It’s likely he had. She snorts. “You went after me again. The ever gallant brute.” There’s no sting in what she says. It’s a jest, but it’s also a truth. “You really can’t stay away, can you?   

    “No,” he says, and he closes his palm over hers. “I really can’t. Even if you terrify me too.” 

    “Oh?” 

    “I’m Illyrian,” he says. “So I don’t cower, either.” 

    They sat, facing one another, saying nothing. 

    They are waiting. As always, Nesta strikes first. 

     She kisses him, hard and fierce. It’s without finesse; raw and eager. There is a pause in which Cassian is too stunned to react. “Wait,” he tries to say. “Wait. Should you...should we even…?” 

     “Yes,” she says, though it comes out like a gasp. “Yes, we should.” 

     He does not look convinced, but also does not resist when she rolls him beneath her. She grips his wrists to steady herself. There is less pain and dizziness than before and she is still recovering and there is so, so much more to be said between them. An ocean of atonement and explanations.

     But then, there is also this. And though they could both live on for centuries, moments like this seem to be far and few between. “I would like to be with you,” she said, leaning forward, mouth coaxing his open. “Without the threat of dying for once.” 

     A flush appears on Cassian’s cheeks. He is hot and shivering all over. To have such power over him is heady and makes her feel brave, daring. Like she can do anything. But there is also a reluctance in him, as palpable as a chain. He is keeping himself back.

    “What is it?”  

     He turns his face away, making a sound like choking. Then, she realizes. “You’re not like the others I’ve...,” she says. “I would not discard you. Or regret you. I would not leave you behind. Ever.”  

     She says this with fire, with conviction, as though she is swearing an oath. She watches him intently as the doubt clears from his eyes. But still, he lies prone beneath her. Unsure of what to do next. Could she ever have imagined such a thing? The General Commander of the Night Court Armies...unsettled, hesitant? And yes, she sees it now: shy. 

    So she does something on instinct, and bares her throat to him. 

    His pupils grow wide and dark. She is giving her permission. But she is also rectifying a mistake—the last time he had kissed her throat at her father’s house, the gesture did not end well. This time, she thinks, it can be different. 

    Cassian seems to agree. Something unleashes in him and he mouths at her there, sucking and kissing and marking. She feels the points of his teeth. Gentle and insistent and oh so very delicious. She feels his hands—their hands—running over each other as they pull apart their clothes. There is a driving need to get closer, to feel skin on skin.

    “Why there?” she asks, her breath hitching. “Why always that?” 

    He nips at the crook of her neck, then soothes it with his tongue. “This,” he says, his voice heavy. “This is where I would claim you if…” 

    “If?” 

    He does not look at her. Instead he stops, then buries his head against her shoulder. “If,” is all he answers. It’s all she needs to know. 

    Then, suddenly, a tug. A thread from her rib to his, pulling taut. It did not snap, but it made itself undeniable. They say each other’s names, over and over and over again as they explore each other half-dressed and sweating. They are senseless in one another now. She is fascinated by his hardness, by the way he croons and cries and shakes when she puts her lips around him. She does the same when he puts his lips...there, drinking her down as if she were the finest of wines. Nesta has taken her share of pleasures before. But this is something different. This is a revelation. A dawning.

   “We should eat,” he says, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. He kisses her and it is all she can do to not take him inside. To feel his fullness rock within her.

    “I would feast on you instead,” she said. 

    “I have no doubt,” he says. Despite their arousal, they are tired and coiled around each other. Bedclothes strewn everywhere. “But when I take you...and when you take me...I hope to honor you by bringing you some place nicer than this. Where there’s a featherbed and silk sheets and no one else to bother us about some armageddon.” 

    “Hm. That would be nice.” 

     He hums into her hair, now wild and tangled and unbound. “We’ll take it slow.” 

    “Slow is nice too,” she says.

     A pause, and then a whisper: “Come with me. Come with me to the Illyrian mountains.”  

     She knows what he is really asking and is almost too overwhelmed to speak. She can feel that ever-present tug, growing stronger and more absolute with every shared moment. If she jumps from this precipice, she can never go back. 

    But what, really, does she have to go back to? 

    “I would like to spend more time with you,” says Cassian, “Knowing you in this life, finding you in this life, and losing myself in you in this life.” 

    Tears fall. Both hers and his. She holds his knuckles to her lips and kisses them. Something in her catches, then releases. 

    “When do we leave?” 

***

Thank you for reading, my loves.

Tagging these baes: @missing-merlin, @rosehallshadowsinger, @queen-archeron , @mariamuses, @jemma-nessian-and-elriel, @illyrianbeauty, @queenofillea1, @sunsummoner,  @stardustsroses, @urbisie, @hikari274, @dreaming-of-bohemian-nights, @ashlightgrayson, @my-fan-side, @ame233, @vicisbookishblog, @thebitchupstairs, @sannelovesreading, @wearestarseternal, @moonbeammadness, @wolffrising, @a-trifling-matter , @writer-reader-traveller, @tntwme , @fucking-winchester-trash,  @voiceoftheroses, @verifiefangirl, @photofeesh, @maddieimhot, @awesomethreedragons, @fantasy-faes, @mydarlingwhitethorn, @thenameisjaida-blog, @alexisnm95, @leulivy, @managingmischief007, @goldbooksblack, @hashtolanashoba, @wewhohavefailed, @highladyjel, @nerdperson524, @sarcasticsashimi, @tswaney17, @acourtofrosesandbooks, @beelezebub, @rowanismybae, @starlightheir, @city-of-fae, @arwenbk3, @aelins-fire-queen, @azriels-forgotten-shadow, @abillionlittlepieces, @rairrai, @aclass-trash, @cf-mist-and-fury, @maastrash @gabi422, @trmblinghnds, @tea-drinker25, @court-of-fandoms-and-art, @soitsgorgeous, @fireheart-queen-of-ships, @xinyourdreamsx,  @feyaelin-rowsand, @heleneisthehottest-torch, @dreamerforever-5, @mightymorphingayagenda, @theogvodkaaunt, @sjmsstuff, @illyrian-bookworm, @empress-ofbloodshed, @lordof-bloodshed, @faequeenaelin, @secret-lil-rendez-vous, @catwomancabello

If you’d like to be tagged, untagged, or if I forgot to add you because I’m silly, drop me an ask!

Other chapters be found in the Masterlist in my Bio / I am Lady_Therion on AO3

[sol-korolevas]

[until the earth dies with the sun]; part i of ii

pairing: v x reader

warning(s): angst angst angst, slightly spicy hot stuff but not much 

tagging: @malanoches @kyarymell @pointedly-foolish

you don’t believe loving someone is a choice. your affection for v never blossomed from a free will. some may call it fate, that fickle little aspect of life, that compelled you to fall in love with v. others, the hopeless romantics, called it destiny. 

but what separated fate from destiny?

if you asked yourself this a few months prior, you would have shrugged your shoulders and said: “i don’t know.” 

because right now, all you could remember were the high-pitched squeals of cancerous demons and the trail of bloodshed they created.

most horrifying of all was the world reshaped into this dizzying mosaic of blood and gore—a twisted version of eden.

just moments ago, griffon came to you, urging you to follow him. 

but suddenly something ripped out from the ground, a creature wrapped in chains and locks, sending the bird soaring down the path you came from. though it was characteristic of him to run, you knew that he was providing a distraction, too. 

you couldn’t curse these monsters to hell when you were in a version of it. sore and tired, you walked through the twisted path, full of decaying flowers and twisted roots. fleshy dirt gave away as your feet sank in, heralding nightmarish groans from deep below. shivering, you wrapped your bare arms around your body and tilted your head, hoping griffon would be coming soon.

you hoped everyone was alright.

you knew dante and nero would be fine because they were strong. even nico had her own fortitude and luck; that van she drove was a weapon itself. 

the person you worried the most about was v, who despite his fair share of powers and his ability to summon demons, was crumbling.

your heart pounded as you started climbing a steep red slope that reminded you of half-dried clay. the sudden break from cacophonous noises to serenity thrust your mind into a false sense of peace. 

the serenity beckoned you to slow down and sag to the ground with a heavy exhale. suddenly, you began thinking about the past—about your home and about him. 

life was so much simpler beyond the demons and the fighting. you remembered the days where v collapsed into your arms, tired but full of affection. his head would dip into the crook of your neck, a muffled groan slipping out of his lips as he traced patterns against your skin. 

poetry suddenly became romantic and quintessential in your life. just like v’s presence and the sudden blossoming love you gave him and he for you. 

you couldn’t deny that you had first fallen for him for his appearance alone. unlike nero and dante, v was always fragile, with an air of mystery surrounding him. wherein he lacked in strength, he was skilled with grace and finesse. 

while you admired him for his beauty and intelligence, you also felt intimidated by him. so when the truth spilled that v liked you despite your normalcy and humanity, you were both ecstatic and terrified.

how could such a creature as refined and alluring as him came to love you, a simple human? how could he choose you, a person who never loved anyone before?

for a long time, you knew not his reason behind falling in love with you. perhaps there was no reason as, after all, love wasn’t a choice.

slowly afterwards, v moved in with you and in return, you learned more about him–but not all of him. 

he was always prone to bouts of lethargy after a fight. you held him as you basked in his warmth, loving the way he nuzzled against you. your hands wandered through his locks of black hair, feeling him quiver with pleasure.

“for he calls himself a lamb. he is meek and he is mild. he became a little child.” v’s soothing voice spilled out, drawing invisible marks on your skin as he brushed his lips against it. he shifted and you took the moment to lean your back to the wall while your legs stretched forward.

he followed, drawn to your body with a gaze unrelenting and firm. for a moment, you felt your heart stop and then reignite with a thunderous chorus of beats as he cupped your cheeks and drew in for a kiss. 

the motion was slow and unhurried. he tasted like night and the earthy sweetness of a flourishing garden. it should’ve made you wonder why his kisses always felt strangely hypnotic but it didn’t. instead, you felt restless, every kiss from him peeling open another layer of yourself for him to see. never had you felt so naked but so alive and powerful. 

in return, you wanted to encapsulate him into an embrace until nobody knew where you began and where he ended. 

you don’t speak as he pulled away, only because you don’t see the need to break this moment full of grace and love that v was weaving. 

a smile adorned your face until you notice something on his cheek: a scar. yet it was similar to a porcelain vase or the cracks of a dry landscape; his skin looked like it may scatter into the air. “v your fa-” you stopped, a gasp tearing out from you before v placed one slender finger upon your lips. 

“your line should be: little lamb, god bless thee,” he told you calmly. beneath the darkness of his green eyes, you could see the warmth. you could also see something else, just a feeble glint of it, but it was deafening to you. v knew, of course, he knew of his state. but he didn’t care to show it. 

instead of pursuing the matter, you decided to relent and change the subject. setting your hands on your lap, you straightened your back.

“do you think of me as...god?” your voice was tentative, almost meek. if you were any other person, you might have felt pride, if not a bit odd. for this powerful man who commanded demons thought of you with such awe and worship. but you weren’t anyone else, you were uncertainty in love, a confused creation in love, lust, and loss for words. 

(v once commented that you were a poem yourself. too strange and unfathomable for the poets, dead or living, to describe.) 

“if you would like that,” he answered. “if god is kind and gentle, then it must be you.” a soft smile curled onto his features. then you felt him take your hand in his. “as for me, i am but a lamb, humbled under your touch,” he paused, lifting up your hand to press a kiss upon your knuckles. “or i could be the tiger. i can destroy and ruin for you, if you so much as ask.” his voice drifted off, just as his teeth skimmed the tender skin of your hand. there was a lilt in his last words, delicately teasing a promise he could fulfill so long as you uttered a word.

gulping, you felt heat blossom upon your face. dark and warm, a sweetness that dripped into tight coils within your stomach as you watched him. for a moment, all concern vanished into an electric sensation that jolted your limbs into movement. you tugged him close into a dizzying kiss. v was always pliant when you kissed him first but this time he melted into it. 

he felt so soft, so unlike that of a battle-weary soldier. as for you, you felt strengthened to layer as much of your love onto him as possible. there were no boundaries tonight, only the desire for him. 

in one split second, v cradled your cheek, tilting it up to lick at the bottom of your lip. “how would you want me tonight, dear (name)?” he asked with a sultry purr. 

you felt his knee scrape against your inner thigh, before settling where you wanted him the most. but no, that wasn’t enough; you wanted more, more, more of him. so you drew your lips toward the shell of his ear, one hand curling around the lapels of his jacket. 

“i want you like the day you were born,” you told him in a heated whisper. “naked and desperate for touch.” 

you were awoken from your memory by a distant rumble. each passing tremor was felt underneath your fingers as you looked around. then you remembered why you were here so you stood up, gaze trailing up the steep path covered in red. 

with the phantom remnants of the memory still clinging onto you, your body felt heated and it trembled. the sliver of sweet coil persisted in your stomach, up until you heard a faraway growl that signified a demon’s presence. all loving memories and the feeling they gave birth to disappeared as your mind came into reality. 

you needed to get out of here. 

the last time you saw v felt so long ago. he had something to accomplish: to see to a certain demon’s end, that was what he said. v had always been driven by his hatred of evil and his mission to eradicate all evils from this world. but that time you noticed the flicker of something in his eyes. there was determination, but a sense of letting go, too. that time, you wished you never knew him so well like that, because v was always honest with his emotions and desires. as for you, you had the irritating ability to truly know others. 

“all evil must be purged, they–” before he could finish he almost lost his balance, body swaying as if ready to fall. you were quick by his side, clothes sticking to your body by a mixture of blood and demonic body fluids. 

you winced as you saw his skin crumbling like dust as you touched him. at first, you debated on sitting him down, but v was quick to notice as he brought your body towards his. 

he pressed himself into you and you held one arm around him. you couldn’t look at him anymore so you settled on some distant sight. “you need rest v,” you told him. you never wanted to scold him but your voice came out as such, intermingled with worry. 

at first, you thought he may refuse. but then v looked at you, his quiet eyes beholding everything that would blossom when they gazed into your eyes. he nodded, a movement that you almost missed. 

“one last time, for the both of us,” he said softly, yet desperately. “help me take these off, i-i want you to hold me without obstruction.” 

his request was responded by a weak whimper from you, fueled by an overwhelming spell of confusion and love. still, you obliged if only to spend more time with him. somewhere in the distance, griffon trilled for the first time. you could have felt warmth in you but instead, you felt a growing coldness and despair. you knew something was wrong the moment you reached for his jacket and peeled it back. 

he had always been thin, but when you shed his clothing you noticed the bruises and scars that accentuated his physique. watching his body covered in not only bruises and scratch marks but also cracks made you want to drag him out of this battle. even still, you knew that he wouldn’t let you and that the best you could do was offer him affection in this trying time. 

there was something poignantly tragic about v’s existence, you realized. that maybe he was only put here, in this world, to accomplish a certain task. even v knew that his chapter in this story may be coming to an end. perhaps that was why he took this moment to be near you. he was so close to you when you started removing his clothing. he was so close you could see every littlest scar and crack, and every bumps and ridge on his skin. 

when his upper clothing were all discarded onto the muddy earth, he took you into his embrace. v was always odd when it came to physical affection; he much preferred feeling you with his naked body, and if it was in your room, you would be naked too. 

he held you tightly as if he wanted to imprint your body into his memory. you too wrapped your arms around him, hoping in some way that this moment would last forever. 

“come back to me v, don’t go,” you said quietly, sighing against his skin. v visibly tensed and for a moment, you did as well. 

then he forced himself to relax as he pressed a chaste kiss to the shell of your ear. “i love that you love me and i, too, love you (name).”

there was a finality to his words, but you forced yourself to listen quietly. closing your eyes, you laid your chin upon his shoulder, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours. 

(what separated fate and destiny, you realized, was a tragedy.)

and then, with a heavy burden upon him, v bid you farwell, calling for griffon to escort you somewhere safe. but you knew that regardless of where this safe place was, only v was the safest for you. this was a memory bitter and sweet for you to remember, but it satisfied the silence that was your trek upwards. 

your body shivered as the temperature dropped sharply. though you were cold and alone, you still hoped that you could see v again. nero and dante had several near-death experiences before, you thought, so v will be okay. 

you could almost hear his silky voice nearby you, a note on the passing wind. briefly, you stopped, closing your eyes and breathing in the scent of the air. it’s close now, with only a few more steps to take. quivering, you stumble forward until you finally reached solid ground. the first in what felt like hours, just as your body gave away. distinct noises of wings lured your wavering stare into the sky. the dark shape of griffon hung in the air, watching you with emotionless eyes. 

“hey, hey you wi’ me there?” he asked, voice penetratingly loud and clear. you smelled fetid stench clinging onto his feathered breast, implying a recent battle with demons. 

you ignored him for a moment, eyes scanning the half-charred battleground. no solid corpses, only the empty husks of human victims drained of their blood. you were too tired to match griffon’s voice in its loudness and clarity, but you willed yourself to demand an answer from him. “where’s v?” 

“he left uh...something t’ attend to,” the bird replied with an angry squawk. 

for a moment, you felt your legs giving down as the thought of moving deeper into the area sent a new wave of terror into you. but then you noticed a movement, two forms that you knew well, but not the ones you wanted to see. 

the black feline and his titanous companion came out of the darkness, but there was no v behind them.

griffon perched himself on top of the towering behemoth, nightmare, before saying, “look we know v wanted us to keep you here but ya gotta know somethin’, somethin’ v wanted to hide from ya. go through this place and make yer way up. don’t worry, no demons will bother ya.” 

fettered by the will to see v again, you wrapped your arms around your body and followed griffon’s words. before you disappeared into yet another unknown, you threw a glance to the three demons. 

“don’t worry about us, we got somethin’ to do. now go!” 

griffon’s words were firm, a far cry from his usual quips and mocking jokes. something was clawing at the back of your neck, urging you to ask more questions. instead, you relented and made your way forward, wondering what you will see. 

so you squeezed your eyes shut for a moment just as you saw a distant shape of light ahead. while you desperately wanted your prying thought to be false, a part of you had already accepted it. 

the trek felt longer than it looked. by then, your legs were boiling with an aching need to rest, but so too was the rest of you. from time to time you threw your head back, hoping griffon and the rest were going to appear. a sinking thought occurred to you that that may have been the last you would ever see of them. it wasn’t a good thought, but you still needed to move forward. 

when you finally stepped out into the open field, you saw something that turned your insides into ice. 

v stabbing his cane into the body of a fallen demon. 

dante running towards him just as a ray of light enveloped v and the creature. 

and then, as you attempted to make your way to the light, it vanished and in the exact same spot stood someone else. 

not v. 

not the demon.

but a man. 

“great things are done when men and mountain meet.”

v’s soothing voice seems to drift into your mind as you watched the stranger. in that moment, you didn’t know why you remembered those words, but v had recited them the last time he was in your house. clutching at your chest, you attempted to move forward, only for your feet to get caught in a raised root. 

“don’t move, hide.” again, you heard v but you couldn’t see him. panicking, you looked around hoping that some part of him was still here–lest you were becoming mad. 

you quickly ducked behind a gnarled root, body pressed against grimy substances as you clasped your hands to your mouth. your chest rose and fell in heavy motions just as your mind replayed the scene over and over. 

v was gone. he was gone and he was, he was–

for a while, you didn’t notice the way your body carried you away. there was a disconnect between your physical and mental self that numbed you. an invisible hand strangled you, taking root within your brain. 

shock had you in a chokehold as you stopped, one hand planted on the wall of a dilapidated building drowned in alien plants and dried blood. while you could return and watch the aftermath, a part of you just knew. 

that v was no longer in existence.

[dellebecque]

Prompt #1: Voracious

@sea-wolf-coast-to-coast Who: WoL!Aden, the people who mattered most to him, and the one and only thing for which he possesses a truly voracious appetite. When: At various points. How: T, some sad stuff, minor difficult themes and allusions to darker themes.  5.0 spoilers, Shadowbringers spoilers. What: vo·ra·cious/vəˈrāSHəs/   having a very eager approach to an activity."his voracious reading of literature" Where: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20487653/chapters/48616682

Aden’s supposed to be  watching  a broody chocobo, making sure she takes to the eggs in her nest right, and much as he loves the birds he sneaks out one of Mam’s travelogues.  He’s not  supposed  to have them in the barn, too much danger of damaging them, but if he’s going to be out here all day….

The bird coos at him in that soft, motherly way only a broody one will, and shifts on her nest, ruffling her feathers slightly.  It’s a clear invitation, he thinks, and he hesitates for a moment.. then settles down next to her, careful of any eggs that might be hidden in the hay.  When he leans against her she makes a pleased trill, and immediately cranes her neck to start grooming his hair. Aden cracks open the book, trying to ignore the shifting and prodding and soft scratch of her beak.  But when she’s done he can appreciate the soft warmth of her large body, the gentle warks and coos, and lull himself into a sweet place free of anxiety as he begins to read.

If the birds like him so much, Ma and Mam  can’t  send him away like Da did.  They’d be  upset  .

____

Minfilia wends her way through the halls of the Waking Sands, asking after their newest member.  When the inevitable  why don’t you call his linkpearl  comes up she merely says, “That’s a good idea,” graciously, and continues on.   It’s rude  , she doesn’t say, knowing that he  should  be in the building.  And impersonal. After their rocky start.. well, she cannot  afford  to be anything less than genuine and forthright.  And her gifts will not avail her so well over long-distance media.

She finds him on the quiet side of the building, in a small room converted into a secondary barracks of sorts.  Stopping in the doorway, she blinks in surprise at finding all of his gear stowed here now, and he himself perched on a high bunk at the back of the room--hadn’t Tataru assigned him to the other side?--and she wonders if that, too, was a mistake.  He reclines in the bunk against extra pillows pilfered from somewhere, a slender book open across his lap. Even with the bandages covering healing burns from his bout with Ifrit he looks more comfortable than she’s seen him so far.

Yes, she thinks to herself, perhaps they’d  all read him wrong.  In his unguarded quiet her gifts show her not the dedicated soldier she saw before, but a thoughtful, introspective man, one who values solitude and a  gentler  camaraderie than many of their members can offer.  Their conversation can wait, she decides. Let the man have peace, and room to process the horror they accidentally put him through alone.

And let her have time to reassess her approach to this familiar stranger, this man her gifts cry  must  be part of their efforts.

______

Aden’s ears twitch at soft footsteps in the dust and scrub of Mor Dhona, and he knows who it is from the gait.  Moments later G’raha flops down next to him with a dramatic sigh, leaning back against the tree. Aden doesn’t look up from his book, even though he knows the man is waiting for a question.

“I think you might read more than  I do,” G’raha says when he doesn’t get his way, bumping his shoulder against Aden’s.  It’d been annoying at first, physical contact unwelcome, but now he…  understands  .  If he’d been raised by other miqo’te this would be  normal  .  It feels right, the right kind of intimate for friends, unspoken and just outside his comfort zone.  He can’t  explain  that, though, that he wants his boundaries challenged, doesn’t want to be silent and uncertain forever.

“They send you away again?”  Aden flips a page.

G’raha doesn’t move, reading over Aden’s shoulder even as he replies.   “They’re taking readings and refused to let me go after what happened last time.”

“That’s chocoboshit,” Aden says.  He knows G’raha isn’t looking for logic, doesn’t want to hear  you’re the most essential personnel on the survey  from one more person.  Aden would hate it just as much were their positions reversed.

“But if you would  accompany  me….” G’raha doesn’t finish but looks up at him hopefully.

“Cid told me if I didn’t take a break he’d drug my lunch.”  Aden flips another page, ears canting in G’raha’s direction when he doesn’t reply right away.  Finally the man gives an indignant huff on his behalf and leans heavily against him once more, reading over his shoulder.

“Wait,” he says, “is this the new one?”

“Yeah.”

“How did you get it all the way out here?”

“Tataru sent it.”

He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, and Aden wonders what’s going through his mind. He glances up from his book and thinks he sees the faintest edge of regret in his friend’s mismatched eyes.  “How far are you?” G’raha asks.

“Not far.  Want me to start over?”

There’s another moment of hesitation, this quiet side of his friend devoid of bravado that so rarely appears.  And finally, softly, “Yes, please.”

Aden thinks he knows that feeling too well, but he won’t pry to find out if it’s what it looks like to him.  He doesn’t want to talk about it, anyroad, if it is--to admit that sometimes his apparent stoicism is the memory of rejection and the worry that he doesn’t deserve the kindness of others.  But he thinks the reason G’raha talks too much is the same reason he talks too little, and he’s glad to help his friend smooth over the raw moment by flipping to the front of the book and starting over.

______

“You’ve been home, what, three bells?  And already I find you with another.” Aden looks up from his book, smiling softly as Haurchefant leans over his comfortable seat, reclining on a padded bench in one of the windows in the manor.

“They were here before you,” he says cheekily, lifting up his book for emphasis, “and they’ll be here after you.”

“ After  me!”  Haurchefant clutches a hand to his breast, mocking distress.  “Already you plan to be rid of me! I am  wounded to my core.”  He drops a knee to the side of the bench, lowering himself down to caress Aden’s cheek.  “I should have known I could never satisfy your  voracious  appetites.”

Aden laughs, unable to continue the mock seriousness.  “I could say the same thing about  you .”

Haurchefant leans down to kiss him, insistent, and Aden loses himself in it for a moment.  But at length his lover draws away, leaving him to his book. “Don’t be long.”

He knows that when he’s inevitably up past midnight reading, Haurchefant will merely tease him and welcome him to bed by folding him in the warmth of his embrace.  The judgement is all in jest.

  But in hindsight it’s the only time in his life he wishes he’d read less.

___________

He closes the door to the small cabin behind himself, struggling to find his sea legs around the dizziness and disorientation whirling through his head.  Aden presses a hand to the wall, and has to follow it to the bed. He’s glad for the privacy. Glad Tataru argued so ardently for this. Outside he has to pretend at being whole and hale, intimidating to the pirate crew.  Here he can be alone. Weak. Nurse the half-healed wounds of his body and quietly pick at the festering scabs over his heart on their long journey to Kugane.

But today he doesn’t have the strength for it.  He drops heavily onto the bunk, straining uncomfortable over the edge to open the chest lashed to one end of it, and pulls out the first thing his fingers light upon--a battered old book.  Balm to soothe the aches of his mind.

He curls up on the hard bed, remembering all the places he could’ve been instead, and tries to forget for a little while.

__________

An infirmary is not what the Exarch expects to see through his scrying, but there it is, dark stone walls and pale linens on the bed.  He frowns, leaning forward slightly. Had his actions changed the situation so much already? But--no, it is the Scions prone in the beds.  He flinches--his doing.

The subject of his scrying finally crosses the view of the window, carrying a wooden chair in one hand and a book in the other.  Aden pauses, tail swaying slowly, before he places his chair between the twins’ beds, facing out towards the rest of the room. No one else seems to be present at the moment, and he wonders if perhaps the remaining Scions are taking turns at keeping an eye on their comrades.  Would that he could tell them it’s hardly necessary beyond the upkeep of their bodies. Their time could be better spent elsewhere.

Aden sits, opens the book and looks around the room once more--is that a hint of  nervousness  he detects?  ‘Tis a familiar expression, that subtle anxiety the Warrior of Light tries  very hard  not to show--one he knew in his youth, and knows even better after his years of observation.

He understands why when Aden begins to read aloud to the unconscious Scions.  Aden’s voice is uncertain at first, but as time draws on it grows more confident, rich in its fullness.  He finds himself enraptured by it, drawing back his hood and freeing his ears to hear more clearly. Then he closes his eyes, and remembers a quiet afternoon spent under a tree in Mor Dhona.  This story is familiar, an earlier book in the series. He hasn’t read it in a hundred years.

The summoning can wait for one more story.

[bubblesthemonsterartist]

Cat in the Cradle: is the witch really going to give up that easily, having been thwarted once by Obi?

Prompts are currently closed while I catch up. I will announce when I am open! :)

A/N: An installment of Our Place in the Stars.Takes place after Nightmares.

Content Warning: This entire series has allusions to ahistory of sex work and involuntary servitude. This chapter is no different.

He wishes he took Miss’s orders to sleep a little lessseriously last night.

For now that his fast has been broken, with so few hoursto boot, he is delirious, disoriented, and dizzy. The motion of his hands andhis mind no longer work in perfect concert with the other, the distancebetween one place and the next is longer than his memory.

But the draught had done it’s duty, lulling him to slumber deeper than he had any right to.

(“Take this,” Miss says, pushing the steaming mug intonumb hands. The brew is black. Nothing good ever came from a medicine that wasbrewed to black. “It will help.”

Eyeing is dubiously, he takes a delicate sniff, thenrears back, nose traveling up his face to escape it. “Can I take it tomorrow?”

“Obi,” she huffs. “You haven’t slept through the night indays. This will help.”

He peers up at her from under the veil of his lashes, ather puffed up cheeks and her tiny body forming a barrier between him and thedoor. Then back down to the drink.

“I’m fine, Miss,” he smiles, every beautiful tooth baredas he holds the cup back towards her. “Our walk was very refreshing. I think Ican sleep just fine without it now.”

She crosses her arms, staring down at him.

Wilting, Obi cradles the mug against his chest. Takes in the potion again. Hecan already taste the bitter that hovers in the air, the particular mix ofherbs meant to numb his brain to something approaching quiet. It looks like ascrying mirror, it is so thick, like something a traveling nomad would brew to tell him that he would soon come into a fortune if he would part ways with just a little bit more gold. 

A little twigthat the strainer didn’t catch floats about its depths.

Oh well. Nothing to be done about it. “Down the hatch,”he mutters, and tilts his head back to take it whole.

Ye gods, what is inthis? He only manages about half the draught before his tongue rebels, throatclosing against it, and then he’s coughing, liquid spraying as the mugdisappears from his hands. Swallowing, he bends over his knees, gasping betweeneach wrack of breath that escapes his body.

Miss is already sitting on the bed next to him. “See?”she tries, patting him on the back as he rubs the moisture from his eyes. “Itwasn’t that bad!”

If he could sit up straight, he tell her with his facewhat he thought. As it is, he has to find his words.

“Au contraire,” he wheezes, wiping off the liquid drippingfrom his chin with the back of his sleeve. “It’s worse.”)

But if his men notice, they don���t say anything. Makiricertainly doesn’t, instructing him in passing to oversee the security for the meetings.

So he does. Just… alone.

(“Are you sure, commander?” Jirou asked, leaning inclose. “I can send one of those idiots to take care of sweeping the meetinghalls.”

Obi thinks of Hiro, with his round, boyish face and hiswide smile. Of Kune, with his new wife and a baby on the way. Of Shinto, hissoft voice and brass laugh. Each and every one of them didn’t sleep for two nights in a row after he told them about his first days in Laxdo.

“I’m sure.” Obi claps his second on the shoulder, smilefirmly in place. “Though if I’m bewitched again, it’s your responsibility getme the best scratching post and only the finest collar.”

Jirou grunts, crossing his hulking arms in disapproval,but he says, “Would you like it to be belled or spiked?”)

It’s not a hard task, not in this city, where a glare ora pointed look is enough to send any busy bodies scrambling. After scatteringthe third anthropologist and the second historian from their hiding places, he thinks that the wingmight be close to ready.

Though, he muses, rounding the corner. He might have totake extra precautions from keeping that biologist from returning to her study spacethat shouldn’t have ever been a study place in the first place.

(“But it’s quiet here! And all the study rooms in thelibrary are taken. I’m working on my thesis,” the woman whines in a way that reminds him too much of Suzu,piling one paper on top of another so slowly that he might tear out his ownhair. “Are you sure I can’t stay? I’m only taking up a corner!”

Obi smiles through grit teeth. “Only if you desire to beturned into a mouse. There’s a Samese witch here, you know.”

Her lips press together in a thoughtful manner, the roundlenses of her glasses making her grey eyes enormous. “I always wondered howtransfiguration affected the body. If it existed, I mean,” she mulls, hands staying upon her task. “Doyou think it is even possible to make something the size of a human intosomething as small as a mouse? I imagine I would have to be turned intosomething of like size, maybe a wolf. There’s so many bones in the human body,though. Do you think they break to condense into a smaller form? Or fusetogether? I wonder if the internal organs mo-”

He really should have known not to give her that option.“Mistress Kazune,” he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Please leave. Now.”)

The room at the end of the hall is the last, and most obnoxious.The carved teak has been primed to shine, the glossy surface of the tablereflecting the centerpiece of evergreens. Circling, he runs his fingers underthe edge, ducking down to check the legs of each chair and each cushion, when asudden blast of cold air sends the curtains of the far wall billowing.

Skin prickling, Obi bristles, crossing over to close thebalcony door. For a city so northward, so obsessed with every burner going at all times,you would think they would only open themselves to the out-of-doors to thespring, but it is a constant battle to explain to his Miss’s maids that doorsand windows lock for a reason-

Clucking his tongue, Obi pushes aside the curtain,grabbing hold of the knob.

“Leave that open, if you will. The air is so stagnant in theserooms. It’s like no one ever uses them.”

Obi has not spoken Samese in years. Has not evenpracticed the syllables on his tongue. But, as Garrack and Shidan and everyscholar he’s ever met is so prone to pointing out, his memory is excellent.

Slowly, he cranes his head, looks over his shoulder. It’snot often that someone is able to sneak up on him, but if anyone were to, itwould have to be-

Them.

Between her two hulking guards, the red of her veils burnagainst gray stone. Her other guard, the giant dog who stands as high as themeeting table, sniffs at the floor. Eyes following, Obi hopes that it is not inspiredto take a piss. It would really be a hassle to put the maids through securityagain on such short notice just because of a little puddle.

“Thank you. It is… refreshing,” she says, hands claspingtogether. Then, with a twist of her head, her voice lowers. Carries authoritywhen she says to her companions, “Leave us.”

Back drawing up straight, Obi’s shoulders go so tightthat it is pain. And her guards don’t so much as answer as grunt, turningtowards the exit. Obi moves to follow.

“No, no.” Something in her voice trembles, sounds amused. “Not you.”

It’s nothing short of an order, though, and while he hasnot been- been that since he was aboy, his joints lock up, rooting him to place and staring helplessly as thedoors close behind the two behemoths. And he wishes, just once, that Miss washere. Or Jirou. Or even Makiri. That someone was present that would rescue him,too.

The touch of a wet nose to the back of his hand bringshim back to himself, eyes coming back to focus on two brown eyes and a lollingtongue staring up at him.

“And what about him?” he asks, voice as dry as a two daytrek across a desert.

The dog licks its great maw, tail giving two quickshakes, and then it- it licks at hishand. Like a connoisseur of flesh. Like it’s testing if he is going to need a little seasoning before enjoying a mid-day snack of escaped-slave a-la-mode.

“Her,” the witch corrects. “What’s wrong? Does the littlekitten not like the big dog?”

She laughs, pleased with herself and Obi’s jaw ticks asher pet nuzzles at him, sliding its nose underneath his palm.

“Come now, it’s a joke,” she tsks, patting her leg, andhis assailant is immediately called away. “I’m very funny.”

Subtly turning his hand towards his trousers, he rubs offthe lingering sensation. “As you say.”

She hums, floating towards him, and his heart gives threeloud bangs inside the cavern of his chest.

“Don’t.”

Obi pauses, blinking, and he- he takes stock of himself,tries to figure out what he has done, and-

His left hand flexes around steel, the tip of his pinkytouching leather behind his back. His heart still races, though, his mind stillscreaming danger! so he lets themlinger, lets them hold that reassuring cold of tempered metal still tucked awayin his belt.

“You,” she sighs, dipping her head to catch his eyes. Heturns them further away. “You’re one of ours, aren’t you?”

His lip curls, fingers wrapping around a hilt. “Never.”

Arms crossing, she straightens herself and he can feelthe weight of her glare like a physical touch. “No need to hiss, kitten. I knowyou belong to her.”

Blinking, Obi forgets himself, head snapping in herdirection, but she’s moving away, looking towards the window at the snowfallblanketing Lyrias.

“Still, though,” she comments, voice distant. “You are a brave little one, living so closeto the border. It would just take the wrong set of eyes and a greedy hand tocarry you back.”

A cold sheen of sweat spreads across his face, and it’snot like- not like he didn’t know that. Not like he didn’t weigh thepossibilities when he followed his Mistress from the safety of the south to theuncertainty of the north, but still- It’s been years since the wars. Yearssince someone has seen another with a face like his in these lands, and- “Noone here knows.”

“Kitten,” she looks her shoulder at him, and he’s madebreathless, the light striking through the material of her veils just so he cansee the white of her eyes. “Everyone knows.”

The cold sickly feeling spreads, eyes watering as ifpunched straight to the nose. “Then why? Why,” he swallows, words battling fordominance between the world he was born to and the world his mistress insistedwas reality. But, despite Miss’s insistence, her tempered demands that he believeher and not them, he can think of no better word. “Why enchant me?”

“Ah, that… embarrassment.” She sighs, rolling hershoulders. “That was not meant for you.”

Obi stares, lost, then whispers, “Then why her?”

She hums, and fabric ripples as she moves, as she comescloser. “She makes herself too small. Like you.”

He’s not expecting it, though he should. He’s far too outof practice, unable to stand still any longer as those above him take him into appraisal, holding hisjaw between forefinger and thumb, turning his head one way then the next,prying back lips to check teeth and pressing on the skin below his eyes tocheck for yellowing. So when her hand appears, still gloved in that thickfabric and so near to his face, he roots himself to the ground. And waits.

After several breaths, his eyes slowly flutter open – hehadn’t even known he closed them – and he- stares at her. At the way her handhovers between them.

“Your witch,” she says slowly, carefully. “She treats youright?”

Obi rears back. “My mistress,”he hisses, “is only kind. Even if I were to deserve-”

He cuts himself off, biting his tongue. But it’s toolate. He’s revealed too much. Stirred up too many memories of that day in theforest, of how she bowed to his failure, asked him to fail her again-

Her hand lowers. “And why would you deserve it?”

Brows furrowing, he blinks at her, trying to figure outwhat she’s about, why should would ask him to state the obvious. “I’m cursed.”

She tsks, breath strong enough to move her veil. “Nowthat’s some lie.”

He stares at her. “But- in Wati-”

“Wati.” Shespits out the name like it’s a blasphemy, drawing herself up while he shrinks.Even though she is no taller than Miss, he is like a boy before her. “Thatcountry of heretics? Why would you go to such a place?”

Gaping, he stumbles over his words, “It wasn’tintentional. I just crossed the steppes and-”

A noise, not unlike the grumble of an aggrieved camel,vibrates from beneath the veils. “What gives warmth to this world?” she clips.

It’s a struggle to remain standing, to not follow the urge to sit at her feet,to retain and recite like the schoolboy he used to watch through open windows in the summer, but that’s not what she wants. He doesn’t think so, atleast. Obi’s lips part and, for once in his life, he is unsure of whether tospeak.

Palms smacking together, she raises her voice. “I askedyou a question, kitten. What gives warmth to this world?”

His mind, the sure thing that it is, goes perfectlyblank. “The, ah, sun?”

“Yes!”

Obi jolts at her enthusiasm, the way she claps her glovedhands in praise instead of as a method for drawing his attention. And issomewhat shamed with that pleased little warmth that blooms in his chest.

“The sun gives light to this world,” she says, her voice softening.“Grows the plants that the animals eat. Melts the snow at the end of winter.And what color is this sun?”

“I- Uhm.”

“What color are your eyes, kitten?”

Swallowing, Obi shakes his head, backs a few steps awayand- and this can’t be happening. This has to be some sort of dream. Some sortof new nightmare. She can’t be serious.

“You have eyes like a leopard that are the color of thesun,” she says earnestly, closing the distance he creates. “Why would that becursed?”

His mouth parts to answer, so sure, so very sure that sheis wrong. That he is right. But he can’t. Not before a Red Witch, of all people.

“My- my Master. When I was a boy. He kept me hidden, toldme I would only do harm if I left his house.” Not that it stopped him fromtrying. The marks that etch up and down his calves are proof enough of that. “BeforeI- I left, he said I was damned. That’s why the temples wouldn’t have me.”

“Sit, boy.”

He stares at her, so lost, so disbelieving. “But-“

“I said sit.”

It’s been years since he was so easily beckoned, but hedoes what she wills, tumbling to the ground, legs barely crossed, and she- she joins him.

“Look at me.”

His eyes try to latch on to anything but the color ofred.

“Look.”

There is nothing else to latch onto, so he does.

“I feel warm just looking at you. Blessed,”she says, so simply. Like she isn’t tearing down and putting back together hisentire world. “Just like when I stand next to your witch. Though I am starting to see why the two ofyou found the other.”

His mind rebels. Screeches and spits. No matter what she said, he still has his memories. He knows the way people’s eyes fell from his when he looked upon him is the truth. The way the others scurried from his path is not a lie. It isn’t his imagination that remembers the whispers into ears and the exchange of coin - the goldthe same color, they said, as his eyes. 

Whata lucky find, they murmur, touching his chin to tilt his head back. Hewill bring so much more of it.

“But my Master-”

“He lied to you,” she interrupts. And her words arefinal. Law. Touched with the heat of anger. “He was selfish. Kept you from oursight. All of them did.”

He shifts, uncomfortable, until the slippery slide of herglove touches his face and he jolts, staring straight into the veil.

“If we had known-” She clucks her tongue, thumb smoothingdown his cheek, and he’s been a man for years – years longer than he shouldhave been – but it takes every last bit of his will not to bow forward, to not buryhis face in her lap and let her soothe whatever hurt she could find. “If we hadknown, you would have been brought to the coven, been given a true Mistress.And oh, how we would have spoiled such a face as yours.”

His shakes, and- this room is cold, suddenly. So cold.“But I-”

“Hush,” she commands, a single finger to his mouth. “You would have beeneducated and dressed well, never knowing cold save when you went outside toplay. Been given a bed of your own alongside the other little boys blessed justlike you. And we would have protected you, little one. We would have made sureyou were safe.”

“I-” His voice chokes out and he shakes his head to clearit. “That sounds… nice.”

“It’s the will of the gods that we witches shelter you,”she says, so certain. Like she didn’t lay every single dream of his since he wastaken from his parents at his feet. “That a foreign one found you that is proofenough, hmm?”

To his everlasting horror, his eyes blur, leaking withouthis will, but he can’t look away. So he simply nods.

“So lucky,” shemurmurs, almost to herself as she runs her fingers through his hair. He’s followsthe touch, helpless. “That’s the reason your Master kept you like he did,child. He was trying to keep that luck for himself.”

He weak, so weak. And it’s that weakness that makes himask, “But how can I be lucky if I can’t-” Heat prickles his face, the beginningof a blush more mortifying than him purring like a housecat on his mistresseslap, but he pushes forward. “I can’t- be touched. Even by those that I want totouch me.”

The snort, he is not expecting. “Spirits,” she mutters, headtilting towards the ceiling and the boreholes of stones above them. “You sendme here to find an unimaginable treasure in this desolate place and it is ashorny as a young buck in the spring.”

His lips twitch, but then he flattens them, mustering upsomething like a glare that only makes her laugh more.

“Kitten,” she sighs, moving closer. “You don’t seem to becomplaining right now. Are you sure you can’t stand to be touched?”

He stares at her, uncomprehending, but then her handmoves again, carding through the bristles of his hair and he- his eyes pulsewide, mouth falling slack.

“All wounds can be healed, little one,” she cooes, thesilk of her gloves brushing his temples, smoothing down his neck.

He stares. “But-”

“Your woundscan be healed.”

Obi shakes his head, the whole world trembling beneathhim. “That’s not- it’s not-“

“That doesn’t mean they go away,” she whispers, takinghis hands between hers, thumbs rubbing along the lines of his knuckles. Across the memory of pain. “Woundsscar. Especially ones that have been left to fester. But that doesn’t mean theywill never close. You just have to stop picking at them.”

His mouth opens and shut, unsure of how to work. Unsurehow to pass the enormity of what he’s feeling, so he says, “You’re not going todrug me again, are you?”

All at once, she sags, the weight of her palm heavy inhis lap as she slaps the other to her forehead, but his chest- it feels lighter. He thinks he just made her laugh. Hehopes he did.

“That enchantment wasn’t meant for you,” she says, flat.“But the spirits work in mysterious ways.”

His lip twitches. “Is that a no or-”

If he could see her face now, he is certain he would haveearned himself a full glare. It’s a wonder that this knowledge doesn’t terrify him.That he finds himself breathing so easily when it would be nothing for her tostrike him down. “I don’t think either of us would survive that humiliationshould it happen again.”

He opens his mouth to protest, but then he remembers whatit had felt like, waking up on his mistress’s lap, how warm she had been, howsoft and giving, and the exact way that his heart had shattered with the simpleknowledge that he could not bear it.

“Unless you would like more gifts of catnip. I heard that it can be particularly daunting to keep the stockrooms in the pharmacy stocked in the winter. Really, your King should learn how to better manage his roads-“

Flushing, he bites back, “Point taken.”

Humming, she says, “Glad to know we’re on the same page, then.”

He eyes her, words carefully chosen. “It may be one ofthe few places that we are.”

Her hand clasps his, fingers wrapping the back of hishand and she squeezes. Hard. “Come early tonight. To the ritual. I will haveyour brothers show you what should have been yours.”

Before he can answer, he has a face full of dog, it’sgiant paws crawling up his thighs and great pink tongue lapping at his cheek sosuddenly he nearly topples over. It’s the shock of the door banging open thatkeeps him upright, that keeps him from scrambling away from the cumbersome thing,and he turns his head, wide eyed and shocked to find Lady Haki and Lord Makiri staringat him.

The great dumb creature, having done its duty ofembarrassing him further, leaves him, barking twice at the newcomers as ittrots up to the Arleon heirs.

“Ah,” the witch says, clapping her hands together. “Excellenttiming. I was just about to teach your young kitten here the secrets of uswitches. I’m glad you stopped me.”

“We are eager to continue the exchange.” Mistress Haki’sface is cool, composed, but he sees himself reflected in the tail of her gaze,the look she casts over him concerned. “When we heard you came early, it wasdecided that we need not wait.”

“Very good, very good,” The witch hums, a pleased noise,smacking her lap and levering herself up. “No need to waste any more precioustime.”

[thejokersenigma]

Joker x Reader - Request - How to Save a Life

This was a request i was given a while ago based on the song How to Save a Life by The Fray

This isn’t particularity good, but I’m just trying to get myself back into writing so if you fancy giving it a read, go ahead, but it’s quite limited in character interaction

Let me know if you want to be tagged in anything

MAIN MASTERLIST

You didn’t have the energy for this

It had only been days since your release from hospital - at which point you had still been largely unable to move and your thoughts had been only upon when your next dose of painkillers would be – but now you were stood out on the cold streets of Gotham, biting down hard on your back teeth against the agony in your legs that came from walking this far in your condition.

No, you really didn’t have the energy for this.

But it also couldn’t wait.

You bobbed a subtle nod to the familiar man waiting at the back door of the warehouse, careful to hide any sign of the limp you sported as you walked down the alley – trying to pass your slow gait as due to confidence, not pain.

The man nodded back, though his face remained an emotionless mask. Just like it was supposed to be.

It had always struck you as weird how, despite the exuberant nature of their boss, the men that worked for J maintained a constant impassive and detached mask. You were never stupid enough to question it though.

The man step aside as you now moved to the doorway, holding the door open for you without a word. You made no word towards the gesture, simply stepping through into the dark corridor before. You might have been temporarily disorientated by the darkness if you didn’t know the building so well, and your strides didn’t falter as you continued straight, then took a left down an unseen corner.

You pushed open a heavy door in front of you and stepped into yet another dark room, blinking blindly at the sudden harsh artificial light that flickered automatically on overhead, triggered by your movement.

The warehouse before you lit up in stark, unforgiving honesty, but still you didn’t pause as you made your way across the empty concrete floor. The last time you had been here, the room had been full of crates containing things that you’d long since lost interest in asking about – weapons, drugs, explosives. They always disappeared as fast as they came anyway - supplies always moving. You were naïve and never lasted long if you left those sorts of things lying around in one place too long. Someone might track it down – another crime lord, mafia rejects,  maybe even the cops if they got a little help from a flying masked man.

The cruel light made a spot between your eyes pound painfully and you felt your wince pull at the tiny healing cuts on your that littered your face and at the stiches that held the larger ones together.

You had removed the bandage that the medics had insisted you kept around your forehead, exposing one of the largest cuts to the air, and you touched it gingerly now, checking it hadn’t begun to bleed again and fighting the wave of nausea that washed over you.

The doctors had wanted to keep you in longer, but the moment you could move – the moment you could sit up and then stand without feeling violent waves of nausea – you had demanded to be released.

You hadn’t like to just sit around and wait for someone to find you. You wanted everything to be on your own terms.

That’s how you survived.

And that’s what you’d been doing for years now. Surviving.

And it was killing you.

You pushed through a swinging door on the other end of the room, the light flickering on overhead as you moved down the corridor before you finally paused. You took a deep, painful breath where you hesitated.

Step one.

You rapped on the door in front of you. “J.” You called through it, clearing your throat at the weak croak in your voice before you called out again. There was a grunt from within the room and you pushed the door open.

The Joker was stood on the your left, head down as he studied something on the desk in front of him and he didn’t bother to glance up as you stepped  in. “J,” You murmured, closing the door behind you, “we need to talk.”

“Busy.” He growled, still not bothering to look up and now making as though to move past the desk and towards the door.

“Sit down, J.” You stated moodily, standing your ground and trying to catch his eyes. “It’s just a talk.” You insisted firmly when he faltered.

The Joker finally met your gaze, hard a stony for just a second before a wide smile split his face, though it didn’t meet his eyes. “Of course, my dear.” He bobbed his head politely and you watched him suspiciously as he now backtracked towards his desk, hands held out in a peace offering. “Go on, l’ll humour you,” He allowed, “If only ‘cause you’re all banged up!” He grinned widely, flopping down onto the chair behind him, throwing his arms wide with the movement.

Whose fault is that, you felt like saying, but you bit it back, knowing the comment – though true, would not help the situation. You kept your face impassive despite the Joker’s leer at you, unwilling to let J joke or play his way out of this.

There was still that window of opportunity here – a chance to stop this before you went through with it – a chance to back out.

You stepped forward, placing your foot wrong and quickly catching yourself as your leg went to buckle beneath you. You righted yourself, ignoring your fault and not missing the fact that J had not reacted in any way, ignoring it too. You weren’t surprised though - he didn’t begrudge you your injuries, but he wasn’t about to admit anything vulnerable within himself by offering anything in the form of aid. Somehow that would be an insult to him.

It still hurt you and not for the first time you wondered why you came.

“I know you’re busy, I’ll keep this short.” You stated coolly and J raised his eyebrows his bemused surprise at your seriousness.

“As tough as always I see, doll.” He teased with a growl, but you’re face remained sober. You knew he just wanted to brush this off as he always did, make you forgive him that easily and slip right back into your usual routine – where he was almost sweet to you as you healed, enough to draw you back in, then became cool and callous and you tried to turn a blind eye to it whilst he started tossing you around again like his own personal rag doll again.

“J, I’m leaving.”

You saw the grin on the Joker’s face flicker and falter for the briefest moment and then he arched his brow at you again. You couldn’t help shifting uncomfortably where you stood, not liking how vulnerable you suddenly felt. But didn’t this confirm all your thoughts to you – should feel this exposed and helpless around someone you supposedly loved.

You could almost see the options laid out before you now. Take back the words you had just uttered and stay on this path - stay with J, stay with this life – or what was left of it. Or leave and live to see old age.

J could read your face. “You’re giving up.” He sneered. It was an accusation, not a question, and it stung after everything you’d been through with him.

“I’d hardly class it as giving up J,” You snorted weakly, hiding your pain at the comment. “I’m surviving - I value my life and I thought you might actually value yours.” He laughed as though that was hilarious and you wondered why you’d even bothered to do this – to come and sit him down and try to explain, to give him a chance to save his own life as you tried to save your own.

Your last bout of trying merely to survive in this life had, after all, been what left you in the hospital with your wide variety of injuries.

You had counted your wounds numerous times as you’d laid there prone in the sterile  medical room, recalling which of the bones had been broken for the second or third time. Even now, your fingers were still strapped as you lifted your hand to brush a strand of hair away from your face, and your breathing was still shallow thanks to the sharp pain that came from your ribs at each inhale.

Your shoulder should have been strapped too – as should your wrist after one had been dislocated and the other sprained - but the last thing you wanted to show was weakness. You would get no pity here as J had already clearly proven.

You still had the vivid memory of waking up in that hospital and the sudden overwhelming fear of the state you were in – able to wiggle your toes but little else, and even that had not been a pleasant experience, your entire body emanating pain that was only dully staved off the some strong painkiller that had been trickling meagrely through the IV in your right, unmoveable arm.

You had been lucky to be alive, you had known that without the doctors and nurses routinely reminding you.

You hadn’t been so lucky, you knew however, to be alone.

“You wanna get off the merry go round, huh?” J sneered, breaking into your thoughts. “You feelin’ sick? Dizzy? Ya know if ya mighta been on too long, dolly,” J pointed out cruelly, “Get off now and the whole world’s just gonna keep spinning around ya sweety.”

You scowled at his malicious grin.

No one else had been in the harsh, sterile white room with you. No one. For once you had awoken strapped to beeping machines surrounding you and sore beyond comprehension without a sullen looking clown in the corner.

Or at the very least a guard posted to alert his boss when you awoke.

Nothing, not even someone waiting outside the door, and the week you spent no one came.

You should have been glad – who would want their own attacker in the room with them after all - but to you it had just rammed home a fact more painful than all of your physical injuries.

J didn’t care anymore.

And so you couldn’t either – though you knew that was easier said than done – even now as you stared into his cold grin and unyielding gaze.

You didn’t know at what point it had changed, what you had done wrong to form this cold, bitter wall between the two of you.

It was almost worse than the violent outbursts.

You had to leave and save your own life and your own sanity.

Of course, you wanted to save J’s as well - if you could. But that was ultimately up to him.

You feared you knew his answer though. You should have just run really – run and not looked back – not risked this visit – but you couldn’t bring yourself to leave for good without trying.

It was going to be hard though – J had to ultimately see the problem with where you were now – to want to save himself - to leave - to heal.

You knew the chances of this, but you simply – and foolishly - loved him too much not to try.

You knew the Joker was manipulative though and you couldn’t let him drag you back into it all.

“J, you might not believe this, but its for the best. For both of us. But I’d really appreciate it if you came with me. Neither of us have to do this on our own, but I will if I have to.”

“You’re the one who wanted this –“

“And I know this is you,” You confessed, slipping past his usual defence of you knew what you’d gotten yourself into. “But you’re not innocent in this – we didn’t use to be like this.”

You could almost see the window of opportunity fading with J’s silence and his stony eyes. Deep down you knew he wouldn’t follow you, but you didn’t want to believe it. But you couldn’t follow him wither more either. “J, there is so much wrong with us now, I could stand here and list everything out, but we both know it all already.” You sighed, shaking your head hopelessly, ignoring the wave of nausea that washed over you at the movement. “J this isn’t healthy. I think I knew all along it would end like this, but I – I didn’t want to face it.”

You kept your eyes low and wondered once again why you had bothered to even come and the point that it had all changed – when had your fun soured – when you could no longer consider the J as a friend – an ally – and instead he became a manacle, holding you in place - holding you in pain.

When had you lost everything?

“J, will you come with me?” You finally croaked, not able to look up, knowing what was going to happen next. “Will you save yourself?”

The Joker let out a bark of laughter. “Well listen to the preacher herself!” He cackled harshly, “The poster girl for sanity!” He gestured at you, “Oh girly you knew what you were getting into before I even bothered to take a smidgen of notice of you.” He grinned cruelly. “Now you’re telling me to save myself?!”

You could hear the silent fury behind the grins and cackling and you lowered your voice as J raised his, granting him one last choice. “The option is there J, you can carry on down this road, lose yourself completely, or break with those who drag you down it - come with me.”

You knew this was the last shot. The Joker would now do one of two things - admit to everything, the path he slipped further and further down, confess what had happened to the two of you, maybe even admit you were right.

Or he would say he was not the same as you, that this was his life and unwilling to change. And you would leave the room alone, wondering once again, just why you’d came.

There was a third option as well you supposed - perhaps he would just kill you.

You waited, but it was all too clear in J’s eyes what his answer was. You took a large shaky breath, “I know your answer, but I had to try.” You confessed, shrugging heavily. “I’m going to go.” You murmured, turning. “Good luck.” You muttered heading for the door.

You glanced back one last time at J, praying this both was and wasn’t the last time you had saw him. You would have waited longer - stayed with him all night if you had to – if you thought there was a chance you could change his mind – convince him.

Had you just known how to save him.

[aquilaofarkham]

fare thee well

There’s a new kind of happiness in Ratonhnhaké:ton’s life, one he never really experienced to its fullest as a younger man. It’s quiet and subtle, non-threatening. Admittedly a bit unfitting for such a prolific former assassin, but Ratonhnhaké:ton has more than earned this newfound happiness.

Still, he believes it’s unfair. How did he end up living the longest?

After living through an entire century, the legendary mentor Ratonhnhaké:ton begins to feel the effects of his old age before receiving an unexpected visitor. 

--

The days are getting longer.

Just one of many small, mundane things Ratonhnhaké:ton has taken notice of, sitting in his bed with a book in his hands while the morning sun shines into his room. It surprises him; normally people at his age forget everything and watch in passivity as the world moves forward without them. Yet his memory is sharp… perhaps a bit too sharp. A century filled with memories – good, bad, and very ugly – can overwhelm a man. No matter how much he’s endured. Some days Ratonhnhaké:ton wishes he could forget. Other days, he’s grateful to remember. 

At least he’s comfortable and above all, content. Another aspect of elderly age that shocks him. He won’t deny that his body is the weakest it’s ever been, he’s far more easily prone to exhaustion, and spends most days bedridden. But Ratonhnhaké:ton still smiles. Small ones, but others have told him how often they see him smile. More frequently than ever.

There’s a new kind of happiness in Ratonhnhaké:ton’s life, one he never really experienced to its fullest as a younger man. He feels it when his children and grandchildren spend an entire day with him, when new hopeful Homesteaders introduce themselves, and when he sees recruits from all walks of life strolling about the manor grounds. It’s quiet and subtle, non-threatening. Admittedly a bit unfitting for such a prolific former assassin, but Ratonhnhaké:ton has more than earned this newfound happiness.

Still, he believes it’s unfair. How did he end up living the longest? Laying back against the pillow, mindlessly staring out his bedroom window, Ratonhnhaké:ton feels his heart ache for those who left before him. Aveline, Eseosa, the love of his life, and so many others.

Bittersweet luck; that’s all it is.

“Raké:ni?” Ratonhnhaké:ton is brought out of his dazed state by the sound of his daughter’s voice. Io:nhióte stands in the doorway, wearing something far more casual than her master assassin robes, but still keeps her hidden blades on at all times. She’s always been Ratonhnhaké:ton’s greatest apprentice. “How are you feeling today?”

“I’m alright. Only tired.”

“Did you sleep well?” She asks, stepping into the room.

“I did, thank you.”

While Io:nhióte and her children live further inland away from the Homestead, she’s always been around to keep the brotherhood intact. Above all else, she needs to make sure it’s still standing strong. Io:nhióte hasn’t forgotten how the War of 1812 nearly destroyed everything not just for the assassins, but for her own family as well. Ratonhnhaké:ton hasn’t forgotten either.

She’s also taken it upon herself to care for a certain aging assassin. Her siblings have followed their ambitions up north, to the south, and even overseas. Io:nhióte has always preferred to stay close to home, despite enjoying that one impulsive excursion to Egypt. At age twenty, she was eager to learn more about the profession she was born into along with her own special abilities. Now into her forties, she’s content right where she is, never too far from her family.

“Kahente was asking about you again.”

“Was she?”

Io:nhióte nods. “She won’t stop talking about you. ‘How is Rakhsó’tha? When can we visit him again? Can we make something to help him feel better?’”

“Is she still so worried for me?”

“She adores you more than anything. Can you blame her?” Io:nhióte tries to keep her tone light, even though she shares her youngest daughter’s concerns. She’s been aware of how Ratonhnhaké:ton’s age has been affecting his physical well-being. Aware, but not overly worried. That is until one incident that occurred earlier in the month. Something Io:nhióte cannot let go of, and doesn’t want to.

It began as an average day spent with the girls’ Rakhsó’tha, nothing out of the ordinary. They were in the manor kitchen, baking their favourite fruit pastries. The tables were stained with juices from blueberries, strawberries, and blackberries while the floor was covered in flour. Ratonhnhaké:ton barely noticed the mess. He was far more focused on his granddaughters. Their smiles and laughter, whether big and loud or small and quiet, have sparked so much joy into his later years.

They never finished their pastries. Ratonhnhaké:ton felt fine, a little worn out and delayed in his movements and speech, nothing serious. Then his vision went out of focus while a growing dizziness, something he was becoming more and more familiar with each day, reared its ugly head. Ratonhnhaké:ton held onto the table edge as his knees shook with every ragged breath.

“What’s wrong, Rakhsó’tha?” Kahente asked in a meek voice, shyly tugging on his sleeve. Ratonhnhaké:ton tried to force a smile just for her and her sisters, who had to stop in the middle of their baking as well.

“Nothing, little one. Nothing. I… do…” He wanted to say, “I am fine”. Followed with, “do not worry for me”. Before he could, his legs, arms, and mind suddenly lost all strength. When he opened his eyes, Ratonhnhaké:ton found himself in bed surrounded by the anxious and upset faces of his family plus a few close Homesteaders. Pain ran all along the left side of his body, the worst being on his hip, arm, and head. He knew what had just happened to him.

“I…” He stammered, still regaining consciousness. “I am sorry… for causing this distress,” was all Ratonhnhaké:ton could say. Io:nhióte was the first to exclaim how there was no need to apologize and for him, there never will be but Ratonhnhaké:ton felt far too drained to respond. All he wanted was to rest but when he looked into the tearful, confused eyes of his granddaughters, he couldn’t help but place the blame back onto himself.

Io:nhióte still regrets her outburst, despite it being out of love and concern. In the short weeks following that incident, she’s told herself to remain strong, composed. She and her father have both faced worse in the past. But when Kahente came to her, asking if Rakhsó’tha was going to leave them, Io:nhióte could no longer hold back. She embraced her daughter and let her own tears flow. Their strength would return soon enough.

“Io:nhióte?” Ratonhnhaké:ton asks while she’s in the middle of fixing his bedsheets. Io:nhióte stops and turns to her father with a soft, inquisitive expression.

“What is it, Raké:ni? What do you need?”

Long, thoughtful silence passes between the two of them before Ratonhnhaké:ton speaks again. “I would like to be outside. Can you help me?”

“Of course I can.” Io:nhiòte replies. This is good, she tells herself. Fresh air will do wonders for him. “Where would you like to go?”

“The cliff behind the manor overlooking the cove.”

His answer doesn’t surprise Io:nhiòte. That particular area has become Ratonhnhaké:ton’s favourite place to go whenever he needs some peace. Where he can be with his own thoughts, his own memories, for as long as he pleases while a soft breeze blows all around him. Io:nhiòte thinks there’s something else, something deeper that still draws her father to that cliff. Yet every time she questions him, Ratonhnhaké:ton always gives her two things: a sad smile and vague response that answers nothing.

Ratonhnhaké:ton gets out of bed slowly, carefully, but all on his own, using only his cane as a means of support. However, he still needs Io:nhiòte. She offers him her arm and after taking it, they walk down the stairs side by side. Io:nhiòte remains more than patient as they make it outside, greeting the day. The manor grounds are quiet as is the ever peaceful cliff that Ratonhnhaké:ton holds dear. He shows Io:nhiòte where he would like to be taken to and in turn she guides him towards a large boulder jutting out of the earth, perfectly placed in front of the vast seascape.

“Is there anything else you need, Raké:ni?” She asks after helping him sit down. Ratonhnhaké:ton takes a moment to catch his breath, mulling over her question.

“Nothing else,” he answers with a genuine smile. “Niawenhkó:wa. I… I need to spend some time with myself. Is that alright?”

Io:nhiòte pauses as she stands up straight. She’s hesitant and rightly so. There’s the insidious thought of what might happen if he’s left alone. But Io:nhiòte can’t say no to such a simple yet needful request. Even if it makes her heart hurt and her stomach twist with anxiety.

“Okay,” she says with a hint of reluctance. She tries to alleviate any melancholic tension by kissing the top of Ratonhnhaké:ton’s head. “I will be back before noon.”

“Io:nhiòte… Konnorónhkhwa.”

“Konnorónhkhwa ó:ni, Raké:ni.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton watches as she heads back towards the manor until he loses sight of her. He closes his eyes, both hands on his cane, and breaths in deeply. It’s gotten harder; sometimes his exhales will come out as quiet, weak gasps. But he tries to overcome it. Like every obstacle in his long life, he tries. Yet even the smallest effort becomes a hurdle unto itself and Ratonhnhaké:ton is so tired. Always so tired...

With every blink, his eyes grow heavier and heavier. Before he can close them, he feels a certain presence coming closer. Has Io:nhiòte returned already? He looks around, lost and a little confused, until his visitor reveals themselves to him.

Understandably, Ratonhnhaké:ton believes he’s fallen asleep and is dreaming. Or that he’s been sitting out in the sunlight for too long and this handsome man with dark eyes and brown skin wearing ancient robes and armor is some sort of hallucination. He’s not troubled by the vision; instead he feels oddly comforted. Like reuniting with an old friend after too many years of separation.

“I…” Ratonhnhaké:ton struggles to find the right greeting before giving up. “Forgive me, I… I am not sure what to say.”

The vision gives him a gentle smile as he takes Ratonhnhaké:ton’s hand in his own. It feels so real. Is it real? He wears himself out just thinking about it. “There is nothing to be forgiven.” Ratonhhaké:ton stares down at their clasped hands, young against old, before the man speaks again.

“I’d like for you to join our brotherhood. Your friends and loved ones are there and they have been waiting for you.”

Brotherhood? Friends and loved ones... Something shifts within Ratonhnhaké:ton’s mind; a revelation as to why he sees a legendary yet long dead assassin sitting beside him. Why he has just asked the aging mentor to join him.

Once again, Ratonhnhaké:ton is at a loss for words. Of course he knew this day was going to come eventually. He knew since he was a child. He’s had so long to prepare for it, thinking it would arrive much, much sooner in his life. Yet he can’t follow the vision just yet.

“Am I ready?”

“You are more than ready.”

“Do you appear in this manner to everyone?”

“Only to those I like the most.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton sighs as he strains to maintain his seated position on the boulder. The other assassin’s expression grows concerned. “Do you feel any pain?”

“... no.” For the first time in who knows how many years, Ratonhnhaké:ton feels no pain. Throughout his life, the prospect of death had always been violent. Destructive. Never peaceful and never comforting. Until now.

“You have suffered so much and never deserved it. Now you must rest.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton couldn’t agree more. But then another worrisome thought comes to him. He cautiously turns around and looks up at the manor. His family, his friends, and his own brotherhood – can he bring himself to leave them at a time like this?

“Do not worry about them,” the vision speaks. “They are strong, like you. They will carry on your legacy.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton scoffs. “I am not strong. Not right now.”

The assassin brushes a few loose strands of hair from his face before cupping the old mentor’s cheek in his palm. “You have always been strong, especially right now.”

Ratonhnhaké:ton doesn’t want to argue with an ancient ghost but nevertheless, he appreciates his kind words. Just as he begins to lose his grip on his cane, the assassin helps him off the boulder and onto the soft grass. His breathing is frighteningly slow, as is his heartbeat. He lies down on his side as the world turns into a blur with every blink.

They will carry on your legacy. For a moment, Ratonhnhaké:ton wishes he could witness that legacy. He then realizes something important – he already has. He’s watched his legacy grow for decades, aiding and guiding it. He has no doubt that it will become stronger despite his absence. It will do great things in the next few years, perhaps even centuries to come.

With one final tired smile, Ratonhnhaké:ton closes his eyes.

[aroseandapen]

A Proposal

Rating: Mature Pairing: Papster (Papyrus/Gaster) Word Count: 2137 Summary: Papyrus is sweet--in personality and in taste. Gaster finds himself with the fear of losing such a dear mortal forever, for the first time since before he can remember. No matter. As a vampire, he can offer the young skeleton monster a gift that no mortal could refuse.

Warnings: Light sexual themes, some possessiveness

Note: I wrote this pretty quickly, on a whim. I more wanted to write about the lethargy of repeatedly having your energy sucked out of you. Perhaps another time I’ll play more with that, and more from Papyrus’ perspective.

Gaster buried his face into the young skeleton monster’s neck, reveling in the warm bone against his icy teeth as he dragged them lightly over the vertebrae. The skeleton shuddered in his hold, breath catching as Gaster teased that sensitive area with the very tips of his fangs—teasing, but not yet biting down.

“DOCTOR…” The voice was more like a sigh than an utterance, a simple reaction as Gaster savored this small moment between them before partaking in his favorite meal.

“You smell so sweet, Papyrus,” he murmured into the supple bone, breathing in the lovely scent of youth and strength, bravery and kindness flavoring the honeyed magic that coursed through the skeleton’s body.

Papyrus’ grip on the sides of his arms tightened, perhaps in anticipation, perhaps in impatience. Waiting was never a strong suit of his. Not in moments like these. “DOCTOR, YOU SHOULDN’T PLAY WITH YOUR FOOD,” he chided, tone light and soft.

Of course, Papyrus was so much more than a meal. Lately, Gaster wanted nothing more than to taste the skeleton’s essence, to press his fangs into the warm bone, to feel his magic well up around his teeth and flood his mouth with such a sweetness that made Gaster dizzy and drunk with the taste. He loved wrapping Papyrus up in his arms, feeling the young monster snuggle into even his freezing cold chest—and oh how cold it was, despite how Papyrus insisted that it didn’t bother him—and feel the slow breathing of the adoring life in his arms.

Best of all, he loved the dazed look on Papyrus’ face post-meal, mouth parted in a light pant and seemingly content with everything.

“Can you blame me? I can’t help but want to savor this delicious meal you’ve laid out in front of me.” He pressed down, a tiny nip that didn’t break through, but still drew a soft gasp from Papyrus. “So lovely, too.”

“NNN, GASTER, PLEASE…”

He smiled against his neck. Well, how could he refuse such a request?

As he drank from Papyrus, he felt the skeleton’s body grow limp in his grasp. It took great effort for him to pull away, to not push his limits too far. The last thing he wanted was to turn his favorite’s body to dust right there in his arms. Gaster didn’t know what he’d do as Papyrus grew older and frailer and reached the end of his life. Perhaps he’d Turn him, as a reward for so many years of service.

He pulled away, and Papyrus let out a faint moan as Gaster carefully laid him out on the racecar bed. Taking in the blissed-out look on his face, he decided that he’d bring the idea up on the morrow. Not that there was any doubt that Papyrus would agree to it. What mortal would give up the opportunity to live forever? Especially with Papyrus, who Gaster could tell was clearly enamored with the old vampire.

That, or addicted to the near-orgasmic euphoria of having magic pulled out of his body, replaced with a light dizzy feeling. He’d been told by previous mortals that the feeling was almost better than sex.

Not that Gaster would ever know.

“I’ll see you next week, my sweet little honey blossom,” he murmured, pushing the window open and climbing out over the sill. The drop was longer than he’d like, but he knew he’d land safe and unharmed, even without the snow that blanketed Snowdin’s ground. “Rest well, until then.”

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

“SANS IS GETTING WORRIED,” Papyrus said, sitting heavily on the mattress with a light bounce. He unwound the scarf from around his neck, folding it and setting it to the side in a neat pile, before falling into Gaster’s arms, open and waiting to receive him.

Gaster drew him close, brushing a thumb over Papyrus’ neck, over the tiny indents he’d left the week previous, normally hidden by the scarf but out in the open now. Odd that they hadn’t healed yet, but that probably only meant that he’d taken too much. He would be more careful this time. He barely registered that Papyrus had spoken, focused on how Papyrus tilted his head to the side to allow better access. “About what?”

“WELL, I’M USUALLY QUITE TIRED AFTER OUR… OUR, YOU KNOW, SESSIONS,” Papyrus began, glancing up at him. “AND THAT’S FINE! I LIKE THEM A LOT! BUT THIS TIME I WAS MORE TIRED FOR LONGER THAN USUAL, AND SANS ASKED IF I WAS GETTING SICK—SO MAYBE I WAS THINKING THAT WE COULD DO THIS MAYBE EVERY OTHER WEEK?”

“Ah.” Gaster paused. Papyrus continued on, prattling about how much he really did enjoy it and didn’t want to stop, but it was for the best, or something like that, but he’d stopped listening. He was trying to imagine who Papyrus was talking about at all, and why he should care if he worried at Papyrus’ new lethargy.  “And who is Sans again?”

Papyrus gave him a reprimanding look, as if he should know. “SANS IS MY BROTHER!”

“Right, right.” Gaster didn’t remember him at all; he wasn’t even totally sure that Papyrus had mentioned him before. He resisted the urge to shrug. That would only upset his lovely little skeleton. Instead, he nuzzled his face into the side of Papyrus’ neck, ready to move on with the conversation. “We shall see. I’ll be more careful this time, I promise.”

“MM—BUT YOU SAY THAT EVERY TIME.”

So he did, and each time he meant it wholeheartedly. Gaster never wanted to upset Papyrus. He hummed an apology into his neck, drawing a little gasp in turn. “I’m sorry, I do try. You’re just so delicious though, I can’t help myself. I just want to keep you all to myself.”

He felt the bone heat up against his teeth, and he imagined the lovely flush that had appeared across his cheekbones—such a pretty orange color, as hot and stunning as the setting sun back on the surface. He’d described it to Papyrus, once, after Gaster had finished feeding that night, and he’d talked all about the sun and the wind and the sky as the skeleton murmured sleepy questions until he at last dozed off into Gaster’s arms.

“WELL, I KNOW I AM VERY GREAT, SO MY MAGIC MUST BE GREAT TOO.”

“It is,” he agreed in earnest. “I want to keep you by my side forever.”

“YOU DO?”

“Yes. And I’ve been thinking.” Gaster paused, wondering how to approach the subject, and decided that being straightforward was the best way to go. “Eventually you’ll grow old and frail, and just like every other mortal you’ll crumble to dust. I don’t want to lose you like that; I’d like to Turn you into a vampire, like me, and then you can stay with me for all eternity.”

Papyrus didn’t answer right away, falling silent in the face of his proposal. Gaster drew back to look down at his face, trying to gauge his contemplative expression. He couldn’t tell whether it seemed favorable or not, although he had zero doubts that Papyrus would agree. So many mortals before him had begged to be Turned, to stay with him forever, and Gaster deigned only Papyrus worthy of such a gift.

Others would’ve given up everything to buy what Gaster offered up freely now.

“I CAN’T.”

“Excuse me?”

Was Papyrus being modest right then? He knew that the young skeleton was prone to flights of fancy. It was something that Gaster enjoyed in their time together, listening to grand plans of gaining recognition across the entire Underground, being loved and admired by everybody. Turning down something as precious as immortality, though? That went beyond fanciful, right into the realm of foolishness.

“IT’S A VERY NICE OFFER, IT REALLY IS!” Papyrus smiled as if trying to reassure him, leaning into Gaster. “AND I’D LOVE TO SPEND MY LIFE WITH YOU—YOU MAKE ME FEEL SO… SO WOW, AND I THINK I REALLY LOVE YOU? ROMANTICALLY. I LOVE YOU.”

Gaster said nothing in the pause that came after the confession, but Papyrus must have seen the displeasure in his expression, because he continued on hastily.

“BUT I DON’T THINK I WANT TO LIVE FOREVER. I HAVE MY BROTHER—AND MY FRIENDS TOO! AND I DON’T THINK I COULD STAND TO WATCH THEM ALL DIE, AND JUST KEEP ON LIVING AND LIVING AFTER THAT.”

“…Of course.” Gaster didn’t understand in the slightest. He couldn’t even remember the first time he’d gotten close to someone and watched them die. It was just a fact of life at that point. Mortals came, mortals went, and there was always a new one to take their place.

Yet somehow with Papyrus right there in front of him, he was filled with the overwhelming desire to keep him close, to protect him, to treasure him for eternity. For the first time since before he could even remember, Gaster feared losing someone to the passage of time.

“It’s your choice, of course,” he said, stiff but trying to demonstrate that he was being generous here. It wouldn’t be good form to force Papyrus, after all.

Although he could. Despite what Papyrus said, all it would take was one bite, and to drain all of the magic out from the skeleton’s body to the very brink of death. It’d be easy, and then he’d have forever ever after to convince Papyrus to forgive him. And forgive he would. That was just who Papyrus was.

…But he wouldn’t. Of course.

A weight fell against him as Papyrus relaxed his body against Gaster’s chest, skull resting delicately upon his shoulder, neck exposed. Even after proposing such a thing, Papyrus trusted him fully to keep his word, despite never having been able to keep his promise to not drink too much, too deeply. He was too precious to trust Gaster so fully, and he was filled with the simultaneous desire to protect that trust and to shatter it.

“WELL THANK YOU VERY MUCH FOR THE OFFER! ANYWAY, I SHOULD THINK THAT YOU’RE VERY PECKISH BY NOW AND MORE THAN READY TO PARTAKE IN THE GREAT PAPYRUS!”

Gaster smiled, bringing his mouth to the delicate neck bones. “Of course I am—bone appetit.”

Before Papyrus could protest the tiny pun, Gaster sank his fangs into his neck, the words cutting off with a sharp gasp of pain that soon turned into a low groan of pleasure. It was so very easy to stave off his anger, Gaster realized fondly. His mortal was so sweet to his very core.

As he fed, he felt Papyrus growing weaker in his arms. In the back of his mind he remembered his promise to Papyrus that he would stop early, that he wouldn’t go on too far that night. But with another long draw from the pierced bone, he felt too warm and too thirsty to heed it. Papyrus may have said no to being Turned, but Gaster was certain that he just didn’t understand the implications of living forever. Once he experienced immortality for the first time, then he’d understand. Really, watching mortals pass away was but a small penance in the face of eternity.

Gaster continued drinking, taking long hard pulls, intent on draining the skeleton of his magic.

It took Papyrus a minute to realize what was happening, that Gaster did not intend to stop. He groaned out, a weak and groggy sound, batting at his arm with faint urgency. The batting turned to pushing, but there was no real force behind his arms. Papyrus couldn’t really stop him, his magic was too far gone.

He’d be angry with Gaster, in the beginning, but he was sure that Papyrus would thank him once he tasted another’s magic for the first time.

The faint struggles of the skeleton ebbed away, and only then did Gaster stop. Never before had even the pearly white bones looked so pale, so on the verge of death. Gaster raised a wrist to his mouth and bit himself, and he let the magic dribble down onto the unconscious monster’s mouth until it parted with the instinct to consume the foreign magic to replace what it had lost. He pressed down, dutifully feeding his magic into Papyrus like a newborn, which in a way he was. Soon Papyrus would open his eyes again, and experience life like he never had before for all of eternity.

And the brother? Gaster was sure that Papyrus could just keep his brother around, perhaps to feed off of just as Gaster had fed off Papyrus for the past year. Too bad that Sans was sure to be nowhere near as sweet as the brother had been, but it was worth an eternity with the former mortal that Gaster loved.

[terminallydepraved]

Abditory

for my lovely @yougei‘s birthday!! i hope you love this!!

read on ao3 here

Though following Chrollo was something of a pastime of his, Hisoka could safely say that he didn’t enjoy it all too much. Running after him through city and desert and forest and slum could be entertaining at times, and sometimes even fun, but the fact was that Hisoka had to chase Chrollo to gain attention, and even then, the attention was liable to wander the moment Chrollo spotted something shiner off in the distance. Whatever he had spotted in a crummy warehouse, Hisoka didn’t know, but the chase had led to one and Hisoka was far too invested to turn away when the object of his obsession lay just beyond a pair of rusted metal doors.

It was child’s play to sneak inside, and even easier still to locate where Chrollo was. The sound of loud, masculine voices guided his way, and once he turned a corner, he saw quite clearly that the situation wasn’t innocuous. Chrollo stood surrounded by three men, all far bigger than he and all with intent enough to kill. A dozen options flickered through his mind like shuffling cards, but Hisoka stayed his hand for the moment. Instead, he held his breath, refusing to spoil whatever scene he had just walked in on.

Were these blacklist hunters? Nen users who held hatsu that Chrollo found interesting? They hardly felt powerful, but Hisoka knew looks could be deceiving. Ducking behind a few stacked crates, he watched eagerly from the shadows, curious to see how Chrollo managed on his own without the troupe around to do the dirty work for him.

Hisoka watched as the men surrounded Chrollo, eyes wide and smile wider.

He watched as the men spoke, their voices too low to hear.

He watched as Chrollo smiled that sultry smile he wore when he knew he was about to get his way.

He watched, awestruck, as Chrollo fell to his knees, the men’s hands ripping at his clothing like animals descending upon wounded prey.

What on earth had Hisoka walked in on? He covered his mouth with his hand, too shocked to intervene, if Chrollo truly did need someone to intervene at all. He looked quite content on his knees before these strangers, eyes positively dancing as his shirt was torn from his slender body, baring him to the chilly air of the warehouse. Rough hands grabbed the thief’s slender wrists, binding them with rough rope. Hisoka began to heat up, wondering when the slaughter would start. This had to be some sort of lulling tactic, he thought, growing more and more fevered as the men closed in on Chrollo’s helpless form. Any moment now he would attack, ripping them limb from limb in some dizzying display.

When Chrollo opened his mouth, Hisoka knew that this was anything but a fight. When the brunet man, bulky and slow, dragged down his zipper and pulled out his hard cock, Hisoka realized that Chrollo had been keeping secrets from him. The thief licked his soft lips, accepting the man’s length as if it were his just due. Hisoka swallowed hard, sweating a bit though the room was cold. The men laughed and their voices got louder, letting Hisoka hear the conversation being carried out above the sound of Chrollo’s wet, lascivious sucking.

“You just take that so well, don’t you?” the brunet sighed, threading his fingers through Chrollo’s thick hair to guide him down faster. “Never thought a bounty would be this fun.”

“Don’t keep him all to yourself now,” a blond man grunted, settling behind Chrollo to shove him onto his knees. “It’s not fair if we all don’t get a turn.”

“Then do some work yourself, I ain’t your keeper,” the man grunted, his voice sounding strained the longer Chrollo worked. Even from Hisoka’s spot, he could see how Chrollo looked up at the man through his lashes, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked.

The calm, almost bored look on Chrollo’s faced changed a moment later when the man behind him yanked down his trousers, roughly undressing him to reveal the black panties he wore beneath them. Chrollo’s cheeks flushed just as the men laughed, no doubt delighted by the revelation that the thief they’d caught was anything but boring.

“’m gonna cum,” the brunet grunted, and Hisoka couldn’t blame him, his own mouth dry and cock aching in sympathy.

“Do it in the bitch’s mouth,” the third man suggested, palming himself through his pants. “I bet he loves the taste.”

Was he really going to? Hisoka bit his lip to keep quiet, straining to get closer but knowing he couldn’t ruin the show just yet.

“Shit,” the brunet moan, dragging Chrollo’s nose to his hip, burying himself down his throat as he finished. He let the thief choke and sputter, pale cheeks turning a worrying shade of red, before he bothered to pull out, leaving a visible reminder of all he’d just done along Chrollo’s lips and chin. “Shit, you have to try his mouth,” the man told his blond friend. He dropped Chrollo back down onto all fours. “I’ve had hookers who couldn’t take me half as deep.”

If he heard the words being spoken about him, the thief hardly seemed to show it. Chrollo looked like such a mess. His mouth was completely covered in the slick, sticky vestiges of the man’s release, painting him like a portrait of something entirely too lewd for public consumption. Hisoka dipped his hand down the front of his trousers, working himself in time to the ragged breaths Chrollo took in his attempt to recover. He wouldn’t get a chance to, Hisoka knew. The other men were already switching spots, readying their cocks for him to take next. The blond one grabbed Chrollo by the hair, yanking him up to force their length down his throat. Hisoka bit the knuckles on his free hand, wondering how Chrollo would react if Hisoka were ever to treat him so roughly.

“Open up, bitch,” the blond crooned, his voice full of faux sweetness. “You aren’t full yet, right? Time for seconds,” he said, thrusting harshly into Chrollo’s mouth. His moans were filthy, even lascivious, and Chrollo seemed to drink it in, closing his eyes as he let himself be used by men who didn’t even realize the privilege they were getting.

“Shit, this bitch has the best ass,” the one with long hair observed, and Chrollo yelped around his mouthful as the man ripped through his panties to get a better look at the gift they’d all been given. Chrollo’s pale skin flushed a pretty pink in the cool, drafty warehouse, drawing the eye and forcing the mood another few degrees hotter. “God, just look,” the man whistled, spreading Chrollo’s ass to look at his entrance. “You ever seen a prettier ass?”

Hisoka hadn’t. A sliver of jealously curled in his stomach, growing a bit tighter and larger with every pump of his hand. The pleasure didn’t help calm him. Not when he should be the only one who was privy to the sounds and sights of Chrollo in the throes of passion.

“The little slut is already slick!” the same man observed a moment later, breaking Hisoka from his building fury. Hisoka bared his teeth in the darkness. So, Chrollo prepared himself for this? The jealously burned hotter, bursting into an inferno when the long-haired man knelt behind Chrollo’s ass and licked into him, making the prone thief choke on the cock in his mouth.

“Fuck! Do that again!” the blond one groaned, fucking Chrollo’s mouth faster. “God, he got so much tighter for a second.”

The man didn’t need telling twice, and who could blame him? Hisoka had eaten out Chrollo before, and he could attest to it being one of the better experiences in his life. Tossing his hair over his shoulder, the man licked and sucked and kissed, his every action matched but a shiver or a muffled moan from Chrollo. Hisoka bit his lip and tried to keep himself quiet, wanting nothing more than to break from the shadows and spill himself inside the thief’s body. The one off to the side, the brunet, watched as hungrily as Hisoka, working himself eagerly so he could rejoin the fun.

Hisoka could see the moment when Chrollo neared the edge. His dark, fathomless eyes closed, and his bound hands clenched against the ground. The man eating him out didn’t even pause, so intent was he on his task, but the blond, the one being blown, noticed in a heartbeat. “This little bitch is gonna cum,” he breathed, the awe apparent in his voice. “Yo, you hear me back there, Duncan? This little bitch is gonna cum.”

Duncan, the long-haired one presumably, finally broke away, his mouth a mess of lube and spit. “You shitting me?” he asked, grabbing Chrollo by the hair to rip him off his friend’s cock, his pleasure-drunk expression visible for all to see. “Holy shit. You like it when we use you like a toy?” Duncan asked, yanking Chrollo back a bit more, to the point where his eyes began to water. “Maybe we should get a toy for the toy, since he’s being so well behaved. Mose, get over here.”

The brunet perked up, letting go of his cock to approach. “You mean this?” he asked, digging into his pocket for something too small to see from Hisoka’s position.

“Yeah, give it here,” the blond laughed, taking it from him. “Hold the bitch up, Duncan.”

Chrollo was dragged onto his knees, but that was all Hisoka managed to see as the men swarmed in, blocking him from sight. Chrollo let out a messy little gasp, his eyes widening as he watched the men do whatever it was they were doing. “Oh, no, please,” he begged, his head falling back along Duncan’s shoulder. “Please, please let me cum.”

God, he sounded so good like this. Hisoka ached to know what they were doing to him. It was a toy, right? The small thing Mose had pulled from his pocket. Was it a vibrator? A plug? Hisoka’s imagination ran wild, his hand struggling to match the fevered pace of his fantasy playing out before his very eyes. Move, he wanted to scream at them all. Move away so he could see.

“He looks so pretty with that on him,” Mose breathed a moment later, and finally, finally they began to move back into their earlier positions. The blond pulled back, and then Chrollo was on display for Hisoka, plastered against Duncan’s chest with his hands held clasped in front of his heart, as if he were praying. The cock ring was small and improvised, nothing more than just a bit of soft looking fabric, but Hisoka could make it out even from where he sat. It was fastened around Chrollo’s pretty little cock, a cute purple color to match the pink of his skin.

Duncan seemed to agree. He nuzzled Chrollo’s cheek with his own, growling low in his chest. “Good enough to eat,” he said lowly as he dropped his hands to Chrollo’s hips.

“Please,” Chrollo whispered, lip trembling in his want. He leaned into the hand that carded through his hair, as well behaved as a well-trained pet.

“Shhh,” Duncan hushed, kissing down his shoulder. “I’m going to fuck that tight little ass of yours, and then Mose will too,” he promised. “And then Izak, until you’re so full of cum that you won’t be able to move without making a mess. And guess what will happen next?”

Chrollo closed his eyes, leaning into the man’s arms. “What?” he asked, his voice soft, submissive.

“I’ll fuck you again. You won’t get to cum until I’ve had my fill of you,” Duncan promised, moving to tip Chrollo back onto his hands and knees. “Because you’re my little fuck toy now, and no one touches what’s mine.”

What’s mine.

Mine.

Mine.

Hisoka saw red. Before the man could so much as grind against Chrollo’s ass, he was moving, drawing his cards and throwing them with more force than was strictly necessary. In the blink of an eye, all three men fell to the cement floor, throats slit and eyes widened in horror as they died without even processing that they’d been hit. Chrollo nearly collapsed to the floor without the support of their hands on him, but Hisoka was there in a second to hold him up, smiling widely at the look of shock on the thief’s beautifully wrecked face.

“H-Hisoka?” Chrollo stammered, his voice hoarse and rasped and unmistakably used. “What-?”

Hisoka pressed his fingers to Chrollo’s soft lips, shushing him with a smile. “Shouldn’t I be the surprised one?” he crooned, tugging himself out of his trousers to press the flushed head of his cock to Chrollo’s mouth. “If you wanted to be used, you could’ve come to me, Chrollo.”

Chrollo blushed, his shoulders shaking. “I just-” he tried to say, but Hisoka just coaxed his jaw to open wider, pressing inside his warm mouth.

“It’s okay,” Hisoka chuckled breathlessly, keeping the pace sedate so as to enjoy Chrollo’s mortified expression a little longer. “We all have our hobbies, though I would much rather you save yourself for me. I don’t think these dogs appreciate you.” At least, not in the way that Hisoka did. The way Chrollo deserved to be appreciated. The thief felt so good around him, his soft tongue lapping along the length of his cock so sweetly. “Do you want me to give you what you want?” he asked, staring down at Chrollo with half-lidded eyes. “You look so pathetic. So needy.”

A shiver ran down Chrollo’s body, his eyes closing as he pulled himself off of Hisoka. Saliva and cum dripped down his chin, but the move he made to wipe it away with his hand seemed so much lewder in its innocence. “You killed them,” Chrollo panted, glancing off at the twitching, bloodless bodies near him. “So I guess you’re the only other option.”

Raising a brow, Hisoka looked down on him. “Don’t sound so excited,” he deadpanned, crouching down to be on eye level with him. Chrollo was an utter mess of semen and sweat, his shirt in tatters and his panties non-existent. His cock was flushed and painful looking, enclosed as it was by the cock ring. “Turn around,” Hisoka whispered, wanting to watch Chrollo position himself with his bound hands. “Let me see just how much you let them dirty you.”

He didn’t know if it were his voice or just the wait that made Chrollo tremble, but tremble he did, his cheeks darkening with his furious blush. Carefully, he rested his hands to the ground, supporting himself as he turned, presenting his ass for Hisoka like an offering. “Hisoka…” Chrollo whined, resting his forehead on his hands. “Please, fuck me.”

“Couldn’t just ask me to do it at home?” Hisoka breathed, laying his hands on Chrollo’s ass. He spread him wide and saw just how wet he was, his entranced pink and twitching, nearly begging to be filled. “You know I’d do anything you asked,” he said, lowering his head to lap at him the way the other man had, only this time, Hisoka knew exactly how to touch him to make Chrollo writhe.

Chrollo choked and gasped, stuttering horribly as he tried to reply. “I-I-I just,” he began, stopping when Hisoka dipped two fingers inside and crooked them in just the right spot. “Oh, god, Hisoka, I just wanted it,” he rushed, shoulders trembling. “You weren’t supposed to-”

“To see?” Hisoka offered, removing his tongue to focus on fingering Chrollo. “To know about your dirty little secret? Is this stress relief for you, Chrollo? Do you just like feeling a little used?”

The thief was too far gone to answer. He sobbed into his bound hands, lifting his ass higher, searching for more when Hisoka wanted to take his time. Hisoka hardly ever saw him so wound up. When they fucked, Chrollo always acted so demure, as if it were merely an activity he put up with and not one he needed. There was no hiding how much he needed it now though, Hisoka thought ruefully, listening to his messy sobs reverberate through the warehouse. It was almost insulting, but he took solace in the fact that the others hadn’t managed to make good on the filth they’d promised. Hisoka wouldn’t let anyone but him have that honor.

Hisoka chuckled and removed his fingers, listening to the bereft cry resound like the peal of a bell. “Do you want me to use you?” he asked, plastering himself along Chrollo’s back, whispering in his ear so he couldn’t run away. “They tied you up like a present, so it’d be a waste not to make use of this lovely toy they left for me.” As he spoke, he ground his cock against Chrollo’s slick ass, rubbing teasingly against his entrance in a way that made the thief’s entire body tense. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you, slut?”

Chrollo turned his head away from his hands, his moan ragged and loud. “Please,” he begged, his eyes damp and unseeing. “Please, use me,” he cried, spreading his thighs wider, his body shaking as he tried to support Hisoka’s weight as well as his own. “Master, please, use me.”

“Oh, Chrollo,” Hisoka groaned, the words traveling straight to his aching hardness. “You really do want it, don’t you?” He’d never heard him talk like that before, and the thought of having this prideful, flighty creature so wanton and needy beneath him…Hisoka couldn’t find it in himself to hold back. His cock caught on Chrollo’s twitching, searching entrance, and it only took the smallest thrust to slip inside him, the way slicked by more than enough lubricant and saliva. Hisoka gripped his hips tightly and held him in place, savoring the familiar feeling of Chrollo around him, and the newer sensation of the thief’s complete and utter submission.

“Hisoka!” Chrollo cried, shifting emphatically below, struggling to chase the friction and fullness he’d been craving since this night began. “Please, please,” he begged, his shoulders shaking. “I need it, I need it so much.”

“You feel so loose,” Hisoka chuckled, kissing Chrollo’s cheek and neck. “They’ve been playing with you, but you were playing with yourself before them, weren’t you? Did you seek them out hoping they could give you want you needed?”

“Yes, yes,” Chrollo babbled, but that was all it was at this point: babble. He was too far gone to be coherent, but Hisoka had a suspicion that he was still telling the truth.

“They can’t,” he whispered, pulling out only to ram back in hard enough to make Chrollo skid across the floor. By the end of this, his knees would be bruised and raw. “They can’t give you what you need, Chrollo. Only I can.”

“Hisoka-”

“No,” Hisoka growled, fucking him roughly, giving in to the animalistic urge to thrust and pound and take until there was nothing left to give. “Say it,” he ordered, listening to Chrollo’s broken sobs and pleading moans fall like rain around them. “I want to hear you say it, slut.”

Chrollo buried his face in his bound hands, his fingers clenched in his own hair. “Master, please,” he stammered, rocking back as much as his position allowed. “Please, only you, only you, I need it, Master, God, I can’t-”

How could anyone sound so utterly wrecked, and yet so infuriatingly beautiful? Hisoka buried his groan in the nape of Chrollo’s neck, fucking into him as fast and as hard as he could. There was no time left to be withholding, and even if there was, Hisoka was far past the point of caring. Chrollo was prone beneath him, begging him to use him, to break him, to completely ruin him until there was nothing left. White built behind his eyes in a growing haze, charging Hisoka to move faster, harder, and when Hisoka sank his teeth into Chrollo’s neck, he fumbled beneath him, releasing the cock ring that had been denying Chrollo the relief he’d been seeking for so long.

The affect was instantaneous. Chrollo froze, his limbs locking up like a doll’s. His ass clenched, his shoulders hitched, and with a broken, breathless cry, he came. In thick white shoots, he came, spilling along the cement below, along his naked thighs, along his belly, and Hisoka knew that as soon as he pulled out, Chrollo would collapse in the mess he’d made, finishing the gild he’d been gathering piece by piece from all the men who laid dead at his side. All that was left was the finishing touch, and Hisoka was too far gone to hold out on giving it any longer.

“God, Chrollo,” Hisoka moaned appreciatively, letting go in the rhythmic clenching of Chrollo’s ass. They milked him of all he had to give, begging him for more while Chrollo lay there speechless. “You need to be like this more often, I can’t get enough of you.” When no response was forthcoming, Hisoka just laughed, pulling out to watch his cum trickle down Chrollo’s thighs. Absolute perfection, he mused, running his fingers through the sticky mess. Nothing suited Chrollo more than a complete baptism, after all.

“Hisoka,” Chrollo groaned, too tired to move out of the lewd position. “Hisoka, I can’t feel my hands.”

Shushing him, Hisoka tipped him gently onto his side, taking in his bound wrists for himself. They were indeed red, the rope rough and coarse and digging into the delicate skin around his wrists. Hisoka lifted them to his lips, kissing the swollen flesh. “Why don’t you call me master?” he asked teasingly, staring into bleary black eyes. “I could grow addicted to the sound of it.”

Pink tinged Chrollo’s cheeks, and he closed his eyes to hide from Hisoka’s sight. “Please,” he said softly, curling his fingers. “Please untie me, Master.”

A shiver tore down his spine, and for a moment, Hisoka imagined he could go again. Only for a moment though. Perhaps later, he told himself, cutting through the rope easily. He massaged Chrollo’s wrists gently, coaxing the blood to move. “I really do love the sound of that,” he whispered, leaning down to kiss Chrollo’s messy lips.

If he had it his way, he thought, Chrollo would never need to say it to anyone else.

[bellatrixobsessed1]

Ten Sides (Part 31)

Azula stumbles out of the treeline, body shaking, eyes watery. Her arms and palms sting and her hair is a mess. She is a mess. Muddy and bloody, her head is spinning, her world is dizzy. This jungle is a nightmare. For a moment the trees blur together, everything blurs together. She shakes her head, trying ro remember what she is doing.

She takes a few more unstable steps, until she is standing under the building’s shadows. She lets her legs buckle and her body drop, her knees meet the ground and then her cheek meets the dirt. The cuts and gashes flare and throb more intensely when specks of said dirt work their way into them.

She hears the footsteps before they are upon her, she expects them to pouce at her like the fallen prey she is, but five of seven pairs of feet stop several feet away from her. Two step forward and hoist her up. They mumble but the content is stole by the fog in her mind. Her delicate, prone mind.

She shouldn’t have returned. She doesn’t know what she was thinking. The tremors in her body intensify as they carry her off. She remembers it so vividly. And all of the feelings and sensations that had come with it come back with devastating clarity; the squeak of her shoes on the floor as they dragged her along, the burnt smell of spirit energy and the sickly sweet odor spirit vines, and his voice...Sangyul’s polished obsidian voice. It invites itself into her mind as easily a he had invited Aang into her soul. The nausea she feels is overpowering.

For a moment, she wants to go back to the palace. For a second, she wants Zuzu.

.oOo.

The poor thing, Sangyul almost feels bad for her.

They lay her out upon the operating table. Her eyes are dazed and watery. Granted she is in better condition than he expected; the vision he had in mind was a gaunt, hollow creature with pale and dirty skin, matted hair, and a vacant stare. The woman on the table is well groomed and adequately fed. But apparently she is still an emotionally fragile thing. “Shall we strap her down?” Nurse Mikaru asks. The former princess goes tense. He is almost inclined to say yes just to see the woman struggle.

“No point.” He replies. It will only be a waste of time. She hasn’t fought back in the past and he can’t imagine her doing so now. “Why don’t you leave Azula and I alone?” Per his request his team steps out. He strolls his way up to the woman. He pats her cheeks. “So you’ve come back to me.”

Azula nods.

“You ran away and look what happened to you. You’ve gone and gotten yourself all dirty scratched up.”

Azula nods again, the pathetic thing is tearing up.

He brushes strands of hair out of her face. “Where is your Avatar? Did he leave you?”

She seems to grit her teeth and squeezes her eyes shut. He thinks that she might have wimpred.

“Do you understand now, why we didn’t want you to leave?”

Another nod. He pauses to wipe away one of her tears. “You can’t take care of yourself, Azula. I hope that this is a lesson.” He presses his thumb into one of her scrapes, drawing a wince. “You need us.”

She is shaking again, and from her lips come several breathy cries.

“Don’t you forget that you need us.”

“Okay.” She mumbles. Sangyul smiles. He hadn’t realized that his experiments would have garnered such impressive results, such lasting effects. It has been several months now and she is still sniveling before him. And what a delight it is to know that he has tamed the princess where no one else was able. He strokes her hand gently. “I think that you owe us an apology, you caused quite a hassle with your departure.”

“I’m sorry.” She whispers.

“That’s a good girl.” He withdraws his hand. “Now let's get you back to your old room, shall we? Now stand up.” Her attempt is clumsy, she makes it into a sitting position but her head lolls. She looks to him but he pretends not to notice. He will let her realize that she can’t do it on her own, that she is as helpless as ever. His surprise, when she can’t hold herself steady, is feigned. He clicks his tongue, “I’ll have to help you with this too, won’t I?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, it is implied; He holds Azula steady.

.oOo.

“You’re lucky I’m willing to do this for you after you ran away.”

“I know.” She nods.

“Don’t you forget what we’ve done for you.”

She will never forget.